#but the ending breaks my heart every time

[sknyuz]

heavy lifting | k.m.g.

synopsis: you're struggling to get out of a bad academic slump, feeling overwhelmed by the constant pressure of grades and the inability to focus. after a few failed attempts to get motivated, you decide to do something different—start going to the gym. at first, it’s just about getting out of the house, but that all changes when mingyu, the gym’s resident greek god, notices you. no amount of reps or cardio can compare to how fast your heart races every time you cross paths, and it becomes impossible to ignore a six-foot tall kim mingyu.

genre: college au, romance, smut (18+ markers for start and end if you wanna skip), fluff, slice-of-life, slow-burn, gym buddy!mingyu

pairing: mingyu x reader (ft. dino and riize wonbin + roommate!jeonghan)

warnings: slightly awkward moments, gym-related humor, slow-burn, soft smut, heavy flirting, unprotected sex (do not do this lol), aftercare <333, making out with random ppl at a party, alcohol consumption, y/n is an absolute LOSERRRRR, profanity of course, mentions of body image (positive)

wc: ~8.5k

a/n: oh my godddd it’s finally here !! my first full-length fic <333 tysm for 500+ notes on the preview alone like ??? taglist is massive as well so that will be placed under the cut ^^~ shoutout to @meltinghershey, @mochisdayone, and @tigerhoshii for beta reading and dealing with my chaos lmaooo. hope u enjoy <33

˚₊‧꒰ა taglist under the cut ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

@tigerhoshii @meltinghershey @amingo046 @drewstarkeygf @producedbyjeon @seokminfilm @mmessier31 @janeluvwonuuuu @boxsmil3 @inthetangerine @ateez-atiny380 @bunnymjr @producedbyjeon @bookandarrow @bemysolaces @ahloveisu @ninigyuuu @mochisdayone @cara-tiny @parkersroses @jeonghnie @dmstoyangyang @luxynjun @miraclekay97 @anniewings @acherry04 @adribobadri @kidultdays @kari-nne @shayminssi @tangerin3gurl @gyucheols-girl @whoisbaek15 @intrnetbbysworld @tymbarki @alien0n3arth

you’ve always been the kind of person who keeps yourself busy. your friends say you get “flustered” a lot, but you know it’s less about nerves and more about not seeing the point in stretching out conversations when you could be doing something useful. you’re good with people — you can hold small talk, swap stories, even keep up in a group chat when you need to — but it never feels as rewarding as finishing a project or getting ahead on an assignment. practical, that’s what you are. efficient with your time. so when the stress of midterms and the constant pressure to stay ahead starts to pile up, you fall into a familiar cycle of overworking without actually getting anywhere.

jeonghan, your roommate, always tells you to “take a break” when he finds you buried under a pile of textbooks, but you ignore him. while your dorm neighbor, seungkwan, who’s become your unofficial therapist, insists that maybe a change of scenery might help, but you brush it off. you don’t know what’s worse—failing or the thought of being the one who’s not keeping up with the others.

that’s when you decide to take a leap. you’re not sure if it’s just the idea of doing something different, or the fact that every other option has failed, but you sign up for the gym. you’re not sure what you’re expecting—just that you need to shake things up.

the first day is terrible. you’re awkwardly trying to figure out how machines work, watching everyone around you who seems like they know what they’re doing, while you’re stuck on a treadmill wondering if you’re supposed to be running or walking faster.

that’s when he notices you.

kim mingyu.

he’s not hard to spot—tall, broad-shouldered, a greek god in a compression shirt, with muscles you can’t even begin to fathom. you try not to stare, but your eyes can’t help it. he’s on the other side of the room, lifting weights with ease, his form flawless. you can’t even imagine having a fraction of that confidence. you turn back to your treadmill, your face flushed as you try to focus on not tripping over yourself.

but then, out of nowhere, he’s right there in front of you.

“hey, are you new here?” his voice is so casual, but your heart skips a beat at the sound of it. “first time at the gym?”

you freeze, where the fuck did he come from?

pretty hard not to spot a giant like kim mingyu walking towards you, y/n.

without thinking, you mumble, “oh shit—” and immediately stumble forward. you try to catch yourself but end up tripping over your own feet, your hands flailing to find balance.

“whoa!” mingyu’s quick reflexes kick in, and before you know it, he’s right there, steadying you with one hand on your shoulder. “you okay?” he asks, voice tinged with concern, but there’s a hint of amusement in his smile.

you gulp, heart racing. “i—yeah. i just—uh, didn’t see you coming.” you let out a pathetic laugh, heat flooding your cheeks.

mingyu chuckles, his laugh deep and warm. “i kind of figured. you look like you’re on the verge of a wipeout.”

you can’t help but give a lopsided smile, despite your embarrassment. “thanks… i guess,” you mutter, still trying to regain your composure.

“don’t worry about it,” he says with a friendly smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “you’re still alive, so that’s a win in my book.”

and just like that, mingyu’s gone, back to his workout as if he hadn’t just saved you from making a fool of yourself in front of everyone.

for the next few days, mingyu’s presence haunts the gym. you see him everywhere—lifting weights, chatting with people, giving advice, being… well, perfect. and all you can do is watch from the sidelines, still too embarrassed to approach him, but also unable to tear your eyes away.

there’s something so confident about him, so effortlessly kind, and you begin to notice the way he always looks out for people. he’s just a regular guy, right? except he’s mingyu, and somehow, he makes everything look effortless.

oooh, and those. arms.

and you? well, you’re still stumbling through the basics. and you learned pretty early on that no amount of cardio can beat your heartrate every time your gaze catches a sight of kim mingyu.

“y/n, you’re going again?” jeonghan asks, raising an eyebrow as you tie your sneakers, preparing for yet another trip to the gym.

“yeah, i—um, just need to clear my head,” you mumble, looking down at your shoes to avoid his teasing gaze.

jeonghan grins. “mhm, sure you do. so, what? you’ve got your eyes on some hunk down there?” he teases, making air quotes with his fingers, clearly referring to some “eye candy” at the gym. “someone’s been going to the gym a lot recently…”

you freeze, trying to play it cool. “what?” you ask, slightly panicking. “no, i-i’m just, you know, trying to get out of a rut with my studies. nothing else.”

jeonghan watches you carefully, then his eyes widen. “wait… there is someone, isn’t there?” he grins widely, and it suddenly hits you. “wait, y/n, don’t tell me that it’s kim mingyu? the gym’s golden boy?” he laughs, clearly amused by your flustered face.

you freeze in shock. “what? no—he’s just a guy who works out a lot! i mean, yeah, he’s nice, but it’s not like—”

jeonghan bursts out laughing. “so you do know him! oh, honey, don’t even try to act like you’re not into him. everyone knows who mingyu is. have you seen him? dude’s got the perfect physique, perfect grades, perfect car, and perfect everything. i’ve heard he’s loaded too. his dad’s some big-time olympic weightlifting official. he’s literally the walking definition of the ‘golden boy’ on campus.”

you blink, your mind struggling to keep up with the avalanche of information. “wait… the olympics? his dad?”

jeonghan nods. “yeah, exactly. i’ve heard he comes from a pretty well-off family too. so yeah, mingyu’s literally perfect. it’s no surprise that he’s in everyone’s top ten crush list.”

you feel your face heating up as the realization settles in. “oh my god…”

jeonghan chuckles, clearly enjoying how flustered you are. “don’t worry, y/n. if you want to stare at a perfect person in peace, you just gotta deal with the fact that you’re not the only one who has their eyes on him.”

you groan, burying your face in your hands. “stop teasing me,” you mumble, but there’s no denying the fact that you’re definitely starting to feel a little more… interested than you’d like to admit. but it’s just a silly gym crush. definitely.

as if he wasn't already a regular in your daydreams, you bump into him again, outside of the gym this time.

the first time is when you’re standing outside the lecture hall, waiting for class to start, fiddling with the sleeve of your hoodie. your mind’s still racing from last night’s study session, and you’re so absorbed in your thoughts that you barely notice when the doors to the hall open. as you look up, though, you catch a glimpse of a familiar face.

mingyu.

he’s wearing his usual easy-going smile, his gym bag slung casually over one shoulder, walking right into the building like he owns the place. you stare at him, frozen, as your heart rate picks up. he’s in your class?

“y/n?” a voice snaps you out of your trance.

you look over to see jeonghan, who raises an eyebrow at your flushed face. “you okay?” he asks, his lips quirking into a teasing smile as he follows your line of sight.

“uh, yeah… just didn’t expect to see… him.” you try to sound casual, pointing toward mingyu, but your voice cracks slightly.

jeonghan looks over, nonchalant, as if he didn’t just see your face turn fifty shades of red. “oh. him. so, you’re saying you haven’t noticed our campus' very own golden boy in your minor classes? phys ed major, i heard.”

“he’s a…?” you blink, confused.

“yeah,” jeonghan smirks, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “mingyu. doesn’t surprise me, though. he’s always around. always looks like he’s got his life together, the body of a perfect poster boy for fitness promos in those gyms across town.”

you watch mingyu walk into the lecture hall, now knowing the one thing that had never occurred to you: he’s actually here, at the same school as you. sharing a class with you, at that.

it’s like a punch to the gut. of course he is.

and you? you’re here, stumbling through calculus with a mountain of textbooks you can never seem to get through.

but you can’t stop thinking about how easy mingyu makes everything look.

turns out… going to the gym wasn’t the worst decision you’ve ever made.

you weren’t exactly sculpting a six-pack yet, but you didn’t feel like complete shit all the time now. your brain fog was thinning, your mood was lighter, and you kinda liked walking past your reflection and noticing how your arms didn’t look so soft anymore. jeonghan had clocked it too.

“look at you,” he teased one night while you were getting ready for another house party he dragged you to. “all swole and glowy. is this a gym glow? did mingyu spot you or something?”

you rolled your eyes, fumbling with a random lock of your hair. “well… he’s definitely a looker, i do think it wouldn’t hurt to gawk at him wearing a compression shirt a few times a week.” you admitted, trying to keep your voice casual but you could already feel the heat crawling up your neck.

jeonghan gasped, immediately abandoning his lip balm to lean closer. “no way. tell me more.”

you huffed, giving in. “he’s just— okay, he’s really tall. and stupidly buff. and he always looks like he walked out of some greek mythology fanfic. and he’s nice?? like unfairly nice.”

“oh, babe. poor you. no one comes out of a gym crush on him alive.”

you both laughed it off, but the truth was… you were actually starting to enjoy the gym. not just for the obvious eye candy, but because it made you feel good. and you were slowly clawing your way out of that academic slump one sweat-soaked session at a time.

and parties helped too.

jeonghan had been on a social streak lately, dragging you to every decent gathering he caught wind of. and for once, you weren’t staying glued to the walls. you mingled, you danced, you maybe flirted a little.

like that one night with the guy named chan.

cute boy. bright smile. quick to pour you a drink and compliment your hair. he was a little too eager, but harmless. you didn’t mind giving him a peck on the cheek, his cheeks blushing a dusty pink in response.

“what year are you in?” you asked casually over the music.

“i’m a sophomore!” he beamed.

“oh,” you blinked. “you’re...”

his smile faltered a little at your sudden reluctance. jeonghan appeared at your elbow at the perfect moment, smirking. “poor kid. you just got downgraded to ‘little brother’ status.”

chan pouted but took it like a champ, even offering to get you another drink before you politely excused yourself. harmless. kinda endearing, honestly.

but the real kicker came a week later.

you were halfway through a very sad attempt at curling a dumbbell too heavy for your current strength level when someone suddenly appeared in your peripheral vision.

“oh, hey,” a boy with bright eyes and soft features said, slightly breathless like he’d jogged over. “you’re… y/n, right?”

you blinked. “um— yeah?”

“i—i’m chan.”

“nice to meet you, chan.” wait.

you stopped your reps abruptly.

he rubbed the back of his neck, looking nervous. “i, uh, think we met at that party last week?”

oh no.

the pieces clicked a little too late in your brain, but they did click. he was the cute guy who’d offered you a drink and talked you up, and you, in a half-drunk, affectionate spiral, gave him a kiss on the cheek before finding out he was way too young to be your type, jeonghan saving you as you both run away, making a break for the kitchen.

he looked so hopeful now it physically hurt.

before you could fumble out an apology or awkwardly escape, a very familiar voice called over from the other side of the room.

“yo, chan! quit slacking, get your ass over here.”

mingyu.

he was leaning against the leg press, towel draped over his shoulder again like a damn fitness magazine model. chan gave you an apologetic little smile and jogged over.

you took a moment to quietly die inside.

and then — as if fate wasn’t already laughing at you — mingyu clapped a hand on chan’s shoulder and grinned, talking loud enough for you to catch while pretending not to.

“this kid’s soft as hell, y’know that? started hitting the gym ‘cause some girl at a party broke his heart.”

you nearly choked on your water.

oh my god.

it was you. you were the girl.

mingyu didn’t know, of course. he was teasing chan like a big brother would, completely unaware that the object of the kid’s little tragedy was currently staring wide-eyed at her reflection in the nearest mirror.

you quickly turned away, pretending to be very interested in adjusting your earbuds(it wasn’t even connected to your phone).

fuck. fuckfuckfuck.

it had been a week or so since your… unfortunate run-in with chan at the gym. you’d done your best to laugh it off, though the way mingyu casually mentioned some poor kid started training because of a heartbreak at a frat party had you spiraling internally for a solid three business days. because what were the odds? your chan? apparently heartbreak over a 15 minute encounter was a hell of a pre-workout.

either way, you were ready to get back out there. another weekend, another party — fingers crossed you wouldn’t unknowingly crush some poor guy’s spirit this time and discover their glow-up arc at the campus gym. you sent up a silent prayer as you got dressed, hoping the universe would cut you some slack for once.

you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been a little more… experimental with your outfits lately. nothing wild, just a few tops cropped a little higher, jeans sitting a little lower. maybe if you showed a bit of skin, you’d start to feel as hot as you hoped you looked. besides — you’d been busting your ass at the gym. you deserved to show it off a little.

“okay, i see you!” jeonghan wolf-whistled from the other side of the room when you stepped out of your closet. “damn, baby, if i didn’t know you were one tragic gym crush away from full insanity, i’d think you were tryna pull tonight.”

“maybe i am,” you teased, smoothing your hands down your sides, a little proud of how good you felt lately. maybe it was the gym, maybe it was the new skincare routine seungkwan bullied you into, maybe it was pure spite toward every man who’d ghosted you, but you were glowing a bit, and you weren’t about to waste it.

jeonghan grabbed his keys and slung an arm over your shoulders. “alright, let’s go break hearts — consensually.”

the party was already in full swing when you got there, neon lights bleeding into every room, the bass so deep it made the walls thrum. you lost jeonghan somewhere between the kitchen and the makeshift dancefloor, though not before downing two shots together like some chaotic ritual.

an hour later you were a little tipsy, flushed from dancing, with the beginnings of a hangover clawing at the edges of your brain when you found yourself leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping on lukewarm water. you’d just successfully escaped making out with some ridiculously pretty boy named wonbin you barely knew. his hands had been nice, sure, but his cologne was giving you a headache and you had a 10 a.m. gym session you weren’t about to flake on.

“look at you,” a familiar voice teased, low and warm and way too close to your ear.

you turned your head — and there was mingyu, grinning down at you, tight black polo stretched over his chest and looking like he’d walked out of a men’s fitness ad. or maybe a sin. who could say.

“don’t tell me you’re partying too,” you half-giggled, setting your cup down. “and here i thought you were some gym purist.”

“could say the same for you,” mingyu shot back, leaning against the counter beside you. “what kind of maniac hits the gym after a night at a rager?”

you let out a laugh, the alcohol making you bolder than usual. “an insane one, apparently.”

your gaze dropped — you couldn’t help it — to the way his biceps flexed as he lifted his drink. god, you were barely sober and apparently even less subtle. before your brain could stop you, your hand reached out and squeezed his arm.

a full, proper squeeze.

and then you registered what you’d just done.

“oh my god,” you blurted, snapping your hand back like it burned. “i can’t believe i just did that. i’m so sorry—”

mingyu just barked out a laugh, reaching out to catch your wrist before you could flee the kitchen entirely. “nah, it’s cool. you like it that much, huh?”

his grin was sharp, teasing, and you were definitely too sober for this now. your pulse jumped as his fingers slid from your wrist to your hand, giving it a little squeeze back before letting go.

“i—” you started, but your brain short-circuited.

mingyu tilted his head, still smiling. “come on, i’ll walk you back. wouldn’t wanna lose our future gym freak to some frat house debauchery.”

the walk back was… quieter than you expected. not awkward, just easy. mingyu had one hand shoved into his pocket, the other loosely holding the bottle of water he’d swiped for you on the way out. the cool night air sobered you up faster than any coffee could’ve, but it didn’t stop the way your heart kept doing this stupid little jump every time your arms brushed.

you should’ve felt bad about ditching jeonghan — traitor behavior, honestly. but in your defense, he’d disappeared into a dark corner with someone you swore was a philosophy major who looked like trouble, so technically you were both abandoning each other tonight. friendship cancelled out.

“you good?” mingyu asked, glancing down at you.

you hummed. “better now. needed that fresh air.”

mingyu’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “told you. you’re almost as insane as me.”

you snorted. almost. the man had a literal six-pack under that shirt and probably ran marathons for fun. meanwhile, you nearly keeled over after fifteen minutes on the treadmill your first week.

by the time you reached your dorm building, the campus had quieted down. only the hum of street lamps and the occasional tipsy laughter echoing from other party stragglers.

you fished your keys out of your bag, hands clumsy from a mix of nerves and residual buzz. mingyu leaned against the wall by your door, watching you with that same soft amusement you hated how much you liked.

and you weren’t drunk anymore. you couldn’t blame it on that. not the flutter in your stomach. not the way your fingers twitched at your side.

you liked to believe it was the alcohol, but you knew better. because even sober, even under these shitty yellow hallway lights, mingyu looked unfairly good. and you were still a little bit of a loser inside.

you swallowed, gripping your keys too tight before blurting out, way too fast, “do you—wanna come in? or, i mean, just for a bit. like—i have snacks. and, uh. water. and… i guess my air conditioning’s nice.”

jesus christ.

your voice cracked a little at the end and you wanted to throw yourself out a window.

mingyu’s brow arched in surprise for half a second before a slow grin spread across his face. not cocky. not smug. just… warm. maybe a little endeared.

“snacks and air conditioning, huh?” he teased, tucking his hands into his jean pockets. “hard to say no to that.”

your ears burned. “it’s fine if you’re tired or whatever—”

but he was already stepping forward, hand reaching to nudge the door open when you finally got the key to work.

“lead the way, gym buddy.”

and god help you, you did.

you don’t know what possessed you. maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the way mingyu looked under those shitty streetlights, hair a little messy, grin too easy. either way, you were now standing in your tiny dorm, watching him take a seat on your bed like he’s been here a hundred times before.

and you? you were having a mental breakdown.

“oh my god, what am i doing,” you muttered under your breath, moving to your tiny fridge to grab two bottled waters like your life depended on it. your hands shook a little, and you cursed yourself for acting like you’d never had a boy in your room before — let alone this boy. this unfairly gorgeous, golden boy, smile-that-can-take-down-roman-empires , literal greek god of a man—kim mingyu.

“you good?” mingyu chuckled, and when you turned, he was grinning at you, legs spread lazily, leaning back on his hands like he owned the place. “you’re acting like you just smuggled me in past your strict parents or something.”

you huffed out a laugh, plopping down a water bottle next to him on the bed and keeping a very respectful distance on the opposite side. “sorry. i just—this wasn’t planned. like at all.”

mingyu shrugged, cracking open the bottle. “spur of the moment’s fun sometimes.”

you eyed him, unsure what to do with yourself, fidgeting with the label on your own bottle. “if you wanna head back to the party, you totally can. i mean, i’m tucking in for the night anyway. i promise i’m completely sober now, so no babysitting required.”

he looked at you, one brow raised, a teasing glint in his eye. “and miss out on the snacks and air conditioning you promised? no way.”

you rolled your eyes but smiled, heart doing its usual ridiculous flip when his knee brushed yours. casual. accidental. but you felt it all the same.

“plus,” mingyu added, leaning a little closer, voice dropping in that way that made your stomach twist up in knots. “what about our gym sesh tomorrow? together?”

you blinked. “our… what now?”

he laughed, reaching over to pluck the bottle from your hands and set it aside like you were both settling in for a long talk. “you’ve been avoiding me at the gym, you know.”

“i have not—”

“have too.”

your face warmed again. “okay, maybe a little. it’s intimidating, okay? you’re like… you.”

mingyu’s grin softened, eyes crinkling into those damn crescent moons. “i’m just a dude, y/n. and apparently, i’m now a dude who ditches parties for you.”

your head spun.

“you’re insane.” you try to brush it off.

“almost as insane as you.” he pushes further.

you laughed, the sound filling the room like something easy, and when mingyu’s hand found yours for half a second — a fleeting touch, a gentle squeeze before letting go — you didn’t even think about pulling away.

and you know what? maybe jeonghan was right. maybe you did have a type.

snack wrappers littered your coffee table, the air conditioning blasting at a level jeonghan would dramatically declare a war crime if he were here. you glanced over at mingyu, who looked far too at home on your couch, long legs stretched out, hair a little messy, that annoyingly perfect face lit by the glow of the tv screen playing some random old action movie neither of you were really watching.

“you don’t mind me staying over, do you?” mingyu asked, suddenly, tone so casual it made your brain short-circuit.

you choked on your water. “w-what? no! i mean—no, not at all! you can stay. totally. of course. i mean, obviously you’re gonna be on the couch, hahah, it’s totally fine, not weird at all.”

he raised a brow at you, clearly amused. “didn’t even ask to share the bed, y/n.”

“right! of course. couch it is.” you fumbled, standing up a little too quickly. “i’m—gonna wash up.”

you darted toward the balcony, trying not to faceplant on the way, heart hammering so stupidly hard in your chest it felt like a crime. outside, the night air was cool against your skin, and you grabbed a hanger off the clothesline — one of jeonghan’s oversized shirts and a pair of old sweatpants, thankfully dry and still carrying a faint scent of clean detergent and your roommate’s obnoxiously expensive cologne.

when you stepped back inside, mingyu was still sprawled on the couch, only now looking over his shoulder at you with a soft little grin. you cleared your throat, holding up the clothes. “these should fit. jeonghan’s taller than me, but probably not as tall as you, but he loves baggy clothes, so… y’know. good enough.”

“they’ll be perfect.” mingyu smiled, and you couldn’t believe how easy it looked on him.

you escaped to the bathroom, scrubbing your makeup off and washing up as fast as humanly possible, trying not to analyze your reflection too hard, might risk an existential crisis if you did. when you came out, hair wet and towel draped over your head, you froze.

because mingyu was already changed.

and holy shit — jeonghan’s oversized clothes looked offensively good on him. the shirt stretched just enough over his broad shoulders, the sweatpants hung low on his hips, and he gave you that soft, grateful grin like he wasn’t lowkey ruining your life.

“thanks for this, by the way.” he said, plucking a stray thread off the hem of his sleeve.

you nodded wordlessly, eyes shamelessly fixed on him now, not even bothering to pretend otherwise. your feet carried you over to grab your own water bottle, and then — because your brain was fried and you didn’t know what else to do with yourself — you dropped down cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, towel still draped over your head, grabbing the remote with one hand and surfing aimlessly through streaming services, while the other dried your hair with the towel.

mingyu leaned forward. “give me that.”

you blinked, snapping out of your momentary daze. “huh?”

“your towel,” he said, grinning like it was the most natural thing in the world. “your hair’s dripping. let me dry it.”

“you don’t have to—”

“i want to.” he smiles. that damn smile again.

and because you were a fool, you let him.

he sat on the couch, legs on either side of you, the towel over your head as his hands worked gently, drying your hair with easy, practiced motions. his fingers brushed the nape of your neck, and your heart straight-up stopped functioning properly. the domesticity of it all, the weird, too-close familiarity, it was driving you absolutely insane.

you swallowed hard, your cheeks heating up so bad you were thankful your wet hair could still pass for cold skin. and maybe it was the way his thumb lingered on your jaw, just a little too long, or the fact that his legs bracketed yours like some kind of ridiculously domestic setup — either way, you felt that invisible line between you both shift. and for the first time since this night started, you weren’t sure if you wanted to stay on the safe side of it.

“there,” mingyu murmured after a while, pulling the towel off your head with a final little tousle, his voice low and weirdly fond. “all good.”

you fiddled with the hem of your shorts, feeling way too aware of how close he was. the room felt quieter now, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the faint sound of the tv playing some car chase scene neither of you were watching.

“okay, so… um.” you cleared your throat, standing up abruptly. “you can take the bed. i’ll sleep on the couch.”

mingyu’s brows shot up. “what? no way.”

“what do you mean ‘no way’? you’re a guest.” you protested, already grabbing a pillow and a spare blanket from the closet.

“y/n, look at me.” he gestured down at himself, at the way his knees practically hit his chest sitting on your too-small couch. “i can’t even sit on that thing properly, let alone sleep. you’d be sentencing me to a night of back pain and leg cramps. i’m not making you sleep out here just for my sake.”

you scowled, stubborn. “but it’s my bed.”

“exactly. and it’s your apartment, so you deserve the comfy bed.”

“jeonghan’s room’s locked.” you grumbled, trying not to sound as flustered as you felt. “he never leaves it unlocked when he’s not here. no other choice.”

mingyu leaned back against the couch, flashing you a crooked grin. “then we share.”

your brain practically bluescreened.

“w-wait, what?”

“the bed. we share. it’s big enough, isn’t it?” his grin widened. “i promise not to hog the blanket.”

you opened and closed your mouth a few times, grasping for some kind of coherent argument but coming up short because damn it, he was right. the couch barely fit him sitting down — there was no way he’d be able to sleep on it comfortably. and you weren’t about to let him throw his back out for a stupid reason like this.

“fine,” you muttered, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “but stay on your side.”

“scout’s honor.” he held up two fingers in mock solemnity.

“and don’t snore.”

“i don’t snore.”

“i’ll be the judge of that.”

you grabbed your phone charger and shuffled into your room, leaving the door open behind you. mingyu followed a beat later, still grinning like the smug menace he was. and even though every rational part of your brain screamed that this was such a bad idea, a tiny, reckless voice at the back of your head whispered that maybe, just maybe, you kind of wanted to find out what it felt like to fall asleep next to someone like him.

for the record: it was totally the alcohol talking.

probably.

maybe?

…fuck.

you told yourself it was fine.

just two pals. gym buddies. campus friends. besties.

two completely platonic people sharing a bed because of spatial logistics and the cruel, unrelenting limits of furniture design.

haha.

ha.

you were malfunctioning.

you sat on your side of the bed, clutching your phone like a lifeline as mingyu tugged the blanket over himself with an ease that should not have made your stomach flip. he lay there, eyes fluttering shut almost immediately like the world’s most peaceful golden retriever, while you stared at the ceiling, brain absolutely going to hell.

‘totally normal. nothing weird. just two amigos. chingus! bros!’

you squeezed your eyes shut and forced yourself to sleep, repeating the words like a desperate mantra. and for a while, it worked. you drifted off into something hazy and warm, the hum of the air conditioning and mingyu’s even breathing lulling you under.

until a shift in weight on the mattress made your eyes snap open.

and you felt it — a puff of warm breath against the curve of your neck, so close you shivered.

‘oh my god.’

you yelped, a tiny, startled squeak that made mingyu jolt awake, eyes bleary and confused.

“shit— sorry! sorry, did i—” he started, voice rough from sleep.

“no, it’s— it’s okay, i just—” you flailed for words, completely undone.

he rubbed at his eyes, blinking at you with a sheepish smile. “i tend to roll over a lot when i sleep. didn’t mean to get all up in your space.”

“it’s fine,” you mumbled, cheeks burning.

he studied you for a beat, then tilted his head, grinning softly. “you sure? i mean… you didn’t seem that mad.”

you wanted to crawl under the covers and never come out.

“it was…” you swallowed. “weirdly nice.”

his grin turned smug. “yeah?”

before you could lie or backtrack, he shifted again — leaning in until his lips brushed the same spot on your neck, the featherlight contact making your skin prickle.

“like this?” he murmured, half-asleep and reckless.

you could barely breathe. “mingyu…”

your voice cracked, hoarse and small in the dark.

he hummed against your skin, one strong arm draping lazily around your waist, pulling you back against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. you could feel the steady beat of his heart, the solid warmth of his body.

“i like this,” he whispered, barely audible.

and just like that, every single one of your loser brain cells went into cardiac arrest.

his arm around your waist felt heavy. solid. grounding in a way that made your breath hitch.

and then there was his hand — splayed across your stomach, fingertips brushing the hem of your sleep shirt, barely touching skin but leaving a trail of heat in their wake. his face was still buried against your neck, his lips pressing featherlight there, like he wasn’t fully awake, like his body was moving on instinct alone.

and god, it shouldn’t have felt this good.

you swallowed, pulse stuttering in your throat, trying not to focus on the way your thighs instinctively pressed together under the covers.

‘what the fuck is wrong with me?’

this was mingyu. your gym buddy. the guy who spotted you when you were too scared to touch the free weights. the man who chugged protein shakes like water and complained about his laundry bill.

but now he was pressed up against you in your tiny dorm bed, all warm muscle and lazy affection, and you felt… something.

something low and traitorous in your stomach, fluttering sharp and hot between your legs in a way you hadn’t expected. a dull ache, a clench of nothingness that made you shift in place without meaning to.

and of course, of course, mingyu noticed.

“hm? you okay?” he mumbled, voice still husky with sleep, his hand tightening a fraction around your waist.

you let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to a whimper and hoped to god it passed for sleepy noise.

“yeah,” you whispered. “just… warm.”

“you want me to move?”

the words made your stomach drop. panic spiked sharp and bright in your chest.

“no!” too quick, too loud. you winced, immediately mortified. “i mean— it’s fine. i like it.”

his smile was lazy, smug even in half-sleep. “yeah?”

you bit your lip. “yeah.”

and then his hand slid a little lower.

not on purpose — you told yourself it wasn’t on purpose — but the way his palm brushed the dip of your hip, fingers grazing bare skin, made you feel that something again.

your breath hitched.

‘oh my god.’

your brain was a storm of sirens and red flags but your body didn’t care. it was already reacting, warmth pooling in places you didn’t dare name, and you squeezed your eyes shut, praying he couldn’t tell.

but mingyu, perceptive even in sleep, let out a low chuckle against your skin.

“you’re kinda squirmy, y/n,” he teased softly.

“shut up,” you croaked, absolutely humiliated, heat rushing to your face.

he laughed, that same warm, boyish sound that always made your chest hurt, and settled in closer.

“don’t worry,” he whispered, his lips ghosting your ear. “i don’t mind.”

you didn’t know who moved first.

maybe it was the way his fingers curled against your skin, rough pads stroking just a little too slow, a little too deliberate.

maybe it was you — traitorous, loser brain short-circuiting — turning your face toward his, catching the curve of his smile in the dark.

maybe it was the sheer tension that had been crackling between you for weeks, building in glances, brushes of hands, the weight of his gaze on you across a crowded gym floor. it had to break sometime.

and it did.

because then his lips were on yours.

soft, warm, tasting faintly of the cheap beer from earlier and the mint of your toothpaste. it was clumsy at first, a messy slide of mouths and teeth, a surprised noise catching in your throat as his hand tilted your jaw, deepening the kiss.

“fuck,” you breathed when you broke apart, and mingyu just grinned against your skin.

“you sure?” he murmured, thumb stroking under your chin, eyes searching yours in the dim light.

and you — flustered, awkward, a little tipsy but painfully sober now — nodded. “yeah. yeah, i’m sure.”

he kissed you again, slower this time, one hand at the small of your back pulling you flush against him. you felt everything — the press of his chest, the solid heat of his thigh between yours, and the unmistakable, undeniable hardness against your hip.

your head spun.

‘oh my god.’

mingyu pulled back just enough to laugh, breath warm on your cheek. “now who’s feeling something?”

“shut up,” you gasped, but you were smiling, you couldn’t stop smiling, even as your face burned and your hands trembled where they clutched his t-shirt.

his thumb brushed your bottom lip. “can i—?”

“please.”

he was so gentle, like he thought you might break if he touched you wrong, murmuring your name like it was a prayer, all those muscles for show but his touch impossibly careful.

the room spun, your heartbeat louder than the air conditioner, mingyu’s breath ragged in your ear as he settled between your thighs, his hand slipping under the waistband of your shorts and—

“mingyu,” you whimpered, your voice cracking, half-laughing at yourself because holy shit this was really happening.

“i got you,” he promised, lips ghosting your jaw. “i’ll take care of you, y/n.”

and he did.

slow, achingly careful, like you were something precious — and for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe you were.

then it was a tangle of hands, mouths, clothes splayed somewhere in the dark, it was messy and desperate and you should’ve known better than to underestimate him. you’d seen those muscles at the gym, felt them under your hands — but it wasn’t until now, when he hooked your thigh over his hip and pressed you down into the mattress, that you realized just how strong he really was.

and when he flipped you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing, his palm sliding down your back in a slow, reverent stroke, your brain short-circuited.

“jesus christ,” you gasped, cheek pressed to the pillow.

“like this?” he murmured against your ear, voice low and warm.

you barely managed to nod.

he started slow, careful — his hips rolling into yours, lazy and deep, one hand laced with yours against the pillow. you felt the strain in his forearm where it bracketed your head, the soft curse in your ear at how tight you clenched around him.

then, when your hips pushed back into him, a helpless little sound catching in your throat, something in him snapped.

the next thrust was harder — not rough, but deeper, firmer, his hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that made your toes curl and your eyes squeeze shut.

“fuck—mingyu,” you choked out, hands clawing at the sheets.

he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. “feel so good, baby,” he rasped. “been wanting this—wanted you—”

you couldn’t answer, too busy trying not to drool into your pillow as he kept going, the thick drag of him inside you dizzying. it was too much and not enough at the same time, your body trembling and brain turning to static.

every roll of his hips made your breath hitch, the room filled with the slick, filthy sound of skin against skin, the low broken noises leaving both your mouths.

and even as his pace picked up, as your body went pliant under his and your legs shook, mingyu was still achingly gentle in how he touched you — hand smoothing your hair from your face, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.

“good girl,” he groaned, voice cracking as his rhythm faltered. “fuck—‘m close—gonna—”

his hips stuttered, a deep, desperate moan spilling from his throat as he pulled out last second, rutting his cock against the curve of your ass as he came hard, hot ropes of it painting your lower back and thighs.

your body trembled, face buried in the pillow, breath ragged and uneven as you felt the warmth of it on your skin, the heavy, shaky way he exhaled against your shoulder.

and for a moment, neither of you moved — just the soft hum of the air conditioner, the buzz of blood in your ears, and the lingering ache between your thighs.

he collapsed on top of you, catching himself just in time, his strong arms holding you close as he tugged you into his chest. you were too tired to protest, too exhausted to do anything but let him hold you, feeling the heat of his body against yours.

his arms were so strong, tanned and muscular, yet the way he held you was impossibly soft. despite everything — the hours you’d spent at the gym, the newfound strength you were building — you felt so small in his hold, a feeling you couldn’t deny you loved. it wasn’t in the sense of weakness, but in how careful he was with you, how you felt like he was holding you like you were the most fragile thing in the world. his warmth, his scent — it was all consuming in the best way.

“fuck,” he whispered, his voice raw. “you’re amazing.”

you smiled, your heart fluttering, but you didn’t have the energy to respond. all you wanted to do was lie there, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek as he held you close. it was almost as if the world had stopped. just the two of you, tangled in the sheets, in each other’s arms. his hand ran over your back, a soft, soothing motion that made you want to curl further into him, to let yourself fall into the safe space he’d created.

after a few quiet minutes, you felt the bed shift as mingyu reluctantly untangled himself. you made a small sound of protest, but he just chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “hang on,” he murmured. the mattress dipped again when he returned, and then—

a wet, warm cloth brushed over your skin.

your breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping before you could stop it. the gentle, careful way he wiped you down made your whole body ache in a different way, a deep, fluttery warmth blooming in your chest.

“just cleaning you up,” he said quietly, his voice so tender it made your stomach flip. “can’t have my girl falling asleep like this.”

and you would’ve made some flirty comment if you weren’t so bone-tired. though, in your haze, your eyes flickered down and caught the cloth in his hand — wait. was that… jeonghan’s shirt? you squinted, brain foggy, but you could recognize that obnoxious band tee anywhere. a breathy, disbelieving laugh slipped from your lips.

“is that—?”

mingyu grinned, clearly unbothered, continuing to wipe you down with maddening gentleness. “it’ll go missing after tonight, hope he won’t miss it.” he lets out an airy chuckle.

you wanted to laugh with him but the tenderness with every touch and wipe over your skin made your throat feel tight, your eyes blinking back slumber, overwhelmed in the best, most ridiculous way.

when he finished, he tossed the poor shirt aside and pulled you back into his arms like he’d never let go. “don’t wanna move,” he mumbled against your hair, pressing another kiss to your forehead. his arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer. “sleep. we’ve gotta be up for the gym later.”

you almost giggled, but let out a dreamy sigh instead — you were too tired, too content with the way he was holding you. the night had been a whirlwind of emotions and sensations, but here, in his arms, everything felt right. you nodded, not trusting your voice, but somehow, that was enough for him.

the room was silent now, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and your steady breaths. he shifted just slightly, ensuring you were tucked securely against him, and before long, you felt the weight of sleep tugging at your eyelids.

you drifted off, wrapped in his warmth, still feeling the echoes of everything that had happened. for once, you didn’t feel like that burned out student who can barely lift anything at the gym anymore. not when you had someone like mingyu holding you this tightly. you could lift the whole world with this euphoric feeling.

the next morning came too fast.

mingyu kissed you before he left, still smelling like your bodywash and the lingering trace of sweat and skin. you were half-asleep, face buried in your pillow as you felt the press of his lips against your temple, his voice a low murmur. “i’ll see you at the gym, cutie.”

then the door clicked shut, and you groaned into your sheets.

by the time you dragged yourself to the gym, your legs were jelly, your thighs aching in ways you hadn’t expected. you caught mingyu leaning against the front desk, grinning like he hadn’t just rearranged your guts a few hours ago.

“leg day?” he asked innocently, one brow arched.

you scowled. “i am so not doing leg day.”

he laughed — the kind of laugh that made you want to hit him and kiss him at the same time. “c’mon, i’ll go easy on you.”

“you said that last time, you liar.”

still, you let him lead you through the warm-up, pretending you weren’t staring when his shirt lifted a little, exposing tan skin and the cut of his abs. your banter bounced back and forth, teasing, smug little grins exchanged between reps. you managed to trip over your own foot during lunges, and mingyu caught you by the waist like it was nothing, steadying you with those massive hands — the same ones that held you close last night, skin to skin. before you had the chance to get over the thought, he had already tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“careful, lightweight,” he teased.

you rolled your eyes, heart pounding way too hard for a simple gym mishap.

it was gonna be a long morning.

after the gym session, you and mingyu were a mess of sweat and sore muscles, but there was still an undeniable energy buzzing between you. you didn’t want to go home yet, not when he was looking at you like that — eyes soft, smile easy, and that unmistakable pull between the two of you that hadn’t quite worn off yet.

“smoothie?” mingyu asked, his voice almost too casual, but you could tell he was trying to keep his cool.

you blinked, still trying to catch your breath after a killer session. “uh, sure, i’m down for a smoothie.”

the smoothie place was just a block away, and soon enough you were sitting at a little outdoor table with your huge cups, the kind of smoothies that were so large you could probably share with a small army. but instead, mingyu leaned toward you, grabbing one of the oversized straws and slipping it into his mouth.

“i’m serious about the flavor,” he said with a grin, “this is the one. trust me. the secret add-on’s spinach, by the way.”

you rolled your eyes and gave him a playful look, but didn’t argue. you took a sip from the same straw, the cold tang of mango, strawberry, and pineapple flooding your senses, no weird spinach flavor in sight. it tasted like summer. and something else, too — something sweet and comfortable that made you want to stay here in this moment forever.

mingyu was looking at you again, that soft, almost shy smile on his face, and for once, you didn’t feel like you wanted to leave, even if conversations stretched for hours. you didn’t feel like the try-hard academic you push yourself to be.

no, with mingyu, you were just you — the girl he had kissed and laughed with and shared a smoothie with. there were no pretenses between you two anymore, no more awkward glances or confusing feelings. it was simple. it was easy. and that made everything feel right.

“it’s good, right?” mingyu asked, taking another sip.

you smiled at him, your lips still tingling from the kiss the night before. “yeah. you were right.”

he leaned back, looking like he was about to say something, but instead, he just chuckled softly. “this smoothie tastes like something my future partner would like.”

you raised an eyebrow, a playful grin tugging at your lips. “bold of you to assume they’d date a guy who puts spinach in his smoothies.”

mingyu laughed, eyes crinkling. “what, you don’t think so?”

you leaned back, crossing your arms with a smirk. “guess that’s something my future boyfriend will find out.”

and with that, everything seemed to click. it wasn’t just the gym, or the smoothies, or the fact that you were already falling asleep on him every night. it was this — being with him, sharing these little moments that felt so much bigger than anything you could’ve imagined.

mingyu looked at you then, his expression soft and sincere, and you realized that this — whatever this was — was real. you weren’t just friends anymore. you weren’t just gym buddies. you were something more, and that was enough for you.

as you sat there, sipping your smoothie and enjoying the warm morning sun, you couldn’t help but smile. things with mingyu were simple, but they felt so right. and right now, that was all you needed.

a/n: phew this has been such fun to write <33 and i hope it gets as much love as its preview !! tysm to carats and other multistans ^^~ if u liked reading this, drop me a follow, lets be moots !! and feel free to send in prompts of ur favorite idols to my inbox ~ i prioritize requests and they r always open !! have a nice day every1 !!!!!!!!!!

[cressidagrey]

A Pawfect Coincidence

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Margot Bonheur (Original Character)

Summary:

When Arthur Leclerc loses his brother’s emotionally codependent dachshund, he doesn’t just misplace a dog—he accidentally jumpstarts a full-blown Leclerc family crisis. Luckily, Leo is found by Margot Bonheur: local vet, egg chef extraordinaire, and the girl Charles Leclerc was once devastatingly in love with (and never quite got over).

Warnings and Notes: 

I am feeling so bad about bashing Charles in White Horse that I figured I needed a palate cleanser, so I pulled this out of the purgatory that are my Google Docs.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Arthur Leclerc was not in the habit of losing things.

Not his phone, not his keys, and definitely not his older brother’s ridiculously spoiled dachshund, who was currently - oh, merde—nowhere to be seen.

“Leo?” he called, spinning in a slow circle in the middle of the park, panic tightening his chest.

Ten seconds ago, everything had been fine. The sun was sinking, he’d taken a casual detour through Parc Princesse Antoinette, texting a friend back while Leo sniffed a patch of grass for the fifth time. Arthur had only looked away for a moment. A moment.

And now? No leash. No golden tail. No floppy ears. No dog.

Arthur cursed under his breath, scanning every path and hedge. He jogged toward the playground. Nothing. He doubled back to the fountain, heart rate climbing like he was doing qualifying laps in the rain. Still nothing.

“Leo!” he shouted again, louder this time, drawing a few curious glances from an elderly couple and a kid eating ice cream. “Leo, come on! This isn’t funny!”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Charles. Of course.

Charles: All good with Leo?

Arthur stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he shoved the phone back into his pocket, muttering, “I am never going to hear the end of this.”

Because he could already imagine it. Charles’ blank face when Arthur admitted he’d lost the dog. The slow, silent stare of older-sibling disappointment. The inevitable “I asked you for one thing.”

And worst of all—Leo. Leo, who adored Charles more than anyone else in the world, probably off charming some stranger into giving him treats or belly rubs while Arthur had a full-blown anxiety attack in the middle of a public park.

He jogged toward the exit, breath catching. “I swear to God, if I find you eating someone’s sandwich again—”

Nothing.

Just the rustle of leaves. The empty sidewalk. And the slowly dawning realization that Charles’ dog might actually be gone.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, frustration mixing with guilt in his chest.

He was so dead.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: I need you to swear on your life you won’t tell Charles.

Lorenzo: ...what did you do.

Arthur: Hypothetically If someone was walking Leo And he maybe slipped his harness And then vanished into thin air How bad would that be?

Lorenzo: Arthur. Where is Leo.

Arthur: THAT’S THE PROBLEM. I DON’T KNOW.

Lorenzo: You LOST Charles’ dog???

Arthur: No!!! I temporarily misplaced him. There’s a difference. (He’s very small and very fast and honestly too independent for his own good.)

Lorenzo: Do you want to die. Is that it. Is this a cry for help.

Arthur: Please. Help me. I can’t tell Charles. He trusted me. He said “don’t let him eat anything off the street.” He didn’t even think to say “don’t lose him” because he believed in me. And now Leo is GONE.

Lorenzo: Where are you?

Arthur: Parc Princesse Antoinette. I’ve done three laps. I checked the bushes. I even bribed a child with gelato to help me look.

Lorenzo: You bribed a child.

Arthur: WITH GELATO. I’M NOT A MONSTER.

Lorenzo: Okay. Breathe. Dogs like routine. Try retracing the walk. Call shelters. And vets. Someone might bring him in to check the chip.

Arthur: Do you think I should fake an injury so Charles pities me before I break the news?

Lorenzo: Try finding the dog first.

Arthur: Right. Right. Operation Find The Sausage is underway.

***

Arthur retraced his steps.

Twice.

He checked every corner of the park, the shaded paths, the trash bins—because Leo had zero shame when it came to half-eaten food. Nothing. No flash of caramel-colored fur, no jingling of a collar, no yappy bark announcing his tiny reign of chaos.

He even tried bribery. Again.

“Leo,” he called, crouching low with the last bite of a croissant he’d bought from the boulangerie around the corner. “If you come back now, I’ll give you the whole thing. No questions asked. No leash. No walk of shame.”

Silence. A pigeon stared at him, unimpressed.

Arthur groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “You’re not even my dog,” he muttered.

But that wasn’t true, not really. Leo wasn’t his dog, but Charles’ ridiculous little dachshund had somehow made himself part of the entire family. He’d wormed his way into Arthur’s life with stubby legs, sad eyes, and an inexplicable talent for finding the most expensive thing in the apartment to pee on.

Arthur pulled out his phone again, hovering over Charles’ name. His thumb wavered.

Don’t you dare tell him you lost Leo, his brain screamed. He’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll never let you walk him again.

And he really liked walking Leo. The little guy made strangers smile. Old ladies waved. Children asked to pet him. Once, a girl gave Arthur her number entirely because Leo was wearing a raincoat.

Now he was just a guy pacing a park, sweating through his T-shirt, muttering to himself like he’d lost his mind. Which, fair. He kind of had.

He circled back to the park gate for the third time when a flash of hope struck—a woman with a small dog!—but it wasn’t Leo. Just a fluffy Pomeranian in a pink harness who barked at Arthur like he’d insulted her personally.

“Not helping,” he muttered, stepping aside.

Maybe someone had found Leo. Maybe he was already somewhere safe. Maybe—please, please, please—someone would scan his chip and call Charles.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: It’s getting dark. I’ve checked the entire park. Twice. Then the neighborhood. Then the park again. Still no Leo.

Lorenzo: You haven’t found him at all?

Arthur: Unless he’s developed the ability to turn invisible—NO. I even asked a guy walking a chihuahua if he’d seen a dachshund. He asked if I was okay. I said no.

Lorenzo: You need to call Charles.

Arthur: No. Absolutely not. I will fake my own death before I tell Charles I lost his dog.

Lorenzo: Arthur. It’s LEO. You lost the love of his life. You think this isn’t going to end up in a group chat?

Arthur: I CAN FIX THIS. I just need a little more time. And maybe a tranquillizer dart.

Lorenzo: For Leo??

Arthur: For me. So I can stop panicking for five seconds.

Lorenzo: Okay. Deep breath. Have you called every vet in a 2km radius?

Arthur: Yes. One of them asked if I was crying.

Lorenzo: You're two hours in, and it’s getting late. If someone found him, they’ve probably taken him somewhere. You need to start thinking damage control.

Arthur: You mean like… buy Charles a new dog?

Lorenzo: Arthur. I will block you.

Arthur: Okay okay okay. I’ll call more vets.

Lorenzo: Good. And maybe prepare a will, just in case.

Arthur: Tell Maman I loved her. Tell Charles it was Arthur Jr.’s fault. That’s what I would’ve named the new dog.

***

Margot didn’t notice him at first.

Her hands were full—reusable bags weighed down with vegetables, pasta, a bottle of wine, and the fancy sheep’s cheese she only bought when she was having a day. The sun had long since disappeared behind the hills, the sky settling into a navy velvet dusk as she trudged home through the winding streets above the port.

She was thinking about the silence of her apartment. The way her keys still felt unfamiliar in the lock. The way everything in her life was still slightly off, like a puzzle someone had forced together with the wrong pieces.

And then she heard it.

A tiny, pitiful sneeze.

Margot turned instinctively, eyes scanning the dim sidewalk—and there, right at the edge of a crumbling stone wall, sat a dachshund. Small. Muddied. Trembling slightly.

“Mon dieu,” she whispered, kneeling immediately and setting her bags down. “What are you doing here?”

The dog blinked at her with glossy brown eyes, ears drooping dramatically, like a tragic Victorian heroine.

“No collar,” she murmured, reaching slowly. “No leash. You’ve clearly been on an adventure.”

The dog didn’t flinch when she touched him. He wagged his tail once. Then sneezed again.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s get you inside.”

She looked around—quiet street, no one calling out a name, no footsteps approaching. Whoever he belonged to, they weren’t nearby.

So Margot scooped him up, balancing him against her chest with one arm while gathering her groceries with the other, and started the climb to her apartment.

Her building wasn’t far. Second floor, no elevator, uneven tile floors that made the dachshund snort when she carried him inside. He shook himself out as soon as she set him down, spraying mud across her hallway rug like he was blessing the space.

“Charming,” she muttered, flicking on the bathroom light. “Alright, monsieur, bath time.”

He did not resist. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the warm water, letting her rinse the grime from his fur, soap away the stickiness from his paws. Margot caught herself smiling as she towel-dried him, wrapping him up like a burrito and murmuring nonsense in a voice she hadn’t used in… well, a long time.

It had been almost three months since she’d moved back to Monaco.

Not a dramatic return—no big announcement, no confetti, just a one-way train ticket from Toulouse and a job offer she hadn’t expected to say yes to.

She hadn’t planned on leaving. She loved Toulouse. The city had been hers in a way Monaco never had—full of light and bustle and purpose. She’d built something there. Friends. A job. A future.

A fiancé.

Her smile faded slightly as she rubbed the dog dry.

It still stung, the way it had ended. The too-calm conversation. The finality of the phrase “I think we want different things.” The way he’d packed up and moved out like they’d been roommates all along, not five years of love and shared groceries and weekend hikes.

Margot hadn’t told anyone the full story—not even her mother. Just said she needed a change. A new pace. A return to familiar streets, even if they no longer felt like home.

The dachshund gave a content sigh, now wrapped in a fresh towel, head resting on her thigh like he’d always belonged there.

Margot looked down at him and exhaled.

“Well,” she murmured. “You’re a good distraction.”

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: He’s still not back. It’s been hours. HOURS. What if someone took him? What if he joined a biker gang?

Lorenzo: Arthur. It’s past midnight.

Arthur: YES I KNOW. THE CLOCK IS MOCKING ME. Do you think I could set up one of those “MISSING DOG” posters?? Like old-school. With tabs and everything. “Answers to: Leo. Probably judging you.”

Lorenzo: I’m going to bed. Unless you are calling emergency services, do not text me again.

Arthur: What if he never comes back. What if I have to look Charles in the eye and say, “Sorry, your dog is now one with the Monaco shadows.”

Lorenzo: Did you eat dinner?

Arthur: I shared half a croissant with a pigeon earlier, does that count?

Lorenzo: No. You’re spiraling.

Arthur: I’m spiraling because Charles is going to MURDER me and use my body as a cautionary tale for Pierre or something.

Lorenzo: Arthur.

Arthur: WHAT IF HE THINKS I DID IT ON PURPOSE. What if he thinks I took Leo to emotionally sabotage him before a race weekend???

Lorenzo: What race weekend?

Arthur: I DON’T KNOW I PANICKED

Lorenzo: Eat something. Drink water. And stop pacing the same square kilometer like a cartoon.

Arthur: ...how did you know I was pacing?

Lorenzo: Because I know you. And because the last time you panicked this hard was when you lost your passport and it was in your pocket.

Arthur: Okay, that was ONE TIME and the pocket was weirdly deep.

Lorenzo: Look. If someone found him, they probably took him home. It’s late. Vets are closed. You’ll get a call in the morning.

Arthur: What if they don’t call? What if Leo decides he likes his new life better? What if he finds someone who gives him bacon without rules?

Lorenzo: Then you’ll be replaced. Which is fair.

Arthur: ...harsh. But valid.

Lorenzo: Go home, Arthur. Sleep. Or at least lie down and stare into the abyss like the rest of us.

Arthur: Fine. But if I die of guilt in the night, tell Charles I tried my best.

Lorenzo: I’ll tell him you wept nobly into a pile of posters with your own phone number misspelled.

Arthur: Okay that’s accurate.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Joris: Morning. Charles just asked me if you still have Leo. Can I tell him yes and get back to my already overbooked morning?

Arthur: So… funny story.

Joris: No. Absolutely not. I do not have time for a funny story. You either have the dog or you don’t.

Arthur: I don’t. I lost Leo.

Joris: WHAT. You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. Tell me this is a Leclerc brother prank. I knew I should’ve never let you all have a group chat.

Arthur: I’m not joking. He slipped out of his harness yesterday afternoon in the park. I’ve been searching all night. I didn’t even go home. I’ve walked more than I did during preseason training.

Joris: ARTHUR.

Arthur: I KNOW.

Joris: DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU’VE DONE??? You lost Leo. LEO.

Arthur: I am aware!!!

Joris: Leo is not just a dog. Leo is Charles’ everything right now. You lost the one source of unconditional love he has left since the breakup. The love of his life. The only thing he’s cared about since the breakup. THE DOG WHO HAS HIS OWN MONOGRAMMED TOWEL.

Arthur: Okay in my defense that towel thing is not normal.

Joris: YOU DON’T GET TO JUDGE THE TOWEL WHEN YOU LOST THE DOG.

Joris: He cried watching a dog food commercial three weeks ago. THREE. Leo is the only thing he trusts. Leo is the only one he lets spoon him when he's sad. You lost the love of his life.

Arthur: I didn’t mean to!! I was texting back and he—he just disappeared. It’s like he melted into the pavement!

Joris: Oh my god. Oh my god.

He trusted you.

He handed over his entire emotional support system and said, “don’t let him eat anything off the street.”

And you said, “Great, I’ll just lose him completely.”

Arthur:

I bribed a child with gelato to help search. I tried. Can we not tell him yet? Maybe someone scanned the chip. Maybe he’s safe somewhere!

Joris: I swear, if we find out someone found him and called the chip number and you just didn’t answer, I am personally putting your name on a “Do Not Trust with Pets” list.

Arthur: That’s fair.

Joris: And if someone does call and Leo is fine, I’m still going to be angry. Just less angry.

Arthur: Okay. Please tell me if he’s okay. And, like. Tell Charles gently?

Joris: Gently?? GENTLY??

Arthur: He likes you.

Joris: So did Leo. AND LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM.

***

Joris had delivered a lot of difficult news in his tenure as Charles Leclerc’s personal assistant.

Travel mishaps. Press obligations. The time a well-meaning sponsor wanted him to pose with a falcon for reasons no one could adequately explain.

But this?

This was worse.

He found Charles outside the simulator room, still in his race suit from that morning’s promo shoot, looking relaxed in that suspiciously unbothered way that only made Joris more tense.

“Hey,” Charles said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Everything okay?”

Joris took a breath. Then another. He held up a hand before Charles could get a word in.

“I need you to remember that you love your brother.”

Charles froze. “What?”

“Just—just hold that thought in your heart for a second,” Joris continued, voice strained, hands gesturing like he was conducting a symphony of impending doom. “Because the thing is, Arthur was walking Leo. And then… he wasn’t.”

Charles blinked. “What do you mean, wasn’t?”

“Leo ran off,” Joris said, with the grave tone of someone delivering a eulogy. “Arthur looked away for maybe thirty seconds. Boom. Gone. No leash. No collar. Just vibes.”

Charles straightened. “You’re telling me Arthur lost my dog?”

Joris winced. “Arthur was walking him yesterday. In the park. And, uh… Leo slipped his harness.”

Silence.

“He what,” Charles said, very quietly.

“He… bolted. Arthur says it happened fast. He’s been searching all night, didn’t even go home. He’s calling shelters and—”

Charles dropped the knife. “He lost my dog?”

Joris took a careful step back. “Temporarily misplaced.”

“Joris.”

“He ran off yesterday evening,” Joris said, hands up in surrender. “Slipped his harness while Arthur was texting in the park. He’s been searching all night. I got the full unhinged confession this morning.”

Charles looked like someone had just unplugged him. All the light behind his eyes dimmed. “Leo has been gone since yesterday?”

“I didn’t know either,” Joris rushed to say. “Arthur didn’t tell me until an hour ago because he was apparently too busy bribing children and interrogating chihuahuas—don’t ask.”

“He lost Leo,” Charles repeated, voice rising. “He lost the only thing in my life that hasn’t let me down in the last six months.”

And there it was.

Joris had been waiting for the breakup to surface again, quietly lurking under every tired sigh, every too-long pause in conversation. Charles hadn’t spoken about her in weeks, but he also hadn’t not spoken about her. He’d just… poured all of it into Leo. Every bit of softness, every ounce of trust.

And now Leo was gone.

“He’s okay,” Joris said quickly. “Probably. He has a chip. He’s smart. And Arthur’s already filed a report and left his number everywhere.”

Charles sat down heavily on the kitchen stool, one hand running over his face.

“I knew it,” he said hoarsely. “I knew Arthur wasn’t ready. He doesn’t even like mornings. Leo’s entire personality is built around 6:45 a.m.”

“I think he genuinely thought he was doing a good job,” Joris offered. “Like… mostly.”

Charles didn’t respond. Just stared at the floor like it had personally betrayed him.

“He has a monogrammed towel,” he said suddenly, like remembering a lost heirloom. “He sleeps in my bed. He knows how to open the fridge.”

Joris nodded solemnly. “I know. You trained him well.”

“And now he’s alone somewhere. Scared. Probably judging someone else’s cooking.”

There was a long beat. Then Charles’s voice cracked—just a little, just enough.

“I can’t lose him too.”

Joris’s heart ached. He stepped forward, softer this time.

“We’re going to find him. I promise.”

Charles gave a slow nod, silent. His eyes were glassy, and he looked young—too young for the heartbreak in his voice.

***

Group Chat: Leclerc Brothers

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo) 

Charles: So. I just spoke to Joris.

Arthur: 🥲

Charles: Tell me that this is some elaborate, deeply stupid prank and Leo is curled up in your apartment right now, wearing his stupid hoodie and judging your coffee table choices.

Arthur: I wish it was. I really, really do. Charles I swear, it happened so fast. I looked away for one second and he was gone. I’ve been searching all night. I didn’t sleep. I filed reports. I called every vet and shelter.

Charles: You lost him yesterday. And didn’t say anything until this morning.

Arthur: I panicked. I thought I could find him before you noticed. Lorenzo told me not to fake a leg injury to get your sympathy, if that helps?

Lorenzo: To be clear, I said that was a bad idea.

Charles: Leo is not just a dog. He’s not a weekend errand or a plant you forget to water. He’s mine. He’s family. He’s the only thing I’ve had that didn’t leave when things got hard.

Arthur: I know. And I’m sorry. Really, truly sorry.

Charles: I trusted you.

Arthur: I didn’t mean to break that. Please believe me.

Lorenzo: He does. He’s just scared right now. We all are.

Charles: If anything happens to him— I don’t know what I’ll do. He’s been the only thing keeping me grounded since everything fell apart.

Arthur: We’re going to find him. I swear it. Even if I have to knock on every door in Monaco and personally interview every dog.

Charles: He knows how to open the fridge, Arthur. You lost a genius.

Lorenzo: Let’s focus. No blame right now. Only action.

Charles: Joris is handling it. Of course. Because Joris always handles what we break.

Arthur: …do I send him flowers?

Charles: Send him a new spine. He probably needs one after carrying our chaos for five years.

Lorenzo: Okay, but seriously—Charles. We will get him back. And when we do, I’m buying that dog a GPS tracker, a backup GPS tracker, and probably a bodyguard.

Arthur: I already picked out a name. Sir Barkalot.

Charles: If I wasn't so emotionally ruined I’d block you.

Arthur: Fair.

Charles: I just want him home.

***

Sunlight streamed through the gauzy curtains, catching on the dust motes in the air and casting soft gold across the hardwood floor. Somewhere outside, a gull screamed at an unreasonable hour, and a scooter rattled down the street, but Margot barely stirred.

She rolled over, blinking sleep from her eyes, the quiet weight of morning settling gently over her shoulders. For a moment, she forgot about everything—about Monaco, about the clinic, about the fact that her life had recently undergone a full-scale emotional implosion.

And then she registered the sound. Not her alarm. Not traffic.

Snuffling.

She squinted down toward the end of the bed.

There, curled up like a smug croissant in the exact center of her duvet, was a caramel coloured dachshund.

Sprawled out on his back, paws in the air, snoring softly, utterly shameless.

Margot groaned, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “You did not start the night there.”

The dog gave a lazy tail thump in response but made no move to vacate the space.

“Oh, I see. You’ve claimed the bed. This is your apartment now,” she muttered, sitting up and stretching.

She padded barefoot into the kitchen,and flicked the switch on the coffee machine. As the familiar hum filled the space, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

The dog trotted in a moment later, completely at ease, and went straight to the spot in front of the window where the morning sun hit just right. He flopped down with a grunt of satisfaction.

Margot stared at him.

“You’ve been here eight hours,” she said. “Eight. You’ve already decided on a sunbathing spot?”

He blinked at her. Yawned. Rolled onto his side and looked deeply unconcerned about the fact that he’d technically been lost less than a day ago.

She crouched beside him. “You know, if you were a person, this would be deeply invasive. Just showing up in someone’s life, taking a bath, stealing the blanket, and claiming the best corner of the apartment.”

The dog offered her a single, slow blink. Margot sighed.

“…but you’re not a person,” she added, rubbing behind his ears. “You’re a spoiled little drama queen with big eyes and too much charm. No wonder someone’s probably out there crying over you.”

Margot watched him for a moment, her heart doing that soft little squeeze it hadn’t done in a while.

He didn’t seem stressed. Or scared. He wasn’t pacing or barking or trying to claw at the door. He was just… here. Cozy. Safe. Like this was temporary housing on his luxury tour of Monaco.

“Okay,” she murmured, “Let’s see if I have anything fit for a prince.”

She dug through the fridge—cheese, eggs, leftover roast chicken—and eventually settled on plain scrambled eggs. Just a little. No salt. Vet-approved. She plated them onto a saucer.

The dachshund sniffed the offering when she set it down on the kitchen floor, tilted his head like he was evaluating her taste level, then devoured it.

“Right,” Margot said. “A culinary success.”

He licked the plate clean and then followed her back into the living room, where he jumped up onto the couch like he paid rent. He curled into the throw blanket she’d left bunched in the corner, eyes half-lidded, already preparing for nap number three.

Margot leaned against the kitchen counter and watched him with a strange tightness in her chest.

He looked like he belonged there. Too easily. Too naturally. Like he’d decided she passed whatever secret dachshund test he’d run last night and now this was his summer home.

And Margot—who hadn’t expected to feel anything but detached competence and maybe a vague professional curiosity—felt something else entirely.

She felt… lighter.

Not fixed. Not whole. But not quite as adrift.

“I can’t keep you,” she said quietly, to no one and only him. “You definitely have someone. And they’re probably losing their mind.”

The dog, naturally, said nothing.

He simply sighed and closed his eyes, like he had all the time in the world.

Margot stared at him for a long moment.

She hesitated. Then added, “But if not… you can stay a little longer.”

***

The clinic smelled faintly of lavender and disinfectant, the way it always did first thing in the morning—clean, calm, full of potential chaos that hadn’t yet arrived.

Margot pushed through the door with a reusable tote slung over one shoulder, and the dachshund’s head poking around like that was a completely normal mode of transportation for him. 

“Uh-oh,” Céline called from reception, raising an eyebrow as she spotted them. “You’ve brought in backup.”

“Temporary guest,” Margot said, lifting her hand in greeting. “Found him last night. No collar. Took him home so he wouldn’t end up in traffic or under a Vespa.”

“He’s adorable,” Céline said, already standing up to lean over the counter. “What breed is he? Besides ‘absolute heartthrob.’”

“Dachshund,” Margot replied dryly. “Clearly spoiled. Possibly royalty.”

“I mean, look at him,” Céline whispered as Margot lifted the dog onto the floor. He strutted across the waiting room and flopped into a sunbeam like he was taking a press photo.

Within ten minutes, he’d made the rounds of the break room, had a staff member attempt to make him a tiny paper crown from post-it notes, and somehow convinced the vet tech intern to feed him a single piece of chicken from her sandwich.

Margot watched it all happen with an expression of pure disbelief. “He’s been here twenty minutes.”

“He’s got it,” one of the techs whispered. “Like… star power.”

“I think he winked at me,” another muttered.

Margot rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

She finally herded the dachshund into an exam room, gently lifting him onto the table. “Okay, rockstar. Let’s figure out who you are.”

He wagged his tail, smug as ever.

She grabbed the scanner from the wall, swept it slowly over his neck, and waited for the beep.

Beep.

“Good boy,” she said absently, turning to the screen.

The name appeared.

She froze.

LEO — Owner: Charles Leclerc. Contact: +33 —

Margot’s breath caught.

Her fingers hovered above the screen.

No.

No. There was no way.

She read it again.

Charles Leclerc.

She stared at the name, the familiar rhythm of it.

The Charles Leclerc.

As in, Formula One driver. Ferrari. International star.

Of course this was his dog.

Of course this smug, emotionally manipulative, blanket-stealing loaf belonged to him.

To Charles.

As in, the boy she’d kissed under the bleachers behind the tennis courts when she was sixteen. The boy who’d held her hand at the Monaco Grand Prix and whispered that one day, he’d be the one on the podium. The boy she’d cried over for at least three months after they broke up because “life was getting too busy.”

The boy who—apparently—now owned a dachshund named Leo.

“Oh,” she said faintly.

Leo looked up at her and thumped his tail, as if he knew.

Of course he knew.

Because the universe had a twisted sense of humor.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

***

The phone rang just as Joris was mid-scroll through yet another email chain titled “RE: RE: RE: URGENT: Helmet Sponsor Placement Issue.”

He didn’t recognize the number. Monaco area code. That wasn’t unusual—his number was attached to everything from Leo’s microchip registry to Charles’ old tennis club membership.

Still, he hesitated. Then answered, already bracing himself for some kind of insurance call or dog-related ransom demand.

“Bonjour, Joris Trouche speaking.”

There was a pause.

Then: “Hi, um—Joris? It’s Margot. Margot Bonheur.”

Joris blinked.

Margot Bonheur?

He sat up straighter, every neuron in his brain suddenly pinging like a crash at turn one.

“Wait. Margot Margot?”

She gave a slightly breathless laugh. “I… think so? We went to lycée together.”

“Oh my god,” Joris said, stunned. 

There was a short pause. Then a soft voice, low and slightly tentative: “You don’t happen to be missing a dachshund named Leo, do you?”

Joris sat up straight. “You found Leo?”

“Uh, yes. Last night. He sort of… found me, really. He was wandering near Rue Bel Respiro, no collar. I took him home for the night.”

Joris covered the phone’s mouthpiece and mouthed holy shit to the empty office. Then he cleared his throat. “Is he okay?”

“Perfectly fine. He had a bath, has been sleeping, eating scrambled eggs, sunbathing, and judging me silently ever since he woke up.”

Joris huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s him.”

There was a beat of quiet on the line. The kind of silence that stretched just long enough to mean something.

Then Margot said softly, “He’s yours, then?”

Joris’s mouth twitched. “No. He’s Charles’.”

Another pause.

“Ah,” she said. Barely a whisper. “Of course he is.”

Joris leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking toward the ceiling like he might spot the ghost of Monaco high school past hovering above him.

Charles and Margot.

God. He hadn’t thought about that in years. The school hallway hand-holding. The shy smiles.

Margot Bonheur. Margot with the laugh that made Charles forget how to speak in full sentences. Margot who wore oversized cardigans, tied her hair with ribbons, and absolutely ruined Charles for other teenage girls.

Sixteen-year-old Charles, gangly and earnest and completely gone for a girl with curly hair and a laugh that cracked through his walls like sunlight.

Sixteen-year-old Charles, biking all the way across town with a melted chocolate bar in July because he’d heard Margot had a bad day.

Charles, heart-eyed and hopeless, telling Joris at least three times a week, “I think she’s the one, you know?”

And then the silence. The breakup.

Racing had come calling, and Charles—still a boy, really—had chosen speed over stability, pressure over presence. Not because he didn’t love her. Because he did, too much, and thought she deserved better than goodbyes over phone calls and promises he couldn’t keep.

It was the only time Joris had seen Charles cry in a hotel hallway. No cameras. Just him and a cracked iPhone screen with her name still at the top of his pinned messages.

And now?

Now she’d found his dog.

In Monaco.

At a time when Charles was still nursing emotional wounds, pretending he wasn’t sad, and sleeping curled around that ridiculous dachshund like Leo was a weighted blanket for his soul.

Joris stared at the desk.

The universe didn’t send you things like this for no reason.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “He’ll be relieved. He’s been—look, let’s just say the household emotional stability has been tied directly to that dog’s continued existence.”

Margot made a small sound, part sympathetic and part amused. “I figured. He looked very loved.”

“He is. But also? High maintenance. Like his owner.”

Another pause. He could practically hear her raised eyebrow through the line.

“I’ll text you the address,” she said eventually, voice quieter. “I’ll be at the clinic most of the day. You or Charles can come by whenever.”

“Thank you, really,” Joris said. “This means a lot.”

When the call ended, Joris didn’t move for a moment.

Then he stood, walked to Charles’ door, and knocked.

This was going to be interesting.

And if—if—it led to something more?

Well.

He wouldn’t meddle.

Not directly.

But he also wasn’t above “accidentally” scheduling Charles to pick up Leo himself.

***

Charles was halfway through pacing the length of his hotel room for the fourth time when the knock came.

He turned sharply, the pent-up worry already pushing at his chest like pressure before a storm.

“Oui?”

Joris opened the door, face unreadable. “Good news,” he said.

Charles blinked. “You found him?”

“We didn’t,” Joris said. “But someone did.”

The world tilted slightly. His breath caught. “Wait—he’s okay?”

“He’s more than okay,” Joris said. “He was found last night. Someone took him in. He’s safe, healthy, probably being pampered as we speak.”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, barely processing the words. His knees actually went a little weak, and he leaned against the doorframe. “You’re sure?”

Joris nodded. “I spoke to the person directly. They found him near Rue Bel Respiro. No injuries. Fed him scrambled eggs.”

Charles let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “He loves scrambled eggs.”

“I know,” Joris said, softer now. “He’s okay. You can breathe again.”

Charles pressed his hand to his chest like he needed to check that his heart was still there. “I thought—I thought maybe he got out of the city. Or worse. I didn’t know what to do, Joris.”

He nodded, too many thoughts tumbling around in his head. Leo. Safe. Leo, who he’d been picturing lying under a car or lost in some alley. Leo, who had become more than just a dog—his anchor, his post-breakup coping mechanism, the one living being who never asked for anything but a lap and a few treats.

His eyes stung. He scrubbed a hand over them.

“I know,” Joris repeated. “It’s handled. You can pick him up when we’re back in Monaco this evening.”

Charles closed his eyes for a second, letting it sink in. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “He’s really okay?”

“Completely,” Joris confirmed. “He’s just waiting for you.”

Charles looked away, blinking hard. “I thought—I kept thinking about the road. Or if someone tried to take him. Or if he was scared and cold—”

“He wasn’t,” Joris said gently. “Apparently, he made himself at home. Shocker.”

Charles let out a weak laugh, finally sitting down. “God. I feel like an idiot. I should have never let Arthur take him out.”

“No argument there,” Joris muttered.

A pause.

Then Joris added, voice casual: “Oh, and maybe don’t wear that hoodie when you go to pick him up.”

Charles frowned. “Why?”

Joris sipped his espresso. “Just a feeling.”

***

Group Chat: Disaster Mitigation Team

 Members: Joris, Lorenzo, Arthur

Joris: Update: Leo is SAFE. Found last night. Someone took him home, gave him a bath, scrambled eggs, and emotionally supported him through what I assume was a dramatic 12 hours. He’s completely fine. A little smug, but fine.

Arthur: OH THANK GOD. I’m not going to be disowned??? I can come out of hiding???

Lorenzo: Where was he?

Joris: Wandering near Rue Bel Respiro. A vet found him. Took him home for the night.

Lorenzo: This is the best news I’ve heard all week. Tell me who found him so I can send them a fruit basket and/or a handwritten apology.

Joris: …you’re going to want to sit down for this.

Arthur: Bro if you say it was someone from Ferrari PR I will actually combust

Joris: It was Margot.

Arthur: ...

Lorenzo: ...

Arthur: As in Margot Bonheur??

Joris: That would be the one.

Lorenzo: As in “Charles’ teenage girlfriend” Margot?

Arthur: As in “the only girl Charles ever wrote poetry for and then immediately denied it” Margot??

Joris: Yes. THAT Margot.

Arthur: NO WAY. Margot who used to make Charles forget how to speak?? Margot who literally ended all his teen crushes after 2012??

Lorenzo: Margot who knew how to shut him up with one look? That Margot?

Arthur: This is cinematic.

Lorenzo: This is fate.

Joris: I’m not saying I’m thinking about matchmaking but …I’m thinking about matchmaking.

Arthur: YES. FINALLY. She was the best of all of them. And she liked us. Remember when she brought cookies to family lunch and Maman asked if we could keep her?

Joris: The very same. Vet now. Back in Monaco. And apparently, Leo has chosen her as his new emotional support human.

Arthur: She was always my favorite. Honestly, best of all his exes. No contest. 10/10. Would support a redemption arc.

Lorenzo: Same.

Joris: I’m not saying I’m plotting anything. But I may have strategically left out her name when I told him he could pick Leo up tonight. Just… letting fate cook a little.

Arthur: Oh my GOD you’re playing the long game. I’m so proud.

Lorenzo: We support this. You have our blessing. 

Arthur: If they get back together, I’m taking credit. Even though I lost Leo in the first place. Especially because of that.

Joris: Focus, gentlemen. Tonight, Charles picks up Leo. From Margot. Let’s just see what happens.

Lorenzo: You want us on standby?

Joris: No interference. No chaos. Let them talk. Let the dog do his work.

 We may be watching the start of something ridiculous.

Arthur: Or something really, really good.

***

The clinic looked ordinary from the outside—white stone, blue shutters, a potted plant wilting just slightly in the sun. The kind of place you wouldn’t look at twice unless you had a limping retriever or a cat with dietary issues.

Charles had passed it before. Years ago. He hadn’t remembered until he stood outside the door, hand hovering over the handle, heart thudding with the kind of nervous energy he usually reserved for a final lap in the wet.

He wasn’t sure why he felt so anxious. Leo was safe. That’s what mattered.

And yet—he couldn’t shake it.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen Leo in two days. Maybe it was because this whole week had felt like a slow unraveling. Maybe it was because he’d been forced to confront the terrifying truth that he’d built his emotional stability on a dachshund with judgmental eyebrows.

He pushed open the door.

The bell above chimed.

Inside, it smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender. Soft music played overhead. The waiting room was empty, save for a sleepy golden retriever stretched out across the floor tiles and an older man flipping through a dog breed calendar like it contained state secrets.

He wasn’t sure why he was nervous.

It was a veterinary clinic, not a press conference. He wasn’t here to face a grid of rivals or answer uncomfortable questions about tyre strategy or heartbreak.

He was just here for Leo.

That should’ve been it.

But his palms were sweating, and there was something tight in his chest he hadn’t been able to shake since the moment Joris said, “She found him last night.”

She.

He hadn’t asked questions. He’d been too focused on the relief of knowing Leo was safe. Alive. Fed. Unbothered.

But now?

Now, something about the quiet warmth of the waiting room made his heart stutter.

“Bonjour,” a receptionist called from behind the desk. “Can I help you?”

Charles pulled off his sunglasses. “I’m here for Leo. Someone brought him in this morning?”

“Oh! Yes, he’s in the back. Quite the charmer you have there, Mr. Leclerc. Margo found him yesterday. He’s still with Dr. Bonheur. She said to send you through.”

Dr. Bonheur.

Charles blinked.

The name hit like a gear shift slamming into place.

No.

He didn’t move right away—just stood there, rooted to the tile floor, as if his body hadn’t caught up with the memory. The receptionist gestured politely to the hallway, but her voice felt distant, muffled.

Margot Bonheur.

The girl who used to tuck daisy stems behind her ears. The girl who gave him her library card because he kept forgetting his. The girl he’d tried so hard not to look up after the breakup, because he knew he wouldn’t like the feeling if he saw her happy without him.

The girl he hadn’t seen in years.

And she’d found Leo?

Of course she had.

Of course it was her.

Because fate didn’t tap you on the shoulder. It threw your dog into the arms of your teenage heartbreak and waited to see what you’d do next.

Charles swallowed hard and walked toward the back hallway, feet moving before his brain could catch up.

The door to the exam room was ajar.

He pushed it open gently.

And there she was.

Margot stood with her back to him, crouched beside a small exam table where Leo sat like an unbothered loaf. She was tying a bandana around his neck—a soft green one that made him look outrageously smug. The same springy curls. The same soft concentration in her movements. She hadn’t changed.

And then she turned.

Their eyes met.

And for a moment, the world tilted.

Margot blinked. “Oh.”

Charles opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She gave a slow, cautious smile. “Hi, Charles.”

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

Memories rushed in uninvited—bike rides and beach afternoons, shared earphones on the school bus, her handwriting on the corner of his notes. And that goodbye. That stupid, quiet, I don’t want to make you choose kind of goodbye.

Charles couldn’t speak.

He was sixteen again, sunburned and awkward and head over heels. He was seventeen and heartbroken. He was eighteen and too busy pretending he didn’t still think about her. And now he was… what, exactly?

Margot didn’t look away.

She stood, slow and steady, wiping her hands on the hem of her white coat, as if grounding herself in the motion. She looked older, yes—but not in a bad way. She looked like someone who’d lived through things and come out steadier for it.

Leo gave a grunt, apparently offended by being forgotten in the middle of his reunion fanfare, and thumped his tail once against the exam table.

That was what broke the silence.

Charles finally let out a shaky laugh, stepping fully into the room. “He looks like he owns the place.”

Margot smiled softly, folding her arms. “He acted like it. Claimed my couch, my blanket, and the best sunspot in the apartment before I’d even finished putting my groceries away.”

“I believe it,” Charles said, crouching beside Leo. The moment he touched the dachshund’s fur, something in him cracked wide open. “I thought I lost him. I thought—”

“I know,” Margot said gently. “I figured someone would be looking. He’s… unforgettable.”

Charles let his hand rest on Leo’s back. “He’s been everything. These last few months… it’s been hard.”

She didn’t press. She never had.

“I’m glad he found you,” he said finally, lifting his eyes to hers. “I mean—really. Thank you.”

Margot looked at him for a long, quiet beat. “I wasn’t expecting you to walk through that door.”

“Me neither.” He stood slowly. “When Joris said someone found him… I didn’t ask who. I should’ve.”

“Would you have come if you had?” she asked, not accusing, just curious.

Charles met her gaze. “Yeah. I would’ve.”

Her lips curved, a little surprised. A little knowing.

There was a silence, comfortable and awkward all at once. The kind of silence that could only exist between two people who used to know each other completely and now didn’t know how to begin again.

“I heard you were back,” he said eventually. “From my mum, I think. Or someone in town.”

Margot nodded. “Three months ago. I’m working here full time.”

“That’s… that’s good.” Charles shifted his weight. “Toulouse wasn’t forever?”

“No,” she said, quiet. “It was good. Until it wasn’t.”

He understood that far too well.

“Well,” she said, patting Leo’s head, “your prince is in one piece. Clean, fed, slightly spoiled.”

“Always has been.” Charles hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pulled out Leo’s leash. “Can I… take him?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “Though he might pout for a while. I think he liked my eggs.”

Charles bent down, clipping the leash onto Leo’s harness as the dachshund made a snuffling noise of vague disapproval. “I can’t believe you cooked for him.”

“I was trying to win him over,” Margot said. “Turns out he’s an easy bribe.”

Charles glanced up, and for the first time, he smiled. Not the tired, strained smile he’d been wearing lately—but something warmer. Real.

“Can I walk you out?” he asked. “Just… for old time’s sake?”

Margot paused.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

***

Outside, the sunlight hit the street in soft amber as they stepped out together, Leo strutting ahead of them like a celebrity returning from a five-star vacation.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, their footsteps slow and in sync.

“You look well,” she said finally.

“You too,” he answered, and meant it.

Another pause.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said. “For back then. For how I ended things.”

Margot looked over, surprised. “That was a long time ago.”

“Still,” he said. “I never said it. And I should have.”

She looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then: “Thank you.”

They reached the corner. Leo stopped, sniffed a bush like it owed him money, and flopped down dramatically on the warm pavement.

Margot laughed. “You may need to carry him. He’s decided he’s done.”

Charles crouched again, scooping Leo up effortlessly. “You really took care of him.”

“I was glad to,” she said.

Their eyes met again.

“Margot,” he said, quietly. “Would you—maybe sometime—want to catch up properly?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Like dinner?”

“Or coffee,” he said quickly. “Or a walk. Or, I don’t know. Something.”

She tilted her head, considering him. “Are you asking for you, or for Leo?”

Charles gave a sheepish smile. “Both.”

Margot bit back a grin. “Then maybe.”

Charles smiled back, a little stunned. A little hopeful.

And Leo—smug, full, and freshly bathed—closed his eyes in Charles’ arms, perfectly content.

***

Group Chat: Leclercs & Logistics

 Members: Lorenzo, Arthur, Joris, Charles

Arthur:DID YOU GET HIM???? IS HE OKAY?? IS HE MAD AT ME??

Lorenzo: Photos. Now. I need visual confirmation of the sausage prince’s wellbeing.

Joris: Are you still breathing or do we need to send a second emotional support animal to your location?

Charles: Yes, Leo is back. No, I didn’t cry. Yes, I nearly did.

Arthur: Tell him I love him. Also tell him I’m sorry and that I accept any form of punishment he deems fit.

Lorenzo: Start with a restraining order and work from there.

Joris: And how was Margot?

Charles:Yeah—about that. You could’ve warned me, Joris.

Joris: Warned you about what?

Charles: THAT MARGOT FOUND LEO. You let me walk in there unprepared, like it was any other Tuesday! I could’ve had a heart attack! Or worse—said something weird!

Joris: I believe I said, “someone found him.” That is technically true. I just didn’t say who the someone was.

Charles: YOU LEFT OUT CRUCIAL INFORMATION Like the fact that my teenage heartbreak was about to hand me back my dog.

Arthur: Did a breeze catch in her hair at just the right moment? Was Leo smug about it??

Charles: Yes to both. He refused to leave until she said goodbye. And she tied a stupid little green bandana around his neck that somehow makes him look even more entitled. It was… weird. Familiar. Like nothing changed, but everything had.

Lorenzo: So basically: cinematic.

Joris: So… how did it feel seeing her again?

Charles: Like getting the wind knocked out of me and then immediately wrapped in a warm blanket. She was Margot. Still Margot.

Arthur: CHARLES. ARE YOU IN LOVE AGAIN??

Charles: I never really stopped.

Lorenzo: Oh.

Arthur: OH.

Arthur:Did you ask her out?!?!

Joris:Are we preparing for a slow-burn second-chance narrative?!

Charles: I asked if she wanted to catch up sometime. She said maybe.

Arthur: A MAYBE IS A YES IN DENIAL

Lorenzo: A maybe is the foundation of hope. I approve.

Joris: I’m scheduling you both for a casual Leo-themed coffee run in two days. Nothing obvious. We’re letting the tension simmer.

Arthur: You’re terrifying.

Joris: I’m efficient.

Charles: You’re all insane.

Lorenzo: And yet here you are. Smiling at your phone like a lovesick teenager again.

Joris: We’re not rushing this. No chaos. We give them space. Let Leo work his magic.

Arthur: Can I at least put together a playlist??

Charles: You’re all insane.

Joris: Yes. And we love you. Now take that dog home, feed him something outrageously expensive, and start planning your next casual run-in with Monaco’s most emotionally significant veterinarian.

Lorenzo: I’m so proud. 🥹

Arthur: Tell Leo he’s getting a new raincoat. Embroidered. “Wingman of the Year.”

Charles: He deserves it.

***

Margot had no idea why she was nervous.

It was just coffee.

With her ex-boyfriend.

Her first boyfriend. The one who used to blush when their hands brushed and left flowers in her locker with absolutely illegible notes. The one who broke her heart the way only someone young and kind and convinced he was doing the right thing could

 And now… he was sitting at a tiny café table across from her, stirring sugar into his cappuccino like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like it hadn’t been years.

Like he hadn’t shown up at the clinic two days ago looking like he’d lost his entire world—until Leo launched himself into Charles’ arms, and then everything shifted. Warmth. Relief. Something deeper that still hummed under her skin if she thought about it too long.

“So…” Charles said, glancing up with a shy sort of smile. “I feel like we should start with something safe. Like weather. Or Leo’s digestive schedule.”

Margot snorted into her mug. “It’s Monaco. The weather is always smug. And Leo’s digestive schedule appears to involve manipulating humans into feeding him eggs.”

“I knew that smug face meant he was being spoiled,” Charles muttered, mock-affronted.

She leaned her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. “He was a perfect gentleman. Demanding, slightly judgy, but charming.”

“So basically me at seventeen.”

That made her laugh. “You were never demanding.”

He shrugged, a little sheepish. “Maybe not out loud. But I was kind of... all-in. With you.”

That stilled something in her chest.

She didn’t look away.

“I was too,” she said quietly.

There was a pause—gentle and heavy in equal measure. The little café noise hummed around them: clinking glasses, a scooter rattling by, someone’s dog barking at a pigeon.

Charles cleared his throat, voice softer now. “I’ve thought about reaching out. Before.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He gave her a small, honest smile. “Because I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me. And… I didn’t know if I was someone you’d be glad to hear from.”

She sat with that for a moment. The honesty of it. The way it didn’t sting, because it wasn’t said to wound.

“I was angry,” she admitted. “Back then. Not because you left. I got it. But because I kept waiting for you to stop choosing everything else first.”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said. “From the chaos. From me, honestly.”

“I never needed protecting,” she said. “I just wanted honesty.”

Their eyes met. This time, there was something calmer there. Grounded.

“I’m not seventeen anymore,” he said. “I can’t promise I’ll be less chaotic. But I know how to show up now.”

Margot’s lips curved slowly. “Even if I burn the eggs next time?”

He grinned. “Especially then. I feel like Leo would riot otherwise.”

She laughed again, warmth blooming in her chest. “Well. In that case…”

“In that case,” Charles echoed, brushing his fingers against the edge of her mug, just barely, “maybe this doesn’t have to be just coffee.”

Margot looked at him, really looked. And saw not just the boy he was—but the man sitting in front of her now. Tired, maybe. Bruised by life a little. But open. Trying.

And hers, maybe, if she wanted him to be again.

“Maybe it doesn’t,” she said.

And across the city,  snoring on Charles’ couch, Leo Leclerc dreamed smug little dreams of eggs, sunbeams, and the chaos he’d orchestrated to make this happen.

[luludeluluramblings]

Socialite!BatSis!Reader x Yandere!Bat Family - Part Two

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Part One

A/N: I don't know if this will live up to the last one. But, the BatFamily is now going to deal with the consequences of their own actions. This is where we get Bruce and Barbara's POVs on the matter.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Warning: Start of Yandere spiral, Implied past Assault/SA, Fem!Reader, Reader is coping in the only way the known how.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

You had no recollection of falling asleep the night before. But, when you woke up in your own bed late in the morning, you laid there for a while blankly.

Thoughts of laughter, flames, and the echo of a princess's name in your head. Although you quickly reminded yourself that Cinderella wasn't ever really a princess. She was a noble and she had work to do. Just like you.

Ignoring the empty drawers spaces of your vintage wood dresser was easy. It wasn't like it had belonged in the family for generations. It was just something Bruce bought for you when your designer clothes took up too much space in the old one you brought with you from your childhood home. The drawers had broken on it from being stuffed with items your team of stylist insisted you needed. And, now you wonder if Bruce had ever gotten your old one fixed. Probably not.

You shook your head of the thoughts. Moving into your spacious closet filled with empty coat hangers. You hadn't thrown your shoes in the fire last night, but looking at the bloody red bottoms on some of the heels made you wish you had. But, you can't be Cinderella if you have no shoes.

Shaking your head again and again of the thoughts that plague your mind. You really are Cinderella though. And, you have work to do.

Throwing on one of the more casual designer outfits - you would have laughed at the thought once, you begin your routine for the day. Scrubbing everything away in the shower as you exfoliate every bit of skin that had been touched and every stray bit of ash that had clung to your skin.

Then beginning your much too long skin care routine. You made sure to play some music to help the complex task that your highly skilled and highly paid team of dermatologist told you was an absolute must. With expensive creams and odd chemicals that once made your skin burn, but now you seemed to depend on. You miss the beef tallow your mother insisted worked better than anything. But, it wasn't vegan. So it had to go. It's not like half your shoes and handbags weren't made from real leather.

You shake the thought again. Always shake it away. Even as you mouth the lyrics to the random song playing.

Go and fix your make up, girl, it's just a break up

Run and hide your crazy and start actin' like a lady

'Cause I raised you better, gotta keep it together

Even when you fall apart

But this ain't my mama's broken heart

The chorus echoes in your head as you wash away the oils and lather on the creams. Slowly you apply the makeup to your tired eyes as you start to make yourself look human again.

Powder your nose, paint your toes

Line your lips and keep 'em closed

Cross your legs, dot your eyes

And never let 'em see you cry

The smile you give the mirror after everything is said and done, primped and polished, should win you an Oscar. But, thankfully you don't have to deal with anything like that for a few more months. The season has just ended and you needed to contact your stylist about a new wardrobe for this coming one.

Go and fix your make up, well it's just a break up

Run and hide your crazy and start actin' like a lady

'Cause I raised you better, gotta keep it together

Even when you fall apart

But this ain't my mama's broken heart

Your hum as you move down stairs. Time to gag on that collagen and green juice concoction before going to the spa. Not to relax. No, you had to pretend last night wore you out, and it did. But, socialites can only relax if they spend money. Them is the rules. Oh, wait. You're not supposed to talk like that anymore. Better shake that thought away.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Bruce was used to long nights of no sleep. Of being beaten by criminals and his own demons. Sometimes he'd even have bruises from his own children littering his skin. Either from missions gone wrong or a training session gone right.

But, the scars you left on him last night. The way you tore him to shreds and wailed. The bruises on your skin. Those would haunt him.

You were the delicate one. But, he didn't know how to handle delicate things. He just knew how to give things purpose. And, so he did. Placing you at his side to face the Gotham elites had been a genius move, he had once thought. It freed up Tim, who had been his primary asset in the field. It kept Damian from harming some of the more aggravating members of high society. And, he knew the other's lack of interest in the events and the people you make pulling teeth a more pleasant experience.

Additionally, you were utterly charming. How could you not be? You didn't even get it from him. You clearly had gotten it from your mother and everyday he had been grateful for it. Her features blending with his own mother's had made you. His sweet girl.

He can recall the times in the Bat Cave when no one was around and he'd give in to that temptation. The one where he'd justify checking in on you and your mother. And, ignoring that other man.

The smiles and laughter, it all was foreign to him. The landscape foreign. The house foreign. But, deep down he knew you where his. Always his. He had many regrets. Letting your mother raise you wasn't one of them. Letting her go? Maybe. But, he desperately avoided lingering on it.

Right now, sitting in the Bat Cave and seeing the damage the others had sown across Gotham in a wave of crime so violent, great, and terrible that people didn't even connect it back to the very protectors of this city; Bruce regretted leaving you to handle it. You had done it so beautifully. But, he needed his little girl back. He had gifted you to Gotham and left you in it's hand, but that had been his mistake.

He's sorry. He'll fix this. Or, if his destructive hands can't, he'll direct them somewhere they'll be of better use.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

It was Barbara who found you first. In the kitchen acting like everything was normal as you drank your morning concoction. You had laughed off you gagging on it once when Duke asked what it was. You had joked it was disgusting with a laugh.

She remembers thinking 'Better you than me.'

There wasn't anything malicious intent behind the thought either. It had been a passing casual thought that had been lost to the flood of other things in her head.

But, she was grateful she never said it out loud. The only thing she had to ease her guilt at the moment was that she had been silent in your downfall.

Which wasn't good. But, was still nearly just as terrible. She helped people, damn it. Even when she was broken, she helped people. Why had she missed helping you?

"Hey, how are you feeling?" She can't stop the slight wince at the tentative way she asks while you set down the much to large empty cup. Inwardly, she notes that you don't move to eat anything else.

Barbara can faintly recall a time when you wore those silly almost childish t-shirts from some southern store that she hadn't been overly fond of, while making a giant batch of cinnamon rolls. She hadn't eaten one at the time. But, Alfred had reported you ate four yourself. And, she knew Jason had stolen nearly six in his usual pantry raid, and the other's had squirreled off with a few. But, only long after they had cooled and you had disappeared into your room.

"Fine." Comes your reply as you snap her out of her memories. Only to watch you drink some water to chase away the taste in your mouth with practiced easy.

"I don't believe that." Barbara isn't one to mince words. She's briefly reminded of Bruce's stubbornness with your short reply. But, she's stood up to him before without any fear.

"What do you expect me to say? I had a breakdown. It was therapeutic. All better. Time to get back to life."

"You can't juts call that therapeutic. You started a bonfire last night and where practically nude-"

"Oh, come on. No one got hurt. Not even a criminal. Besides, those clothes were out of season and I need to clear space anyway." The way you casually dismiss her had her reeling back.

It sounded like such a vain way of putting things. And, it almost made Barbara want to drop the topic out of annoyance with you.

Until she realizes, this isn't you. This is something they let you become.

No, worse. It's something you thought they wanted you to become. Something they pushed you into and let you rot away while trying to fill your role in this family.

"Fair enough." She finds herself saying instead. This is new territory, and she knows she's not going to fix anything with one conversation. This is going to need some careful deprogramming. A detox from this lifestyle you felt forced into.

Barbara may have gotten rid of the perpetrators with the other's, but now it was time to bring you back into the fold where you would properly flourish. There's was still a chance. Last night had shown her there was. You had broken, but the pieces were still there. They could fix this she could fix this.

"What are your plans today then? Something a bit more relaxing, I hope." She tries to smile, and you even smile back. But, it's wrong. It's too sharp. Not in anger, but from how brittle it looks. Like your lips are made from fractured glass, dangerous to touch and cracked.

"A little bit. I have to go to the spa. Do the usual post-Gala wind down. By massage therapist is a huge gossip so she's the best way to get some of the rumors I heard last night to spread quickly. Then I need to call my stylist. Gonna need a new style since the seasons are changing." You lightly comment. Explaining your day to her with ease.

In a sickening awe, Barbara looks at you.

You… You had a strategy for this. You had been doing this long enough that there was a strategy in place for this. One that made it so easy for you to bounce back into things even if you broke down.

"You could take and actual break you know. Take a day off. Gotham had a busy night last night. A lot of those rich asses got their lives upended. We could put out a statement that we were one of them-"

Your eyes narrow at the statement. Not in anger, but in opportunity. "Come on Barbara. The world doesn’t stop turning just cause I lit a pyre. It keeps moving a turning. Now is the prime time to come out looking unshakable to the other Elites. A game of whoever is left standing is being played here. Of who’s not going to crumble under the pressure?"

Already the ways to spin your actions to garner sympathy with the others in your circle start to pop into your head. Cinderella has to get back to work.

Time to pull the lintels from the ashes.

Barbara feels a dawning sense of dread and horror. This is going to be worse than she anticipated. The shame she feels makes her eyes prick. You were more like Bruce than anyone had realized and they had made you use it in the worst possible way.

As she watched you go about your day, making phone calls while pinching your cheeks to add a natural color to them, she made note. They would fix this. They would bring you back. Fuck those assholes, they were old pawns in Gotham's games of power.

Time to bippity-boppity-off some more and keep you home.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: As I said, don't know if I hit the mark here. But, I want to watch the Bat Family struggle to fix this. Reader's not going to have a villain arc, though she deserves one. She's going to get princess treatment. Just remember, that might not be a good thing.

A/N: Song is 'Mama's Broken Heart' by Miranda Lambert. Yes, it is a break up song, but the undertones have this sorta feminine rage bubbling under the surface.

A/N: Also, for anyone wondering where I've been, I had/have thyroid cancer. But, we caught it early! I'm currently radioactive and in quarantine on an air mattress in the corner of my bedroom. I also had my entire thyroid removed in March. I'm okay though! It's all uphill from here!

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Good Old Days

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Fandom: Women’s College Basketball/Women’s College volleyball (UConn / NC State AU)

Inspired by: “Good Old Days” by Macklemore ft. Kesha

Summary: Childhood best friends turned lovers rediscover love during final seasons.

A/n: this is Paige’s pov…..

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @paige05bby , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @imnotkaizer , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog

I wish somebody would’ve told me, babe.

Told me that the nights spent on rooftops, the laughter echoing from backyards, and those wide-eyed dreams we swore were real—those would be the good old days.

That you would be my good old days.

I met you when we were eight.

You’d just moved into the house down the street, wearing your older brother’s oversized hoodie and scowling like you hated Minnesota’s snow more than anything else.

I threw a snowball at your window. You came outside to yell at me. We’ve been inseparable ever since.

We had our first fight two months later. You didn’t want to share your last Capri Sun. I called you selfish. You cried. I cried harder. We made up two hours later when I offered you my fruit snacks.

Childhood friendship. Pure, unfiltered, untouchable.

It stayed that way until we grew up.

It was the summer before we turned sixteen when it all changed.

Fourth of July. You wore a red tank top, fireworks reflected in your eyes. We laid on a blanket behind your cousin’s truck, half-drunk on soda, half-drunk on feelings we couldn’t name.

You said, “Do you ever think about us? Like… more than best friends?”

I didn’t answer. I kissed you instead.

That was our first kiss.

That was the start of something I didn’t have the words for yet.

“I wish somebody would’ve told me, babe. Someday, these will be the good old days.”

We said I love you the next month.

We said I hate you two weeks later.

Because that’s how we were.

Passionate. Stubborn. Real.

You wanted to go to homecoming. I didn’t have the guts.

I let you go with someone else, even though my heart screamed at me to ask you.

You were furious. “But you didn’t even ask either, did you, Madison?”

When you used my middle name, I knew I’d really hurt you.

You didn’t talk to me for three days. That was a record. I hated every second of it.

We got high together for the first time senior year. An edible at a bonfire. You laughed so hard you snorted water out your nose. I couldn’t stop saying I love you. You kept repeating it back through tears of laughter.

Those were the nights we thought would never end.

Then college came.

UConn for me. NC State for you.

We promised nothing would change.

But it did.

Distance didn’t kill us. Time did. Pressure. Injuries. Growing into different people.

Still, you showed up for me when it mattered. Like that day—August 1st, 2022.

ACL tear. Pickup game. My whole world flipped.

You flew in without saying a word. Showed up at the hospital in your NC State hoodie, hair in a messy bun, eyes red.

“I knew you’d need me,” you whispered. “So I came.”

I’ll never forget that.

“I just wanted my name in a star. Now look at where we at…”

Senior Night. February 16th, 2024.

I stood on the court, mic in hand, heart racing like it was my first game again.

“I know everyone wants me to address the elephant in the room… but umm unfortunately this will not be my last senior night at UConn. Im coming back!” I said, voice breaking as the crowd exploded.

You were in the stands. I saw you. I always found you first. You were crying, grinning, clapping so hard your palms must’ve burned.

That night, we laid in my bed. Not lovers. Not exactly friends. Something softer. Something complicated.

“I feel like this is it,” I murmured into the quiet. “Our year. I think we can bring it home.”

You turned to me, eyes glossy. “I think so too. And even if it isn’t… you’re already enough, Paige.”

No one else could’ve said that and made me believe it.

April 5th, 2024. Final Four. UConn vs. Iowa. 69-71. We lost.

I was in shock. Tears running down my face.

You were the first person I saw when I looked up.

No cameras. No fans. Just you, waiting by the tunnel.

You didn’t say anything. You just hugged me like it was 2015 again and we were back in my backyard crying over a scraped knee.

“I’m proud of you,” you whispered.

And God, I needed that.

Then your shoulder tore. Final season. Senior year. The one you came back for.

You tried to push me away again.

“Go focus on your season, Paige.”

I didn’t leave. I flew out. I brought your favorite smoothie and an ugly teddy bear from the airport gift shop.

You looked at me, broken and raw. “Why are you still here?”

“Because if I had to do it all over again—us, this, the heartbreak, the magic—I would.”

We spent spring in late-night FaceTimes.

Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we just stared at each other, eyes heavy with sleep and old feelings.

Other nights, I’d find myself in Raleigh. Or you in Storrs. Quiet visits. No social media. No explanations.

We sat on my roof one night after a party. Music below. Stars above.

“I wish time would slow down,” I said.

You nodded, head on my shoulder. “I wish we could be 16 again. I wish you’d asked me to homecoming.”

I looked at you. “I wish I had too.”

April 4th, 2025. Final Four. We won.

April 6th. National Championship. Tampa. We did it. Natty secured.

I collapsed in the confetti, tears soaking my jersey.

I searched the crowd again. And there you were. Hands cupped over your mouth, eyes bright with joy.

I pointed. You smiled.

After the game, I found you in the tunnel.

“Come back to Connecticut with me,” I said, breathless. “Come celebrate.”

You hesitated for one second. Then nodded.

April 7th. Welcome Home Rally. Gampel Pavilion.

You were front row. Cheering louder than anyone. I saw you mouthing my speech with me. You’d always known me best.

Later that night, parties in Storrs. I kept looking for you.

When I finally found you on the porch steps, red solo cup in hand, you grinned.

“Remember when we thought this was impossible?” I asked.

“Yeah,” you said. “But then again… we always were kind of unstoppable.”

April 13th. The parade in Hartford. Thousands of fans. Confetti and chants.

You were in the crowd. Again.

Always showing up.

Always my good old days.

April 14th. WNBA Draft.

I wore black. You wore purple. We didn’t sit together. We couldn’t. But the after party we were glued to each other.

I pulled you into my arms and whispered, “Thank you for every version of me you loved.”

You kissed my cheek and said, “I’ll always love every version.”

And now, sitting in this quiet hotel room, draft hat on the table, champagne on the dresser—I think about us.

“I was thinkin’ ‘bout the band… thinkin’ ‘bout the fans… in a small club in Minnesota…”

I was thinkin’ ‘bout you.

How we used to sneak out, lie on the grass, dreamin’, figuring out who we were. The futon nights. The fights. The Fourth of July. The homecoming I ruined. The edible giggles. The hospital rooms. The long drives. The late nights. The confessions. The heartbreak.

All of it.

Those good old days.

And I finally understand what the song meant.

“Maybe these are the moments… maybe I’ve been missin’ what it’s about…”

I smile through the tears.

Because even though we didn’t end up where we thought we would, I had you.

And that was always enough.

I pick up my phone.

Me: You up?

🏐💕: Always for you.

Me: I don’t know what happens next. WNBA, life… all of it. But if I had to go through every moment again—the best, the worst, the magic, the pain—I would. With you.

🏐💕: I’d do it all again too.

You send a picture. It’s us. Fourth of July. Sixteen. Right before our first kiss.

And I know, deep in my bones, in my heart, in the history written in every scar and every smile line…

“I wish somebody would’ve told me, babe…”

These will always be my good old days.

I don’t remember falling asleep, only that your voice was the last thing I heard and your picture was the last thing I saw. Fourth of July. Age sixteen. A still frame of a beginning.

The next morning, sunlight pours through my hotel window like it’s got something to say. My phone buzzes. It’s you.

🏐💕: Wanna get breakfast?

Me: Always.

We meet at a little diner a few blocks from the hotel. It’s nothing fancy—red booths, sticky syrup bottles, that smell of burnt coffee and cinnamon pancakes.

You’re already there when I arrive, hoodie pulled over your head, sunglasses on despite being indoors. You wave me over with a fork in one hand, smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Sleep okay?” you ask.

“I did once you answered.”

You snort, nudging a mug toward me. “I ordered your coffee. Hazelnut. Two sugars. I remembered.”

“You always do.”

We fall into conversation like we never stopped. College talk. Draft nerves. Rookie contracts. Training camps.

Then, it quiets. There’s a lull between bites of waffle and sips of coffee. You glance out the window, chewing your lip the way you always do when you’re nervous.

“Can I ask you something?”

I nod. “Always.”

You meet my eyes. “Do you think… do you think we missed our chance?”

I set my fork down. My chest tightens. “I used to think that.”

“And now?”

“Now I think… maybe we needed the time apart to grow into the kind of people who could try again. And get it right.”

You look down, then back up. “I never stopped loving you.”

I reach across the table, cover your hand with mine.

“I never will.”

It’s not loud. Not dramatic. No background music or movie-score-worthy kiss. Just you and me, in a booth that smells like syrup, holding hands like we’re sixteen again and scared of what love could mean.

Only this time, we’re not scared.

This time, we’re ready.

And maybe we can’t rewrite the past, but we can choose what comes next.

“I wish somebody would’ve told me, babe…”

“…that someday, these would be the good old days.”

And maybe—just maybe—we’re about to start the best ones yet.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[bernardsbendystraws]

can you write a short blurb abt snow and matt having sleepovers pls! im curious as to why and i really just love them. thank you!

ೃ࿔*:･ Snow .ᐟ Reader x FWB.ᐟ Matt

You can't sleep in your own bed.

⚠︎ mentions of previous SA, cuddling, fluff, short

You haven’t been sleeping, at least not in your own bed. 

It’s unusual. Matt does not appreciate when he’s unable to get his alone time. Having nights to himself used to be a necessity—but you were just…different.

He doesn’t know the gruesome details, he doesn’t need to. He’s aware you were hurt—traumatized, even. The way things ended with your ex was not good. It wasn’t even the cheating and manipulation that made you finally break things off with that poor excuse of a man, it was the way he violated you. 

You got rid of your comforter. Every stuffed animal you owned had been thrown deep into your closet, left to collect dust. A soft mattress no longer brought you peace, it made your heart race with a devastating nausea in the pit of your gut. 

“Do you wanna just spend the night?” he asks, hugging you a bit closer under his arm as you both lay on his bed. You nod slightly. Matt sighs as you lazily trace your fingers over his chest, your frizzy hair tickling against his jaw in a way that makes his heart flourish with a wave of comfort. 

You won’t sleep in your own bed—Matt knows you won’t. You’ll show up with tired, swollen eyes the next day. And he hates seeing that. There’s no part of him that minds having you in his bed. In fact, sometimes he craves your touch more than he’s willing to admit. 

It’s confusing. Your own bed—especially alone—feels like utter torture to toss and turn in all night. But sleeping in Matt’s bed is heaven. 

“Are you sure though?” you ask, gnawing on your bottom lip, “-I’ve stayed over like three nights in a row—”

“Do you need clothes or something? We can make a quick trip to your place if you need stuff,” Matt points, completely oblivious to the point you’re trying to make.

“Matt.” you huff, looking up at him with a firm glance. “I mean, I don’t wanna overstay my welcome.” 

“What?” he asks, his eyes furrow in confusion. “No, no—not at all,” he breathes, letting his hand around your waist massage in light circles as he shakes his head side to side. Clutching you close, he cradles the back of your head while pushing you to lay on his chest. 

“You’re gonna get sick of me,” you laugh.

“Nah,” he sighs, pressing a light kiss to the crown of your head, “-just get some sleep, alright?” 

A/N: In no way am I trying to “romanize” anything. I write about real world issues that countless amount of people unfortunately have to endure. I place warnings to prohibit triggering anyone and also try to write everything tastefully. If this is not okay with you, that’s fine but do not send hate about it. You know nothing about me or what I’ve gone through in life.

With love and big tits, Rose 🌹

[masorciereviolette]

Hi, hope you’re having a good day! I was wondering if you could write an au Agatha x reader where R is in love with Agatha but Agatha is still hung up and chasing Rio and then R finds Agatha and Rio hugging and that’s when she finally snaps. Reader cries over Agatha and then her friends (maybe Jen, Lilia and Alice) tells her that it’s time for her to let Agatha go because she deserves to be loved the same way that she loves and Reader goes and does that. R starts to become distant from Agatha and starts talking to Wanda and Agatha started wondering why R is behaving like this and Lilia eventually tells her and now Agatha can’t help but feel jealous and possessive over R and now the tables have turned— Agatha is now chasing R after she realizes that she loves R. The angst and the pinning 😩😩😩 plus the fluff that comes after when Agatha finally won R back plus claiming R as hers ehem ehem… smut :> thank you so much!!!

The One Who Stayed

Pairing: Au Agatha Harkness x Reader, Past Agatha x Rio

Warnings: Small Time Jumps, Unresolved Feelings, Hurt, Angst, Pining, Past Toxic Relationship, Comfort, Minors DNI 18+, Graphic Sexual Descriptions, Happy Ending.

Word count: 17k

A/N: BRO OH MY GOD ?!? This request was insane but absolutely phenomenal— ✋🏽😭 I’ll warn you now there is slight pov switching but it’s not too bad. I had a few days off and as soon as I read this request I was OBSESSED and started IMMEDIATELY :)))

Taglist: @harknessshi

Masterlist Link

The worst part wasn’t the hug. It was the way Agatha melted into it. Like her body still remembered what it was like to hold Rio. Like it was the easiest thing in the world to fall back into arms that had once broken her.

Because even though Agatha never kissed you—never reached for you the way you reached for her, she never pushed you away either. She let you stay close. Let you love her in the quiet, unseen ways. Bringing her coffee when she forgot breakfast , staying late to help her organize lecture notes, listening when her voice shook after difficult conversations with the board.

She never really asked for any of it. But she never told you to stop. And so, you hoped. You hoped in the way people do when they have nothing else to stand on—carefully, foolishly, hungrily. Maybe, just maybe, if you stayed… she’d look your way fully. She’d see it was you, not Rio, who had stayed behind all this time. Who had loved her through every shadow, but in that hallway, all your hope cracked.

The sunlight spilled in through the tall windows, painting golden lines on the stone floor, and there they were—Agatha and Rio. Just ahead. Just close enough. Agatha’s eyes were closed. Her arms looped around Rio’s waist, her cheek resting on her shoulder like it was some long-awaited exhale. Like comfort. Like home. Your heart didn’t break all at once. It caved in slowly, like a house collapsing under the weight of what was never reinforced.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Your body locked in place, your chest burning with something sharp and wild, your hands curled into fists to stop the tremble that threatened to give you away. Maybe if you didn’t move, they wouldn’t notice you. Maybe if you stayed still enough, the moment would rewind itself. But it didn’t. So you turned—quietly, carefully—before either of them could see the way your face had started to crumple.

You made it out of the building. You even managed to smile at a student who passed you on the steps, their voice distant and muffled, like you were underwater. It wasn’t until you were home, safe behind the familiar click of your door, that the dam finally broke.

The tears came in waves. Silent. Angry. Inescapable. You slid down the door like it was the only thing keeping you upright, burying your face in your hands as your chest heaved in uneven bursts. It felt humiliating and cinematic all at once—like one of those scenes you used to scoff at in movies, thinking no one really fell apart like that.

But here you were. Cracked wide open on your hardwood floor, mourning something that was never really yours. And still…Still, in the back of your mind, curled in the small, deluded corners of your heart—You hoped she’d see you one day. Not as the friend who was always there. Not as the quiet support.

But as someone she could love. Because love wasn’t supposed to be something you had to earn. But with her, you’d been willing to try anyway and maybe that was the real tragedy. Not the hug. But the way you still wanted her, even after.

Your phone buzzed.

Once.

Twice.

Then again.

You didn’t have the strength to look. Not right away. You were still curled on the floor, eyes red, throat raw, limbs heavy with grief you hadn’t earned the right to feel—not really. Not when Agatha had never been yours. Not when you had walked yourself into this heartbreak like it was inevitable. Eventually, with shaking fingers, you reached for your phone

Lilia: We’re coming over. Jen saw Rio leaving with Agatha.

Lilia: No arguing.

You didn’t reply. You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just sat there, knees to your chest, hoodie sleeves damp with tears that wouldn’t stop coming even though your body felt like it had nothing left.

Fifteen minutes later, the knock came. One sharp rap—Alice. Then three more, lighter and spaced—Lilia’s pattern. The last was a full open-palm impatient thump—Jen, impatient as always. The door creaked open. You hadn’t locked it. You heard the shuffle of shoes, the quiet gasp from Alice, and Lilia’s breath catching in her throat. Jen cursed under her breath.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Alice murmured, already kneeling beside you. Her hand reached to gently cradle the back of your head, guiding you up enough to rest against her shoulder. You let her. You didn’t have the fight in you to pretend you were fine.

“I’m here,” she whispered, soft and maternal. “We’ve got you.” Jen lowered herself to the floor in front of you, crossing her legs. Her tone wasn’t soft—it was never soft—but it was steady. Grounding.

“You give so much love,” she said, brushing your hair away from your damp cheeks with care that didn’t match her sharp voice. “To the wrong people, maybe. But you do. You love with your whole heart, and it’s beautiful.” She paused. “But you can’t keep giving it to someone who only sees you when it’s convenient.”

You flinched. Jen sighed, then leaned forward and took your hand “You deserve someone who doesn’t treat you like a backup plan.”

But it was Lilia—Lilia who’d been with you through every bad decision, every whispered hope about Agatha in the middle of the night—who finally shattered something inside you. She didn’t speak right away. She stood silently in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes rimmed red like she’d been crying too. Like she’d been holding it in for your sake.

When she finally stepped forward, her voice was quiet. Controlled. Like she didn’t trust herself to speak loudly “She’s not going to choose you.” You looked up, startled. Your lips parted, but no words came “Not while she’s still haunted by Rio,” Lilia continued, voice beginning to tremble. “She says she’s trying to let go, but she keeps going back. Over and over. And you…” Her voice cracked “You deserve to be loved like you’re it. Not like you’re next.”

You blinked, and the tears started again, silent and unrelenting. Lilia dropped to her knees in front of you, gripping your other hand tightly. “I’ve watched you shrink yourself for her. Wait for her. Make excuses. You deserve someone who doesn’t need time to realize what they have.”

“She doesn’t even see it,” Jen added quietly. “Doesn’t see what she’s doing to you.”

Alice held you tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You don’t have to let her keep hurting you to prove you’re loyal.” And you broke. Not like a dam, but like a thread finally snapping—tired, frayed, done.

The sobs that came weren’t gentle. They were full-bodied, aching, sharp enough to leave your ribs sore. You felt Lilia’s hands tighten, Jen’s forehead press gently to your knee, Alice’s arms wrap fully around you like she could keep you from falling apart completely.

None of them said anything after that. Not for a while. They just stayed there. On the floor. With you. Later, they moved you to the couch, wrapped you in a blanket, and passed around mugs of tea no one really drank. Jen put on some quiet, wordless music. Alice braided your hair like she used to when you were in grade school. Lilia sat beside you in silence, her hand never leaving yours.

And still, you couldn’t sleep. Not even when the tears stopped, Not even when the house fell quiet. Not even when the weight of your friends anchored you enough to stay in one place. You just stared at the ceiling. Aching in places you didn’t have names for. Wondering how long it would take for hope to die. Wondering if it ever really would.

Over the next few weeks, you did the only thing you hadn’t tried yet. The thing everyone had told you to do long before you were ready. You let Agatha go. Not in some grand, cinematic way. There was no big confrontation, no dramatic goodbye. Just quiet choices. One by one. Until all that was left between you and her was silence.

You started with the emails. Her name used to make your heart skip—a flutter, a jolt, that electric ache of possibility. But now, every time her name lit up your inbox, it felt like a bruise being pressed. So when she sent another message about the joint lecture—“Need your input on the ethical paradox section. Thoughts?”—you stared at it for a long time. Then you hit “Forward.”

To Lilia. You typed out a single line: “You’re better at handling her anyway.” Then you closed your laptop. After that, it got easier. Or maybe just more mechanical. You stopped sitting beside her in the faculty lounge. There had always been this unspoken arrangement—you’d grab her favorite tea, she’d save you the spot by the window. That spot sat empty for a few days before another professor took it. You started eating lunch outside, even when the air turned sharp with cold. At least the wind didn’t pretend to care.

When Agatha passed you in the hallway, you didn’t look. She called your name once. Softly. You kept walking. You didn’t stop loving her. You just stopped letting her hurt you. It was raining the day you met Wanda. One of those gray, quiet rains that made the whole world feel a little softer around the edges.

You wandered into a bookstore on 9th and Langston, the kind of place that smelled like old pages and warm wood, a safe little cocoon from everything outside your chest. You headed straight for the poetry section, tucking yourself between narrow shelves and pretending the ache inside you could be soothed with Rilke and Dickinson.

You were holding a worn copy of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet when a voice beside you spoke—light, curious, like a breeze slipping through an open window “That’s my favorite translation.”

You turned, startled. The woman standing beside you had soft auburn hair pulled into a loose braid and kind eyes that didn’t pry. She smiled, and it wasn’t the kind of smile that demanded anything. It just… was. Gentle. Honest. Patient “Oh?” you managed. Your voice was scratchy from disuse.

Wanda nodded, her gaze flicking to the book in your hand. “The Mitchell version. There’s something about the way he keeps the longing intact. Doesn’t dilute the pain, just… frames it.”

You blinked. Then, almost without meaning to, you whispered, “Love consists in this: that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.”

Her smile widened, softening the curve of her lips. “See?” she said, tilting her head. “You get it.”

You almost laughed. Almost. But it caught in your throat “Sorry,” you said instead, hugging the book to your chest. “I’m not great at—”

“Talking to strangers in bookstores during rainstorms?” she offered, still gentle. “I’m Wanda.” You nodded, too shy to give your name yet.

She didn’t push “Well, mystery poet,” she said, “if you ever want a recommendation, I practically live here.” She tapped her fingers on the shelf once, then turned and disappeared down the aisle.

You stood there for a long time, staring at the space where she’d been. You didn’t expect to see her again. But the next week, she was there—sitting on the floor near the fiction section, flipping through a novel, her thumb absently stroking the spine. She looked up when you walked by. This time, you smiled first “Hey,” you said.

Wanda grinned. “Took you long enough.” You ran into her again the week after that. And again the week after. Always in that little bookstore, always like fate didn’t need to announce itself to be real.

Each time, she asked more questions. Not the invasive kind. Just the curious, open-ended kind that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t invisible anymore. And little by little, you started breathing easier around her. Wanda was warm in the way that didn’t burn. She didn’t make your heart race with fear or doubt or longing. She didn’t keep you on a leash of half-promises and maybe-one-days. She just showed up. And stayed. And for the first time in a long, long while…That was enough.

Agatha noticed your absence almost immediately. At first, it was subtle—just a shift in the air. A missing presence in the faculty lounge. A silence where your laugh usually lived. She told herself you were just busy. Stressed. Needing space. But even as she said it in her head, she didn’t believe it.

What she hadn’t known—what she hadn’t wanted to know—was that you had found solace in someone else. She saw it for the first time one crisp morning outside the lecture halls, when the autumn chill had started biting at the edges of the breeze. Agatha was walking back from a meeting, preoccupied with thoughts of an upcoming board presentation, when she heard it

Your laugh. Clear. Bright. Free. It froze her mid-step. Her head turned instinctively. And there you were—shoulder to shoulder with someone unfamiliar. A woman with auburn hair, soft features, and eyes that never seemed to leave your face. You were holding a to-go coffee, smiling so widely your eyes crinkled at the corners. The woman reached out and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. Gesture small. Intimate.

Agatha’s stomach turned. She hadn’t seen that smile in weeks. Hadn’t been the cause of it in even longer. The redhead—Wanda. She remembered Lilia vaguely mentioning her as the new hire in the science department. She was standing a little too close for Agatha’s liking. Your arms brushed, and neither of you moved away. Wanda said something else, too quiet to hear, and you laughed again, head tipping back with ease.

It was that ease that gutted her. The absence of tension in your shoulders. The way your eyes softened without hesitation. That used to be hers—or at least she thought it was. She didn’t mean to speak, but your name slipped out—softly, uncertain “(Y/N).”

You looked over. Just slightly. Just enough to acknowledge her then, calmly—coldly—you said, “Professor Harkness.” A nod. That was it. Like she was a stranger. A colleague. An echo.

You turned back to Wanda before the ache in Agatha’s chest had time to bloom fully, and walked with her into the building, laughter still lingering in the air like smoke. The following weeks were quiet. Too quiet. And in place of your voice came sterile, clipped messages from someone else entirely.

Her inbox began to fill with updates about the joint philosophy lecture series. Lesson plans. PowerPoints. Adjusted timelines. But none of them were from you. They were from Professor Calderu. The fourth message read: “Please review the attached materials. I’ve also edited the speaker notes for clarity.”

The fifth one was worse “I’m handling all future collaboration at Professor (Y/L/N)’s request. Please send any correspondence to me directly going forward.” Agatha stared at it for a long time. Her hand hovered over the mouse, rereading it. Again. And again. As if the meaning might change. As if she might have misunderstood. But she hadn’t. You weren’t coming back. Not to the work. Not to her.

And it made something in her unravel—quietly, steadily. A slow rot of regret creeping through her chest like ivy. Jealousy was a cruel thing. Especially when it wore the face of someone you’d ignored too long. She started asking around. Casually. Or so she thought “Anyone seen Professor (Y/L/N) lately?” she asked one of the admin staff, feigning nonchalance.

“Not really,” came the reply. “Think she’s been working in the bio wing a lot. With that new hire—Wanda something?” Wanda. She tried again later with a colleague at lunch. “How’s that new biology professor everyone’s whispering about? The redhead.”

The response was knowing. “You mean the one always seen with (Y/N)? Yeah. They seem close.” Too close. It wasn’t until Lilia caught her lingering outside your department office that she finally snapped.

Agatha was standing there, staring at your nameplate like it might reveal something. Her arms were crossed, jaw tight, and she looked… lost. Like she couldn’t decide whether to knock or turn away. Lilia rounded the corner, stopping short “Seriously?”

Agatha blinked. “What?”

Lilia crossed her arms, brow arched with irritation. “Stop.”

Agatha frowned. “I’m not—”

“Yes,” Lilia said sharply, stepping closer. “You are. You’re hovering. You’re lurking. You’re doing that thing where you suddenly remember she exists only when someone else does too.”

“I’m not trying to make her feel guilty,” Agatha defended, but it came out weaker than she intended.

“You don’t have to,” Lilia shot back. “Your silence already did that. She waited for you. So long. She let herself hope, Agatha. And all the while, you kept her just close enough to hurt her.” Agatha’s mouth opened, then closed again. She looked away.

Lilia’s voice softened, but only slightly “She stopped waiting. And someone else saw her. Someone who actually wants to be there.”

Agatha’s hands clenched at her sides, Lilia’s eyes narrowed. “Just let her be happy.”

Then, without another word, she walked past her, heels clicking decisively down the hallway. Agatha stayed there for a long time. Still. Small. She didn’t know how to stop the feeling. It crept up on her slowly, like water seeping into cracks she hadn’t known were there. It made her heart race at the worst times, left her staring at walls too long, and made her fingers twitch toward her phone only to hesitate—hovering, uncertain, ashamed.

It hit her the hardest in the quiet spaces. The ones you used to fill. But sometimes, it roared. And sometimes, it burned. Like the day she saw you in the quad, sunlight in your hair, eyes crinkled in laughter as you sat beneath one of the sycamore trees with Wanda. Your knees were nearly touching, and Wanda’s fingers brushed yours—light, casual, familiar. And you didn’t pull away. You leaned in.

Agatha’s breath caught in her throat, and she looked away too fast, like the sun had blinded her. It happened again outside your office two days later. She’d lingered longer than she should have—told herself she was passing by on her way to the lounge. But then she heard it.

Your voice. But not the version she remembered. Not the soft, hesitant tones that wrapped around her like fog. Not the careful, deliberate quiet you always used when speaking to her, afraid to be too much or too open. This was different. You were laughing. Bright and free. Mid-conversation with someone—Wanda, probably. Your words spilled out without restraint, animated and unfiltered, and Agatha felt something twist deep in her chest. She turned before you could catch her there. Again.

You pass her in the hallways now and didn’t even blink. No pause. No hitch in your step. No hopeful glance her way like there used to be. You didn’t flinch from her silence because you no longer expected anything at all. You’d stopped looking for her. And for the first time, Agatha realized… she’d miscalculated everything. She’d spent so long chasing shadows of a woman who didn’t know how to love her properly, obsessing over the wreckage Rio left behind. She kept you close enough to feed her ego, to ease the loneliness, to feel adored. But she never let herself see what was truly in front of her.

Somewhere between the quiet coffees and the midnight drafts of lecture slides, somewhere between your soft smiles and the way you always stayed—Agatha had fallen in love with you. And she hadn’t even noticed. Not until you were gone. Not until she felt the ache of your absence like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing. She remembered how you used to look at her. Like she was something sacred. Like you were memorizing her in case she ever disappeared. Now, you looked past her. Like she was nothing more than a closed chapter.

Agatha Harkness was unraveling and quickly. Not publicly, of course. No one would dare suspect it. She was still the sharp, composed professor everyone respected, the woman with perfectly constructed sentences and biting wit. She still walked the halls of the university with her usual air of intellectual detachment, a storm wrapped in silk and sarcasm.

But underneath it all—behind the neatly lined eyes and the cool voice that never wavered—she was falling apart. Cracking like old porcelain. Quietly. Where no one could see. Every forced smile, every hollow “let’s catch up soon,” became another thread fraying at the edges of her composure. She moved through her days like a ghost trapped in her own body, her mind elsewhere—always chasing moments she had no right to miss.

It gets worse every time she sees you again almost unavoidably it seemed, this time tucked away in a quiet corner of the campus café, bathed in soft afternoon light. You were sitting across from Wanda—legs crossed beneath the table, hands loosely cradling a cup of tea. She was reading aloud from a book you clearly didn’t need help with, but you were smiling anyway. Beaming, even.

You had your chin in your palm, the other hand resting near hers on the table. Your eyes were warm—happy—focused completely on the woman across from you. And Agatha felt something lurch inside her. It was subtle at first. A dull ache at the back of her ribs. A weight in her throat. But then it bloomed into something heavier, something darker. She had to look away before she could see Wanda reach for your hand.

That night, she sat at her desk long after the sun went down, staring at the glowing screen of her laptop. The shared lecture folder—the one she hadn’t dared open in weeks—blinked up at her like a challenge. She clicked it open. Still nothing from you. Only Lilia’s updates. Sterile. Efficient. Lacking any of the life or banter that once filled the margins. Gone were your ridiculous subject lines, your poorly timed memes, your “I made edits but they’re probably terrible so feel free to mock me later” notes.

Gone was the quiet intimacy of your collaboration. The quiet presence of you. Her gaze drifted to the email thread between you two. Hundreds of exchanges. Lesson drafts, scholarly articles, late-night musings, questions about conference panels. Memes. Inside jokes. A string of life lived together in pixels and paragraphs.

She scrolled. Slowly. Searching for the moment everything shifted. She didn’t realize she was crying until a single tear splashed onto the keyboard, trailing across the spacebar. Another followed. Then another. Her breath caught.

It shouldn’t have hurt this much. Not when she’d chosen this. Not when she told herself she needed space—needed time to sort things out with Rio. To close that chapter properly, before she could start another. But it wasn’t Rio her heart ached for. It was you. It was always you. Why couldn’t she just see that before.

Every time you walked past her without a glance, it scraped across her like glass. Every time she saw you tucked into conversation with Wanda, fingers brushing or hands lingering a second too long, it sent her stomach into freefall. Not because she hated Wanda. She didn’t even know her.

But because Wanda knew what it was to make you laugh now. Because Wanda knew what it felt like to be the center of your world—something Agatha had taken for granted. Something she only realized she needed when it no longer belonged to her. And the worst part? You didn’t seem hurt anymore. You seemed happy. Genuinely, quietly, peacefully happy.

And Agatha hated how much it made her want to scream. How much she envied the ease in your eyes, the way your shoulders had uncurled. The way you no longer carried her absence like a wound. You had healed. And she—who once believed she was immune to this kind of ache—was breaking. Piece by quiet piece.

Still, something inside her refused to accept that this was the inevitable ending. Not when she hadn’t said it. Not when you hadn’t heard her mean it. Not when there was still time left to fix this. So she made herself a promise. This wasn’t how your story ended. Not if she could help it. Not when she’d finally figured out who she couldn’t live without.

She started showing up in your orbit more often. At first, it was subtle. Innocent, almost. A book “accidentally” left in the faculty lounge—one she knew you’d been meaning to borrow. Her favorite annotated copy, spine worn and pages lined with ink.

A quiet afternoon spent in the back corner of the library, not even pretending to read, just hoping to catch a glimpse of you grading papers near the windows where the sun hit just right. She’d linger by the entrance of your classroom when your door was open, asking Lilia vague questions about curriculum structure she already knew the answers to. Anything for a few extra seconds of proximity.

But you never looked up. Not once. And if you noticed the book in the lounge, you left it untouched. If you saw her in the library, you never let it show.

If you heard her voice in the hallway, you didn’t flinch or pause or react—not anymore. If anything, you moved further away. Deliberate. Careful. Like someone who’d been burned and had learned their lesson far too well. Still, she kept trying.

Until one day, she stood just outside your office, palms clammy around the coffee cup in her hands. It was your usual order—half sweet, a splash of oat milk, a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. Your name was scrawled on the side in her handwriting. She had to rewrite it twice because her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

She rehearsed what she might say.

Hey, I was just passing by—

No. That sounds too casual.

I just wanted to check in—

No. You’ll sound pathetic.

She settled for silence. Maybe if she just handed it to you, it would say enough. Maybe the look in her eyes would do what words had failed to but before she could knock, the sound of heels clicking down the corridor caught her attention. Jennifer Kale rounded the corner and stopped short, eyes narrowing instantly “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding fucking me.”

Agatha blinked. “Professor—”

“No,” she snapped, stepping closer. “You don’t get to do this now.”

Agatha straightened, tightening her grip on the cup. “I just want to talk.”

“She doesn’t want to talk,” Jen bit out. “Not to you. What can you not grasp here? You broke her Agatha, you don’t get to come in once she’s finally found her footing—.”

Agatha’s breath caught. “I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did.” Jen’s voice was low, sharp. A blade dulled only by the effort it took to keep from yelling. “You didn’t slam the door in her face, Agatha. You just… kept it open just enough for her to hope.”

“Im not trying to hurt her,” Agatha said, quieter this time.

“Yet you did.” Jen’s arms folded across her chest. “She waited. For months. Holding on to the scraps you gave her. She gave you everything, and you looked right past her. Now someone else is putting her back together.”

Agatha’s throat tightened, a sudden ache clawing up her chest. “Is she happy?” she asked before she could stop herself. Her voice came out hoarse. Small.

Jen stared at her. “Yes. For the first time in a long time.” Silence. The kind that filled too much space and not enough. Agatha dropped her gaze to the coffee cup in her hands. It was already cooling. The lid felt too tight. The warmth was fading. And so was the excuse to be here.

“She’s not a placeholder, Agatha,” Jen said, softer now but no less firm. “She was the one who stayed. She showed up. For everything. And you didn’t even look at her until she finally stopped waiting.” Agatha looked up “That’s on you.”

Jen stepped past her without another word, her shoulder brushing roughly against Agatha’s. The hallway swallowed the sound of her retreating footsteps, leaving only the quiet hum of a nearby vent and the muted beat of Agatha’s own pulse ringing in her ears.

She stood there for a long time. Still. The coffee in her hand was lukewarm now. Her fingers clenched it like a lifeline, but she didn’t move. Her legs felt heavy. Her chest felt tight. And the truth settled over her like dust on an old memory. She had pushed you too far. And you weren’t going to come back this time. But the thing was—she didn’t want to let you go.

Not this time. Not now that she finally knew what she was losing. Not when her heart, after all this time, had finally stopped whispering Rio’s name—and started crying yours. It took three days before she got the courage. Three days of pacing her apartment, rehearsing the words she should’ve said months ago. Three days of deleting half-written emails she couldn’t bring herself to send, heart pounding like she was twenty and stupid again.

On the third day, she didn’t turn away. She waited. Outside of the building , the wind carried the scent of late autumn—crisp, sharp, tinged with the promise of winter. The golden light from the setting sun cast long shadows across the pavement, and Agatha stood tucked beneath the overhang by the door, coffee in one hand, uncertainty in the other.

Through the glass, she watched as you neared the entrance. Slowly. Methodically. The curve of your shoulders was familiar, even now. But there was something different about the way you moved—measured, self-contained. No longer reaching for anything.

You looked tired. But calm. You looked… steady. The way you used to when you leaned into her side after long meetings, laughing under your breath at the way her notes were always color-coded but never organized. The way your fingers tangled in her scarf that one winter morning she let you walk her to the train, stealing her coffee and kissing the lid instead of her cheek.

The way you once touched her—without hesitation, without expectation. Back when she hadn’t even kissed you yet, but you made her feel like she was already loved. When you stepped outside, the glass door swung closed behind you with a gentle thud, and she stepped forward instinctively—like gravity itself pulled her.

You stopped. Your hand tightened around the strap of your bag, fingers white-knuckled in the fading light. You didn’t step back. But you didn’t move forward, either. The silence stretched between you like a wire pulled taut. One wrong breath, and it would snap.

You looked at her like someone you used to know and it broke her “(Y/N)—” she began, voice low, tentative.

You raised a hand gently, your voice firm but not cruel. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Agatha’s throat tightened. “I just need—” she tried, but her voice cracked. She closed her eyes for a second, steadying herself. “Please. Let me say this.”

You hesitated. Not because you were waiting for her. But because some part of you wanted to believe that whatever she was about to say wouldn’t hurt anymore. She swallowed hard “I was scared,” she said, the words pulled from somewhere raw. “I kept chasing what I thought I needed to fix—what I thought I had to fix—before I could deserve anything new. Before I could let myself have something good.”

She took a step closer “And by the time I realized that what I needed… what I wanted… was already standing in front of me—” her voice dropped to almost nothing, “you were gone.”

You didn’t speak. Your eyes didn’t soften. But they shimmered. Just slightly. As if the weight of her words unsettled something still healing inside of you “I never meant to hurt you,” she said. “But I did. I see that now.”

Agatha took another step. Close enough now that she could see the way your lashes flickered, the way your breath hitched “Wanda seems lovely,” she added softly, unable to stop herself. “But she’s not me.”

You let out a slow breath, no bitterness in it—just quiet finality. “No,” you said. “She isn’t.” You met her gaze then, steady and clear. “And that’s a really good thing.”

The words hit her like a blow. She flinched, visibly. Still, she stayed. Her fingers trembled at her sides, but she didn’t look away “I love you—” Agatha whispered.

You blinked. Once. Twice. “Don’t—”

“I’m in love with you.” She cut you off, her voice was trembling now, stripped of all pretense. “I think I always did. I just didn’t know it until I saw you loving someone else the way you used to love me.” The air between you stilled. You didn’t answer.

She took another step, cautiously, closing the space inch by inch like one wrong move might scare you off. Her voice dropped again, nearly breaking “I should’ve said it before. Fuck— I should’ve chosen you before. I should’ve seen you before. I’m not here to make promises I don’t deserve to keep. I just…” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed the rest “I really needed you to know…..in case”

You stared at her for a long moment. The breeze picked up slightly, catching the ends of her coat and your hair as the silence thickened again, more intimate this time. More vulnerable. And your eyes—those eyes she used to think she could read like poetry—were shining. But unreadable. Not angry. Not forgiving. Just full of something she couldn’t name. Not yet.

You stared at her in silence, chest rising and falling just a little too fast. The wind shifted again, lifting a few strands of your hair across your cheek, but you didn’t move. Neither of you did. Finally, your lips parted. And your voice came out low, measured—but far from calm.

“You don’t get to just say that,” you said, not venomously. Just… honestly. “You don’t get to show up and tell me everything I’ve wanted to hear after months of silence. After watching you cling to someone else like I never even existed.” Agatha opened her mouth, but you cut her off with a hand raised again—this time sharper “No!” you said. “You don’t get to speak until I’m done.” Her eyes widened, and she nodded—silently.

“I waited for you,” you continued, the emotion catching in your throat. “I made excuses for you. I told myself you needed time, or closure, or space, or whatever stupid fucking lie helped me sleep at night. I stood right next to you every damn day, offering everything I had—everything—hoping maybe, one day, you’d finally look at me like I wasn’t just some… background character in your story.”

You took a breath. A shaky one “But I wasn’t enough. Not until I was gone. Not until someone else made me laugh. And now that you’re not the center of my world anymore, suddenly I’m what you’ve been missing?” Your voice cracked. Just once “Worst of all— I still want to believe you,” you said, softer now, with something closer to defeat. “God, I want to. But I don’t know if I can—”

Agatha took a trembling step forward, voice thick with desperation. “Then let me prove it. However you need me to.” You stared at her, blinking slowly. Like you were trying to see her for who she really was—who she might be now. But the ache behind your eyes didn’t budge.

“Sure,” you said with a tired shrug, tone flat. You didn’t believe her. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You ran a hand over your face, exhaling hard into your palm. The weight of everything—the past, the love, the loss—sank heavy in your shoulders “Nothing’s going to be fixed tonight—” you muttered. “Maybe not ever.”

Agatha’s face fell, but she didn’t argue. You stepped back, one foot behind the other like your body was already preparing to leave her behind again. And you did. You turned. Walked away slowly, expecting—hoping, in some quiet corner of your heart—that she would drop it. That she’d let you go this time. That this would be the end.

It wasn’t. It wasn’t the end. Because Agatha Harkness, for the first time in her life, refused to be silent. Refused to let go. The next morning, she showed up outside your class before you even got there—shivering slightly in the early cold, her breath fogging in the crisp air, holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers and three pastries from the tiny café you used to love.

She offered them with a sheepish smile, her hair wind-tousled, cheeks pink from the cold “I didn’t know which one you liked best anymore,” she said, not quite meeting your eyes, “so I got them all.”

You blinked at her, at the awkwardly wrapped flowers, at the grease-stained paper bag she held out like a peace offering. You took the bag with numb fingers. Said nothing. Just opened the building door and stepped inside without a word. She didn’t follow.

Three days after that, you were attending a faculty-wide meeting, half-listening to the usual droning updates about semester projections and departmental budgets, when Agatha raised her hand and stood—unannounced. Her voice was clear. Unapologetic “I’d like to speak on the importance of collaborative trust,” she said, gaze scanning the room before landing briefly—pointedly—on you. “How sometimes… we don’t realize what we’ve lost until the silence becomes unbearable.”

The room went quiet. All eyes turned toward her. You didn’t look up. Not really. But your heart thudded painfully behind your ribs, as if your body knew she was speaking to you—only you—even if no one else caught it.

Then came the mailbox note. Folded neatly and tucked between your department memos. Her handwriting was scribbled across the outside: For (Y/N). Inside, in hers—steady, familiar, honest—was the quote you had once used to open your very first co-lecture together, almost a year ago

“We build trust in inches, not miles.”

“Let me earn every inch.”

You sat at your desk holding it for a long time. Long enough that your tea went cold. Long enough that your chest started to ache. You didn’t know how to process any of it. Because it wasn’t grand gestures you were used to from her. Not affection in daylight. Not vulnerability spelled out like that.

You’d been the one who stayed. You were the one who waited. And now, she was chasing you—and it felt like standing in the middle of a storm you no longer knew how to brace for. Wanda noticed the shift. She noticed everything. It was in the way you paused now when she spoke. How your eyes sometimes drifted over her shoulder, like you were listening for a voice that never came. How you smiled at her, but less often with your whole face.

You didn’t mean to, and Wanda never once accused you of it. She was too gentle for that. Too intuitive. But that Thursday, the dam finally cracked. You were eating lunch together in your office, both of you tucked comfortably in your usual seats—your salad mostly untouched, your fork resting limp in your hand.

Across your desk sat the poetry book Agatha had left behind. Somehow, it always ended up back in your line of sight. This time, it was open to the inside cover. Your fingers moved without thinking—tracing the familiar ink of Agatha’s handwriting. You weren’t even reading the words anymore. You were just remembering the way she wrote in the dark, half-asleep, mumbling about Rilke and how he “had the audacity to romanticize longing.”

You didn’t notice Wanda watching you until she gently asked “Where’d you get that?”

You blinked and looked up. Her eyes weren’t cold. Just… curious. But you had the overwhelming feeling that she already knew. You considered lying. Or deflecting. But something in her expression—something kind, but quietly firm—told you the lie wouldn’t land. So you didn’t, you swallowed. “Agatha left it. A while ago.”

Wanda was silent for a long moment, eyes scanning your face like she was trying to solve a puzzle she’d been working on for weeks. The muted hum of the campus café filled the space between you—clinking mugs, soft chatter, the hiss of espresso machines. Outside the window, students passed by in pairs or clusters, laughing, lost in the rush of late afternoon sunlight and deadlines. Then Wanda nodded once, as if confirming something she’d already suspected. Her voice came quietly, almost too gently “She’s in love with you, you know.”

You blinked, not quite processing. “What?”

“She loves you,” she repeated, softer now, like she was afraid saying it any louder would shatter you.

You stiffened, instinctively falling back behind old defenses that had served you well—especially lately. “No,” you said, shaking your head with more force than necessary. “She’s trying to fix a mistake. That’s not remotely the same thing.”

Wanda’s lips curled into a small smile—not mocking, not smug. Just… sad. Knowing. The kind of smile someone wears when they’ve seen this play out before and already know the ending “You’re sitting here touching her handwriting like you’re afraid it’ll disappear,” she said. You looked down without meaning to, hand still resting on the edge of Agatha’s note—creased and well-worn from how often you’d unfolded it, stared at it, folded it again. You hadn’t realized you were doing it. Not consciously. But Wanda had. Of course she had.

Your silence stretched. You didn’t look up. Wanda shifted, voice quieter but still firm, like she was laying down a truth that had no edges to argue with. “You can’t fake that kind of love. Not for this long. Not with this much… heart.” You swallowed hard, throat dry. Her words lodged somewhere deep, scraping against old wounds you weren’t sure had ever healed right.

“And I’ve seen her,” Wanda continued gently. “Asking about you. About us….. Around campus. Like she’s trying to find the right shape for something she’s never been brave enough to say.”

You said nothing. Couldn’t. The truth pressed heavy in your chest, stealing your breath before you even had a chance to protest “And you,” Wanda added, tipping her head with something like sympathy, “you’ve got that look in your eyes lately. Distant. Like you’re always somewhere else. Like you’re trying to remember how not to miss someone who isn’t really gone.”

You sat back slowly in your chair, fingers curling away from the note. The breath left your lungs in a tired exhale—soft, frayed at the edges. The kind of sound that didn’t quite resemble defeat, but something perilously close to surrender.

And then, softly, “I’m sorry.”

Wanda tilted her head. “For what?”

“I don’t know.” You swallowed thickly. “For still feeling something. For letting her get to me again. For not being able to stop hoping.”

Wanda reached over, placed her hand gently on top of yours “You don’t have to be sorry,” she said. “Not with me. You loved her. Maybe you still do. That doesn’t make you cruel.” You didn’t say anything else. You just sat there, eyes fixed on the handwriting beneath your fingertips, trying to convince yourself it was just ink on a page. And failing.

—————————————————————————

You were seated at the head of the long conference table in the university’s main staff hall, surrounded by colleagues from nearly every department. The another interdepartmental meeting—a logistical nightmare—was always exhausting. But today? Today you were distracted in a way that had nothing to do with curriculum updates or budget allocations.

Lilia sat two seats to your left, already sensing something was off. Jen and Alice were tucked together near the back, passing a clipboard between them and whispering under their breath like the world’s most discreet gossip channel. Wanda, steady as always, was next to you, pen poised over her notes, her eyes occasionally flickering your way.

Rio was here too, of course. Sitting perfectly poised on the other side of the room, lips pursed, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. You could feel her watching you from time to time, but you didn’t look back. You’d just been called to speak. You cleared your throat, standing with your notes in hand, palms slick with nervous energy that didn’t come from public speaking. You weren’t thinking about the faculty. You were thinking about Agatha. Your eyes scanned the room hoping to see her, but she wasn’t there yet.

Over the past several weeks, there hasn’t been one morning that you haven’t woken up to a sickeningly sweet text or two. Some reminding you to have a good day, but most on just how much she loves and appreciates you. She, true to her word was relentless. Sending notes, pastries, music, poetry, flowers even—each one worse for your heart than the last.

“For the philosophy department, I’d like to propose a revised approach to cross-disciplinary collaboration that emphasizes a more reflective framework for—”Then a voice cut in from the back of the room

“Excuse me.” It was strong. Clear. Familiar. Your blood ran cold. You turned slowly. Agatha Harkness stood in the doorway, dark coat draped over her arm, hair swept back like she hadn’t rushed here—but the wildness in her eyes said otherwise.

You could feel every person in the room turn to look at her. Conversations died mid-sentence. The university president leaned back in their chair, brows raised You blinked. “Agatha—”

She stepped forward “I know this isn’t the time,” she said, voice trembling just enough to betray how fast her heart was beating. “And I know you hate when I make things messy. But I can’t do quiet affection anymore.”

You froze. Jen sat upright, eyebrows shooting up. Alice nudged her so hard she almost dropped her tablet. Lilia’s eyes widened in horror. And Wanda—Wanda didn’t move. She just watched. Calm, but unreadable. Like she’d been waiting for this. Agatha continued “I’m irrevocably in love with you.”

The room froze—no one said anything, but the collective reaction was unmistakable. You stared at her, heart thudding in your throat “I’m sorry it took losing you to see it,” she said, her voice stronger now. “I’m sorry I let you feel like you were never chosen. That you were never enough. You were. You are.” Her eyes didn’t leave yours. “You’ve always been.”

Murmurs rippled through the room. You could feel Rio’s glare without even looking. Lilia’s mouth hung open. Alice was covering her face with both hands. Jen whispered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Holy shit.”

Agatha kept going “I don’t care if this is unprofessional. I don’t care if this is foolish. I’ll spend every day proving it, even if it takes the rest of my life. You told me nothing would be fixed overnight—and you’re right. But I’m not walking away again. Not now. Not ever.”

You were burning. Skin hot, ears red, every nerve in your body alight. Your heart said run to her. Your head said what the hell is happening right now? Someone in the back coughed. A few people exchanged whispers. The silence thickened again. You rubbed your temple. Your voice came out low, tired, and entirely human “What the hell are you doing?” It wasn’t cruel. Just… raw. Unsteady.

Agatha stepped forward once more “Whatever it takes,” she said. And she meant it. You could see it in the way her jaw was clenched, in the way her hands were balled into fists to stop them from shaking, in the way she looked at you—like you were the axis her world turned on.

She had done the impossible. She had made herself vulnerable, truly, and in front of every witness that mattered. She had chosen you—loudly. Undeniably. You stood there in the dead center of a full room, feeling more exposed than you ever had in your life.

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know how to feel. Wanda gently reached over and touched your arm, as if reminding you she was still there. Still beside you. Not pressuring. Just present. And even Rio, across the room, had fallen eerily quiet—her expression unreadable for once.

All eyes were on you. And all you could think was: Is this really fucking happening? Agatha Harkness had set the room on fire for you. And now the whole world was watching to see if you’d step into the flames. Your skin burned. Not just your cheeks—your entire body. From the base of your neck to the tips of your ears. You could feel the heat crawling up your spine, tight and suffocating like your own pulse was punishing you for staying still.

Every eye was still on you. You swallowed, lips parting like maybe a response would come, but nothing did. The silence was excruciating. Endless. Then, mercifully—A voice. One of the senior administrators stood and cleared their throat in that awkward, bureaucratic way that screamed damage control.

“Well,” they began, smiling too widely as their gaze darted nervously between you and Agatha, “thank you for that… spirited moment of honesty, Professor Harkness. Let’s go ahead and wrap up today’s meeting, shall we? Department heads, we’ll follow up next week on remaining items via email.”

You didn’t wait to be dismissed. You were already slinging your bag over your shoulder before the words had finished leaving their mouth. Your breath came fast, shallow, like your body had gone into flight mode without asking permission. As you turned sharply toward the exit, your hand reached out without thinking—fingers curling around the edge of Agatha’s sleeve.

You didn’t even look at her. You just dragged her with you. Gasps and whispers followed. You could feel them more than you heard them. Lilia’s muttered “Jesus Christ.” Alice whispering a “Go get her” under her breath. And Wanda— You didn’t even want to know what Wanda was thinking.

Your fingers didn’t release Agatha’s sleeve until you burst through the double doors at the far end of the hall. The cool air of the corridor hit your face, but it did nothing to calm you. You dropped her sleeve , she stumbled slightly behind you but didn’t stop.

“(Y/N)?” Agatha’s voice was uncertain now. Less sure. “Where are we—?” But you didn’t answer. You just kept walking. Fast. Determined. Past bulletin boards and closed doors and startled colleagues peeking out of their offices. You didn’t stop until you reached your own office door.

You flung it open with more force than necessary, storming inside. The space was warm, cluttered, familiar. Books stacked in uneven piles. A half-drunk mug of tea still on your desk. Papers scattered like leaves across every surface. You threw your bag onto your desk with a heavy thud, the strap knocking over a pen holder as it landed. Agatha lingered in the doorway behind you.

Still.

Silent.

Waiting.

You turned on her then. Slowly. The air between you heavy, electric, and almost unbearable. And for a long, painful moment—You just looked at her. Like you were still trying to decide if she was real. If this was real. If the woman who had once made you feel like you were asking for too much was really the same woman who just declared her love in front of half the university.

You stood there, facing her, chest still rising and falling too quickly. Hands clenched at your sides like they didn’t know what to do now that the storm had moved inside the room. Your lips parted. “I—” But Agatha moved first.

She stepped forward quickly, quietly—shutting the door behind her with a soft click that sealed the space between you and the rest of the world. The echo of it was louder than it had any right to be. She took another step toward you, slow and cautious, like you were a wild thing she was afraid of spooking. You flinched slightly at her closeness but didn’t back away. Not this time. She lifted a hand—not to touch, but to steady herself—and whispered “I’m so sorry baby.”

The words hung there. Simple. Soft. But weighted with everything she hadn’t said for months “I’m sorry I didn’t choose you when it mattered most,” she continued, her voice trembling now. “I was so caught up in fixing the past that I didn’t see the future standing right in front of me.”

You stared at her, every muscle in your body pulled tight, like you were waiting to fall or fly “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” she said. “But I did. And then I told myself it was safer to keep things quiet. To keep you quiet. Because the truth is, I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. And that terrified me.”

Your heart clenched. She took one more step forward. Her hands were shaking now. “You made me feel… seen. Held. Real. And I threw that away chasing closure that didn’t matter anymore.” You looked away for a moment, jaw tight, trying to gather every defense you’d built brick by brick.

But her next words cracked them clean open “I never looked at Rio the way I looked at you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when I was with her again, all I could think was, why doesn’t it feel the way it used to. Why doesn’t this feel right? How was it possible that you’d only sit beside me in silence and still make me feel more than she ever could with words?”

You blinked quickly, throat burning. Your eyes stung, and you hated how easily the emotion cracked through “And now I’ve embarrassed you,” she added with a soft, sad smile. “In front of everyone. Because I couldn’t keep pretending not to feel what I feel.”

You swallowed thickly. “Agatha…” She stepped even closer now, hands still not touching you—but her presence was overwhelming “I love you,” she said again, like the first time wasn’t enough. “I love you in a way that terrifies me. But I will learn how to love you in a way that never makes you question it again.”

You didn’t respond. Not right away. You didn’t know how to. Because your heart… your heart was melting. And it hurt. It hurt because it was real. Because this wasn’t some flippant apology or half-meant attempt to win you back. This was Agatha. Really Agatha. Standing in front of you with her armor off, her voice shaking, her pride left somewhere back in that conference room. And somehow, even after all this time, she still knew the exact words that could unravel you.

It hit you all at once. The weight of her words. The way she stood there trembling, eyes glassy and voice raw with truth. The silence that had dragged between you for months suddenly shattered under the force of something you’d tried so hard to ignore. You opened your mouth to reply—but nothing came out. Nothing could come out. The ache had climbed too far up your throat. Then, like a dam breaking, a soft whimper escaped you—barely a sound, really. Just breath caught on grief and longing and relief.

And before you even realized what you were doing, you moved. You crashed into her like gravity had finally won. Your hands fisted the lapels of her coat, dragging her down to you with a desperation that had been years in the making. Agatha gasped softly, caught between surprise and instinct, before her arms came around you in an instant—holding you like she was terrified you’d disappear. Your noses bumped, your breaths tangled, and then—She kissed you. And you kissed her back. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.

It was everything you’d both been too afraid to say. It was breathless and aching, desperate and unrefined. Her lips were warm, trembling against yours, like she couldn’t believe this was happening. Like she was terrified you’d change your mind mid-kiss. Your fingers slid into her coat, clutching at her shoulders, her back, her hair—anything that would pull her closer.

Agatha cupped your face in her hands, thumbs brushing tears you didn’t even realize had started to fall. Her mouth moved against yours like she was pouring every unsent email, every unsaid apology, every late-night memory into it. She kissed you like she was claiming something that was never hers to take for granted. You kissed her like you were finally letting go of all the pain. And in that moment, neither of you breathed—afraid even that would make it vanish. When you finally pulled back, your foreheads stayed pressed together. Both of you panting, eyes closed, lost in the space between now and what comes next “I still don’t completely trust you,” you whispered, voice hoarse, breath brushing against her lips. “But I want to.”

Agatha’s eyes opened. There was no fear in them now. Only something fierce. Steady “I’ll earn it,” she swore. “Every day. Every damn inch.”

You held her gaze, fingers still curled into her coat. The world outside your office might’ve still been reeling, gossiping, whispering about the scene she caused, but in here—it was just the two of you “…If you’re going to leave me again,” you said quietly, eyes guarded “don’t you dare fucking come back—”

Agatha’s expression shifted. Her grip on your waist tightened, anchoring you to her chest, her heartbeat racing against yours “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, voice fierce and clear, like a vow. “Not without you.” And this time… you almost believed her.

You stared at her, breath still uneven, heart rattling like it didn’t know how to settle inside your chest. Agatha’s eyes were locked on yours—wide, dark, shining. Her hands still cupped your face, fingertips trembling as if she was afraid to let go, afraid this whole thing might dissolve if she so much as blinked. And then she kissed you again.

No hesitation this time. No permission asked. Just need. You gasped softly into her mouth, arms instinctively rising to loop around her neck, fingers tangling in the ends of her hair. She groaned low against your lips, the sound vibrating through you like a spark igniting something deep in your stomach. Her hands slipped from your face, down to your waist, gripping you tighter like she could pull you closer—closer still—until there wasn’t even space for doubt between you. She kissed you like she was trying to make you remember her. Not the version who broke your heart—but the one who knew how to worship it.

It was intense. Fierce. Possessive. You barely registered her moving, only that your body was suddenly shifting—guided. Her hands pressed against your lower back as she walked you back, step by step, until the edge of your desk bumped against the backs of your thighs. You pulled back just long enough to look at her, lips swollen, chest rising and falling fast “Agatha—”

“Shhh,” she whispered, eyes dark with heat and something deeper. Something reverent. “Let me show you.” And then she lifted you. Just like that. Her hands curled under your thighs and hoisted you up with surprising ease, setting you down on the edge of your desk. Papers crumpled beneath you. A pen clattered to the floor. But you didn’t care. You couldn’t. Because she was kissing you again—deeper this time. Hungrier. Like she’d been starved for the taste of you and was only now realizing how much she’d missed.

Her hands gripped your hips, anchoring you to her like you might try to leave again. And maybe she didn’t blame you. But this? This was her proving something. To you. To herself. To the version of her that had let you slip away. You clutched at the front of her coat, yanking her impossibly closer, your legs bracketing her hips instinctively as you pressed into the kiss like it was the only thing keeping you upright. She pulled back for just a breath, forehead pressing into yours, lips brushing. Her voice was wrecked “I should’ve done this months ago…”

Your hands moved to her collar, thumbs stroking along her neck. ���You didn’t. But you’re here now.”

Agatha nodded, jaw tightening. “And I’m never letting you forget it again.” She surged forward, capturing your mouth once more—this time slower but no less consuming. Like she was claiming every inch of space she’d once given up. Like she needed you to know: this time, there would be no halfway.

Only everything. She didn’t give you a chance to breathe. Not that you wanted her to. Agatha kissed you like her life depended on it—like if she stopped, you might vanish again. Her hands never stilled, slipping beneath your coat, gripping your hips with a pressure that sent sparks straight through your spine. You arched into her without thinking, your fingers tugging at her collar, pulling her closer until there was nothing but heat and heartbeat and the ragged rhythm of your mouths colliding again and again.

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and Agatha groaned into you—low and wrecked and full of a hunger you’d only ever dreamed she might feel for you. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t soft. This was months of repression, of longing, of wrong timing and broken chances, spilling out all at once.

Her lips trailed down to your jaw, then your throat, her breath hot against your skin as she whispered your name like a prayer. You gasped, nails dragging lightly down her back. She bit back a moan, her hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your coat open as she kissed her way back to your mouth, taking it with a fire that made your whole body ache.

You didn’t even know when your hands slipped beneath her sweater, but you needed to feel her—her skin, her warmth, the solidity of her being here, finally, now “God,” you breathed between kisses. “You—Agatha—”

“I know,” she whispered, forehead pressed to yours, her voice shaking. “I know. I missed you too.” You kissed her again. Hard. And she kissed you back like she was trying to carve her name into your bones. And you let her. Because for the first time, she wasn’t kissing you in secret. She wasn’t holding back. She was here. Present. Wanting. Yours. Her coat had slipped down her shoulders, your legs locked around her waist as her hands explored your waist, your ribs, anything she could reach.

The desk creaked under your shifting weight, but neither of you noticed. Her teeth grazed your bottom lip and you gasped—only for her to chase the sound like it belonged to her. You didn’t want to stop. Not when she felt this good. Not when her mouth made you forget the ache she’d caused. Eventually—reluctantly—you pulled back. Breathing hard, your fingers still tangled in the fabric at her waist, your lips swollen, flushed, dazed.

Agatha looked at you like she was lost in a dream. Her lips were kiss-bruised, pupils blown wide, her hands still resting on your thighs as if she didn’t quite trust this moment wouldn’t dissolve between heartbeats. You brushed your nose against hers, trying to slow the rush of it all. You let the silence fall between you for a beat—just long enough to ground yourself in what this really was “This doesn’t fix everything,” you said softly, voice still trembling. “We’re not… whole. Not yet.”

Agatha nodded slowly, her fingers squeezing gently at your hips. “I know.”

You licked your lips, still tasting her. “But maybe… maybe we can build something better. Not perfect. Just… real.” Her gaze locked onto yours, and something softened behind her eyes. Not sadness. Not regret. Just hope.

“Real sounds like everything I’ve ever wanted,” she said. You rested your forehead against hers again, your hands finally stilling where they curled at the sides of her neck. You both stayed like that—breathing each other in, hearts pounding, clothes rumpled, promises unspoken but understood.

This wasn’t the end. It was the beginning. And this time, it wasn’t a false start. It was something new. Something earned.

The next morning felt… strange. Not in a bad way. Not exactly. Just heightened. Like the air around you had shifted. Like the world had tilted a few degrees off center, and now you were watching everything from a slightly different angle.

Agatha had left your office late the night before. Late enough that the hallways were empty. Late enough that neither of you had to face the lingering stares—yet. You hadn’t talked much after. Just sat together, curled up in the quiet aftermath, her hand resting over yours on the desk like she was still afraid you might pull away.

You didn’t.

But now?

Now it was daylight. Now it was real. And the university hadn’t forgotten what it saw. Not when your inbox had three unread messages by 7 a.m., all vaguely worded inquiries from staff members wondering if you were “alright” or “needed time.” Not when Lilia sent you a single line of text—“I support you. I also might murder her if she hurts you again.” And certainly not when you walked into the faculty lounge and every single head turned.

You paused in the doorway, gripping your mug a little too tightly. Agatha was already there, seated at the long table near the back. She looked up when she sensed you, and for a moment—just a flicker—you saw uncertainty in her eyes. But then she smiled. Small. Tentative. Real. And you smiled back. It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t cross the room and kiss her. You didn’t drop your things and run to her side. But you walked over. Sat down across from her. Took a sip of your coffee. Her fingers brushed yours beneath the table, barely a touch. You didn’t pull away. That was enough for now.

Later that week, Wanda dropped by your office. She didn’t say much at first—just leaned against the doorframe, watching you grade papers with that quiet, knowing calm she always carried. You looked up, smiled cautiously “I didn’t expect you to still check in on me considering….”

Wanda tilted her head. “I didn’t come to check in.” You arched a brow “I came to make sure that you’re happy,” she said.

Your breath caught. But you nodded “It’s… new. Fragile. But yeah. I think I am. ”

She gave a soft smile. “Good. She’s fighting for you now. Don’t let her forget to keep doing that.” And then she was gone, leaving you with a warmth in your chest you didn’t know how to name. Wanda truly was a remarkable woman, she helped heal something in you. You’re just sorry she wasn’t the remarkable woman your heart desired.

Lunch with Alice and Jen was a little different that day as well “That was possibly the most dramatic workplace confession I’ve ever witnessed,” Alice said around a bite of her sandwich. “Ten out of ten for entertainment. Subtracting one point for public humiliation though...”

Jen grinned. “I gave her credit for not crying. Or begging. She kept it just on the right side of tragic romantic comedy.”

You groaned. “Can we not do this now or ever?”

“We love you,” Alice said, bumping your knee under the table. “And we just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.” You did. You were still figuring it out. But yes—you knew. Agatha was more cautious now. Every glance she gave you in the hallway came with a question in her eyes. Every shared meeting, every brief moment between classes—she made space for you to decide what this was, what you wanted it to be.

She didn’t push. She didn’t perform. She just showed up. Consistently. Quietly. The way you always wished she had before. When your hands brushed in the lounge, she didn’t yank away. When you laughed at something she said during a meeting, she smiled like it meant everything.

The whispers died down eventually. People always moved on. But your story didn’t go back to what it was before. And that was the point. It grew into something different. Something gentler. Slower. Deliberate. Agatha brought you coffee most mornings. You never asked—she just remembered. You sent her poems again. Slipped under her door like they used to be. You ate lunch together twice a week, sometimes in silence, sometimes with laughter.

It was rebuilding. In inches, not miles. But this time, the foundation was better. Because now, every choice was made with clarity. With care. Not fear. Not guilt. Just want. And that? That was enough. That was everything. It had only been a few weeks since her very public display. Just long enough for the chaos to settle. Just long enough for the gossip to fade into the background, for people to stop pausing when you walked into a room, for Rio to stop pretending she wasn’t still irritated by the entire spectacle.

And in that time, Agatha had been… everything. Attentive without being overbearing. Present without pressure. She never asked for more than you could give, but she always gave more than you expected. Her affection came in quiet gestures—warm drinks slid into your hand during early meetings, scribbled notes tucked into your books, half-sarcastic, half-sincere texts late at night that made you smile even when you didn’t want to.

She was learning. You both were. And somewhere between the surprise lunches and the shared office hours, somewhere between stolen kisses behind closed doors and whispered apologies in passing—You realized you were in trouble. Because it was getting harder to pretend you weren’t head over heels in love with her. Not when she looked at you like you held the entire sky in your eyes. Not when she touched you with reverence, like she was still amazed you let her at all. Not when she said your name like it meant something holy. You hadn’t said it yet. I love you. Not back.

Not out loud. But you felt it. Every time she held your hand across the center console while she drove you home. Every time she waited outside your office just to walk you to the lounge. Every time she looked at you like you were still her favorite secret—even now that the world knew.

And it was making you reckless. You caught yourself staring more often. Letting your fingers linger just a second too long on her arm. Smiling at her with something softer than you meant to reveal. Letting your guard slip piece by piece. You tried to hide it. To keep some part of yourself tucked away in case this still fell apart. But when she leaned against the doorway of your office one Friday evening, holding a little box of your favorite chocolates, her hair tied back in a loose waves, exhaustion in her eyes—your heart ached with just how much you loved her.

She stepped inside like she’d done it a hundred times, closing the door behind her, dropping the box on your desk before sitting on the edge of it “I figured you’d need a bribe if I was going to steal you away from work tonight.”

You raised a brow. “Steal me?”

She shrugged, leaning closer, voice low and teasing. “Kidnap. Woo. Spirit away. You can pick the language. I’m flexible.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Agatha grinned, but then—her expression shifted. Softened. “But I mean it. I want time with you. Not as an apology. Not as a fix. Just as… us.” Something in your chest squeezed. You stood slowly, rounding the desk until you were standing between her legs, her knees brushing your hips.

She looked up at you like she didn’t dare breathe. And you—God, you wanted to say it. You love her. But instead, you cupped her jaw gently, brushing your thumb over the corner of her mouth, and said, “I’m already yours. You don’t have to steal me.”

Her breath hitched. Her hands found your hips. You leaned in. Let your forehead rest against hers. And though the words sat right on the edge of your lips, you still didn’t say them. Not yet. But you were close. You didn’t even get to argue. The second your laptop closed, Agatha was already tugging your coat off the back of your chair and draping it over your shoulders like she’d been planning this for days. Her hands lingered at your collar. Her smile was bright, but the look in her eyes? That was something else entirely.

Something hopeful. Something deliberate “Come on,” she said softly, brushing your hair back from your face. “You’ve been working too much. And I’ve got reservations I may or may not have bribed someone for.”

You blinked. “You made reservations?”

Agatha smirked, leaning in to whisper against your ear. “It’s called courting. Let me romance you, please darling.”

You flushed. “I—okay.” And just like that, you let her take your hand and guide you out of your office, down the long corridor, past whatever mess still lingered in the whispers of your colleagues. You didn’t care. Not with her fingers intertwined with yours. Not when she looked at you like this.

Dinner was stunning. The kind of place with soft candlelight flickering off crystal glassware, live jazz humming through hidden speakers, and a panoramic window view of the city skyline. Agatha had requested a table near the edge, just slightly tucked away, as if she wanted to show you off without making a scene.

She was effortless—her blazer sharp, her perfume warm and clean, her gaze never straying from you for long. And you… you spent most of the meal falling apart inside because she kept saying things like “Do you remember our first joint lecture? You made me look like I had a soul.” Or— “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who makes me feel this grounded.” And then the worst of them, whispered low as her hand brushed yours across the table “You make me want things I thought I couldn’t have anymore.”

By the time dessert came—some soft, elegant thing layered in chocolate and berry—you were certain your heart was no longer in your chest but somewhere at her mercy, resting between your empty wine glass and her folded napkin. But the night wasn’t over “I have one more surprise,” she said as you walked outside, cool air curling around the collar of your coat.

You gave her a look. “You’re spoiling me.”

She lifted your hand to her lips, kissed your knuckles. “That’s the plan.”

She led you to a nearby private elevator with a keycard she definitely shouldn’t have had access to—but knowing Agatha, she could charm just about anything out of anyone. When the doors opened at the top floor, she stepped aside with a slight bow “After you.”

You stepped onto the rooftop and your breath caught. The city stretched out in every direction, glittering and alive beneath the stars. String lights wrapped around the edge of the railing, flickering like fireflies, and a soft breeze tugged at your coat as you walked forward, stunned “Agatha…”

She came up behind you, wrapping her arms gently around your waist, resting her chin on your shoulder. “I used to come up here when I needed space. To think. To remember who I was.” You leaned back against her, heart already aching “But lately,” she continued, her voice softer now, “I come up here to think about the future.”

You turned slightly, just enough to look at her. “Yeah?”

She smiled, almost shy. “I’ve been thinking about what it might look like… if you were always in it.” You froze. Her eyes searched yours. “Not just this. Not just now. I mean something bigger. Permanent.” A pause. “Lifelong.”

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. The words slipped out before you could pull them back, before fear could catch up “I love you.” Agatha’s breath hitched. Your heart felt like it had burst open in your chest. You blinked, lips parting, because you hadn’t even planned to say it. But it was true. God, it was so true “I love you,” you said again, quieter this time, eyes shimmering.

Agatha’s hand cupped your cheek so gently, it nearly undid you. She didn’t say anything for a moment—just stared at you like you’d rewired the stars. Then she kissed you. And this kiss was different. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It wasn’t tangled in grief or longing or guilt.

It was full.

Whole.

Loving.

When she pulled back, her voice was thick with emotion “I love you too. I’ve never been more certain of anything.” You rested your forehead against hers, your fingers tangled in the lapel of her coat, and for the first time since everything began—You felt like the story was finally beginning. And this time, it was yours to write together.

You didn’t pull away. Not after the kiss. Not after the way she said it—I love you too—like it was the only truth that had ever mattered. Instead, you leaned in closer brushing your nose against her own, your breath still shaky from everything that had just been said “Say it again,” you whispered, voice low, almost daring.

Agatha’s lips curled. “I love you too.”

You didn’t let her finish the breath after it.

You kissed her—hard. It was different from the tenderness before. This kiss was heat and hunger, the kind that rolled up from somewhere low in your stomach and took over completely. You grabbed the front of her coat, tugging her closer with a force that had her stumbling forward with a breathless laugh against your mouth. Her hands were on your waist immediately, gripping through the fabric of your coat like she didn’t care you were still out in the open air, surrounded by string lights and stars and the city humming beneath your feet.

You deepened the kiss, your body pressing fully against hers, and she melted into you without hesitation—like kissing you was something she was born to do. Agatha pulled back just slightly, lips brushing yours, her voice a rough, teasing whisper. “If you keep kissing me like that, I’m going to forget we’re on a rooftop.”

“Good,” you murmured, catching her bottom lip between your teeth before you let it go. “Because I’m very much done being on this rooftop.”

She blinked at you, pupils blown, breath catching. “Yeah?”

You nodded slowly, fingers sliding down the front of her coat. “Let’s go. Now.” Agatha didn’t need to be told twice.

She laced her fingers with yours, pressing one last kiss to your cheek, and with a smirk that promised trouble—the kind you’d dreamed about for years—she whispered “Your place or mine then?”

You smirked back “Whichever’s closer.” The moment you both slid into the car, it was clear: keeping your hands to yourselves wasn’t going to happen.

Agatha had barely fastened her seatbelt before you leaned over the console and pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck, just below her jaw—slow, lingering. She let out a sharp breath, fingers tightening on the steering wheel “You’re going to make me crash,” she muttered, half warning, half prayer.

You grinned, brushing your lips over the shell of her ear. “Then drive faster.”

She did. The city blurred past, lights streaking through the windows like stars in motion, but neither of you could focus. Your hand never left her thigh, your fingers teasing slow circles over the fabric of her slacks. She kept sneaking glances your way, her jaw clenched, breathing uneven—like she was using every last bit of control to keep from pulling over and dragging you into the back seat.

You couldn’t stop touching her, kissing her knuckles when she reached for the gearshift. Tugging on the collar of her coat to pull her toward you at red lights, nipping her bottom lip teasingly between each slow kiss. By the time she pulled into her building’s parking garage, she was visibly shaking “You’re a damn menace,” she said, voice dark and rough as she threw the car in park.

You just smirked and leaned across the console one last time. “And you love it.” Getting upstairs was a blur. She didn’t even bother pretending to be patient. Her hand was locked around yours from the moment you stepped into the elevator, and when the doors finally opened on her floor, she yanked you down the hallway with a kind of focused urgency that had your knees going weak.

And when the door clicked open—barely, just barely—Agatha was already pushing you inside. The door slammed shut behind you. And then she had you. She pinned you against it before you could say a word, her mouth crashing onto yours with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. You gasped into her, and she swallowed the sound greedily, her hands already fisting in your coat, yanking it open with impatient fingers.

“You drive me insane,” she muttered between kisses, one hand pressing flat to your waist, the other sliding up to cradle your jaw. “Do you know what it’s been like—watching you, wanting you—and not being allowed to touch you like this?”

Your only answer was a moan as she pressed harder into you, her thigh sliding between yours, your hands scrambling at the button of her slacks with all the subtlety of someone on the edge of ruin. You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Then stop waisting time.”

Agatha’s eyes burned—lit with something hungry and possessive and worshipful all at once “Oh, I have no intention of waiting anymore.” She kissed you again—deeper, hotter—her body molding to yours as if trying to prove every promise she’d made on that rooftop with the press of her mouth and the drag of her hands. Her teeth caught your bottom lip and you gasped, legs tightening around her thigh where it slotted between yours.

Whatever came next, whatever words were still waiting to be said, could wait. Right now? She was going to make up for lost time. Clothes hit the floor in pieces—buttons popped, shoes kicked off in a stumbling blur of mouths and hands and half-choked laughter between kisses that never stayed gentle for long. Agatha guided you backward down the hallway, lips never leaving yours, her hands greedy and unrelenting as they skimmed over skin she’d once only dreamed of touching again.

By the time your back hit her bed, you were breathless. Dizzy. Her name fell from your lips like a plea. She crawled over you slowly, like she was savoring it. Like this moment had been carved out of time just for her to memorize every part of you all over again. Her eyes were dark with desire, yes—but behind it, something more reverent. Tender.

“You’re even more beautiful now that I’m allowed to keep you,” she whispered, pressing a trail of kisses down your collarbone, her fingers dancing down your ribs, teasing your skin until you arched into her touch with a gasp. Your hands found her back, fingers dragging down until she shivered above you.

“You always had me,” you murmured, pulling her down into another kiss. “You just didn’t know what to do with it.” Agatha growled softly into your mouth, one of her hands sliding between your thighs teasingly.

You inhale sharply as her touch ignites your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Your eyes darken with desire, gaze boring into hers with an intensity that steals her breath. She shivers under the weight of your stare, heart hammering wildly in her chest.

"Show me," you breathe, voice heavy with want. Your hands skim back up her sides, settling on the dip of her waist. She inhales sharply, arching into your touch. Free hand roaming greedily over your chest, tracing the curve of your breast, committing them to memory.

She leans down, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "I'm going to take my time with you," she whispers, her voice low and sultry, dripping with unspoken promises. "I want to taste every inch of you. Make you feel things you've never felt before."

Her tongue traces the lobe of your ear, drawing a shuddering breath from you. Your fingers dig into the soft flesh of her hips, urging her closer. She chuckles softly, a sound of pure sin and sweet seduction. "All night long," she purrs. "Until the only name you remember... is mine."

Then she kisses you. And it's not gentle. It's hungry. It's impatient. It's everything you've been craving since the moment you walked through her door. It's a promise of pleasure. A guarantee of completeness. A vow of eternal, unforgettable devotion. It's everything you've ever wanted. Everything you'll ever need. You hummed into the kiss hips snapping forward, you could feel yourself growing wet “ please—”

Agatha's head dips, her lips trailing down your neck, over the slope of your shoulder. Your skin prickles with heat and anticipation. She inhales, breathing in your scent, a mix of desire and desperation "I know," she murmurs against your skin. "I can feel it."

Her hand slips further between your thighs, fingers gliding over your slick folds. They dip inside, stroking your inner walls, curling and pressing against that sensitive spot that makes your toes curl "Look at you baby," she coos softly, almost reverently. "So wet for me. So ready." She circles your clit with the pads of two fingers, teasing the swollen bud. Your hips buck upwards, chasing her touch. Wanting more.

"Yes, you need this, don't you?" Agatha whispers. "You need me to fill up this pretty little pussy." Her thumb flicks over your clit, a hard, fast, intense press. You cry out at the sudden jolt of pleasure, hands fisting in the sheets beneath you as you but you lip stifling a whimper.

"Don't hold back, baby. I want to hear you." Her fingers pump faster, the obscene sound of your arousal echoing through the room. Her palm grinds against your clit with each thrust, the pressure building, your climax chasing faster than before. Your thighs tremble on either side of her hips, every inch of you drawn taut and coiled, waiting, yearning, craving...

"Please," you whimper brokenly, your grip tightening on the sheets, nails digging into the fabric. "Please baby, I need... I need..."

"I know." Agatha's voice is a low murmur against your ear. Triumphant. Assured. "I know exactly what you need, sweetheart." And then she pushes two fingers deep inside you, curling against that hidden spot, grinding against it ruthlessly. Her thumb presses down hard on your clit, rubbing unmerciful circles around the sensitive bud.

Your climax hits you with the force of a tidal wave, crashing over you, drowning you. You scream her name like a prayer, like a mantra, like the only word you know how to say. Your vision goes white as ecstasy pulses through every nerve ending, your body shaking and jerking in her grasp.

She holds you through it, murmuring praise and adoration, stroking you down as you float back to yourself. When you finally open your eyes, sated and sleepy, she's watching you with a soft, tender smile "That's my good girl," she whispers, brushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead. " My everything."

You whimper softly, hips grinding helplessly against Agatha's hand as a powerful climax crashes through you like a tidal wave. "Please... I need more," you beg, your voice raw and broken as ecstasy pulses through every nerve ending, every cell in your body screaming for more of her touch.

Agatha doesn't hesitate. She continues pumping her fingers deep inside you, curling them hard against your spasming walls, stroking you with ruthless precision as you ride out the aftershocks of your release. At the same time, leaning down and closing her mouth around one of your nipples, suckling greedily, hissing softly as you buck against her touch.

You can feel her fingers slick with your arousal, dripping with your need as she thrusts them in and out of your fluttering channel, fucking you through your orgasm until you're writhing against the sheets, mewling helplessly as overstimulation threatens to overload your senses “Whatever you need my love—," Agatha whispered breathlessly as she releases your nipple with a sharp nip, continuing the path down you torso. Her free hand grips your hip, spreading your thighs wider to slip down and position herself comfortably between them, opening you up fully to her relentless touch. "I want to feel you fall apart sweetheart. I want to taste you come undone like only I can make you do..."

She leaned down sealing her lips around your clit, suckling hard as her fingers drive into you, pounding your sensitive flesh. The sensation is overwhelming, the pleasure so intense that it borders on pain. But you don't want her to stop. You never want her to stop "Yes, yes, yes!" you chant deliriously, fingers clawing at your own hair as you arch your back, pressing your chest against her mouth. "More, please more..."

Agatha doesn't let up, her fingers plunging deep as her tongue swirls and flickers over your swollen clit. She's determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from your trembling body, to push you past the limits of endurance until all you can do is feel the raw, electric pulse of your own pleasure.

She can feel your walls starting to flutter around her fingers, your body tensing as another climax builds deep in your core. She moans against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pure bliss radiating outward from your throbbing sex "That's it, baby..." Agatha breathes, pressing a kiss to your clit before releasing it from the hot prison of her mouth. "You're going to come for me again, sweetheart” she whispered almost commandingly “I need to hear you scream my name..."

Her fingers drive up into you, hard and fast and deep. The heel of her palm grinds against your clit as she feels your body start to seize, to clamp down and squeeze her fingers. "Now, baby. Give it to me now," Agatha demands, and you have no choice but to obey. Your climax crashes over you like a tidal wave, drowning you in sensation, ravaging you with the force of your pleasure.

Your scream echoes off the walls, reverberating through the room like a war cry, a demand, a desperate plea. You writhe and convulse beneath Agatha as she milks your climax for every Agatha continues her relentless assault, lapping and suckling at your gushing, twitching sex until the last waves of your climax subside. She doesn't stop until your hips start to rock into her touch once more, craving more of that sweet friction, that exquisite pressure.

Pressing a final, possessive kiss to your sensitive flesh, Agatha trail her lips up your thigh, pressing nip after nip into the delicate skin. Each bite sends a fresh spark of arousal through you, stoking the embers of your desire back into a raging inferno. Rising languidly from the bed, Agatha saunters over to the dresser, her hips swaying with a seductive rhythm. She pauses for the briefest of moments before reaching into the bottom drawer, pulling out a vibrant purple strap, larger than anything you’ve used on yourself most definitely.

Her eyes clash with yours, burning with a hunger that steals your breath. You bite your lip, nodding softly as you spread your thighs wider in clear invitation, a silent plea for her to take you, claim you, fill you... complete you. Agatha groans deeply at the sight of you splayed out before her, a carnal offering awaiting her touch. "Fuck, baby. Look at you. So gorgeous. So perfect..."

Within moments, she has the harness secured snug around her hips, the thick cock protruding obscenely from her waist. Your eyes widen and a shudder wracks down your body as she stalks back towards you. Mounting the bed, she settles between your thighs, the thick head of the toy nudging against your slick, swollen entrance.

Ducking her head, Agatha swallows your gasp of anticipation with a deep, claiming kiss, her tongue delving into your mouth, tangling with yours. As she kisses you, she rolls her hips forward just once, pushing slowly into your welcoming heat. Your back arches at the exquisite stretch, the delicious pressure of being filled, claimed, taken. You can feel every rigid inch of the toy as it parts your walls, delving deeper, reaching higher, stroking your most sensitive places.

"You feel that, baby?" Agatha whispers when she breaks the kiss, her lips brushing yours. "Feel me stretching this perfect little cunt? Making her mine?" She punctuates her words with a subtle thrust of her hips, driving the strap-on a little deeper, a little harder. Your walls flutter and squeeze around the firm length, drawing her in, begging her to fill you utterly.

"Yes—" you gasped eyes rolling back, nails digging into her back, anchoring her to you. "Yes, I feel it. It's so big. It's...ah! Fuck—"

Agatha smirks at your breathless praise, a wicked glint in her eye. "That's it, sweetheart. This pussy was made to be stretched by me. Made to be stuffed full of my cock, again and again..." She starts to move then, rolling her hips in a slow, steady rhythm. The toy drags along your walls with each thrust, stroking your sweet spots, igniting sparks of pleasure that build and grow and consume you from within.

Your head falls back against the bed, a pillow of tangled hair and sweat-sheened skin, as Agatha begins to thrust with purpose, each drive of her hips a claiming motion intent on owning every inch of your most intimate space "Oh fuck!" you cry out, voice breaking on a whimper of pure, unadulterated pleasure. "So fuckin' deep..."

You can feel the strap-on delving into you, splitting you open, reaching places no one else ever has. It's a delicious invasion, a beautiful claiming, a relentless pressure that borders on pain but brings only ecstasy. Your hips rise to meet hers, matching her fervor, her desire, your body desperate to be filled, to be used for her pleasure. The room fills with the symphony of your coupling - the slap of skin on skin, the slick glide of the toy plunging into your dripping sex, your wanton cries and breathless moans.

"That's it, baby," Agatha pants, braced above you, her hair a wild halo around her flushed face, "Take it . Take every fuckin' inch..." She leans down to capture your nipple between her teeth, biting down just hard enough to make you jerk and clench around the thick length spearing you open. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure and pain blending into a heady cocktail that sets your nerves alight.

Your hands claw at her back, nails raking down the sweat-slicked flesh as your body bucks and writhes beneath the force of her thrusts. You can feel yourself losing control, succumbing to the sheer, primal bliss of being possessed so utterly, you wailed, walls starting to flutter and clench around the plunging length as your climax builds at the base of your spine. "Harder baby, fuck me harder..."

Agatha complies with a dark chuckle, slamming into you with renewed vigor. The bed creaks and shakes with the force of her thrusts, slamming against the wall as she takes you with wild abandon "You want it harder?" she growls, the words vibrating through you. "You want me to ruin this hungry little cunt?"

"Yes, fuck yes!" you scream, too lost in sensation to care how desperate you sound. "Ruin me, baby. Fuckin' wreck me..." Your climax hits you like a freight train, tearing through you, shattering you from the inside out. Your vision goes white, your scream echoes off the walls as ecstasy crashes over you in overwhelming waves. Your sex clamps down rhythmically, squeezing and milking the strap-on as your orgasm rips you apart, chest heaving and breasts bouncing with each powerful clench.

Agatha slows her thrusts to a languid, sensual pace as she feels your walls start to flutter and quiver around her pulling her deeper, your climax building to a fever pitch. She wants to savor this moment, to linger in the exquisite feeling of your body yielding to her touch, accepting her completely. Leaning down, she claims your mouth in a slow, deep kiss, her tongue languidly stroking yours as she rocks into you one last time before slowly, reluctantly pulling out.

You gasp softly into her mouth, a hiss escaping your lips as you feel the loss of her, the emptiness inside you a stark contrast to the pleasure still coursing through your veins.

Agatha slips off the bed, your slick dripping down your thighs and onto the rumpled sheets. She makes quick work of unfastening the strap-on, tossing it carelessly to the floor before striding towards the bathroom, her lithe form a study in sin and satisfaction.

She returns a moment later with a small, damp washcloth, the fabric cool and soothing in her hands. Sitting back down between your trembling thighs, Agatha starts to clean your soft flesh, gentling you down from your erotic high with a tender touch.

You shiver as the cool cloth brushes over your sensitive sex, your skin still hot and aching from your intense coupling. But the sensation is also soothing, the knowledge that she cares for you, for your pleasure and your comfort, in a way that no one else ever has "That's my girl," she murmurs softly as she wipes away the last traces of your climax, the last remnants of her claim on your body. "Such a beautiful girl, so responsive, so perfect..."

Setting the washcloth aside, Agatha leans forward to press a single, reverent kiss to the apex of your thighs, the meet of your sex. Her lips linger there, breathing in the scent of your arousal, your pleasure, searing it into her memory. Then she's climbing back into bed beside you, pulling you into her arms, cradling your trembling body against her own. Her hands stroke down your sides, soothing the last little flutters and twitches from your climax.

You lay tangled in her sheets—limbs draped over limbs, hearts pounding slower now but still synced. Agatha’s arm was tucked under your head, her other hand tracing idle shapes along your spine. The moonlight through the curtains cast soft shadows across her bare shoulder, her lips swollen and parted, breath evening out.

You were both drifting, on the edge of sleep, but still tethered by the press of warm skin and the taste of lazy kisses passed back and forth without thought You shifted slightly, your nose brushing hers. “So… this is what making up looks like?”

Agatha hummed, pressing a barely-there kiss to your cheek. “Only the beginning.” You smiled into her neck, eyes heavy. Her hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, anchoring you gently to her chest.

“All mine.” she murmured. And in that quiet, sacred moment—intertwined, tangled up in love and sheets and everything you’d nearly lost—you believed her. You let yourself fall asleep in her arms. Because this time, she was staying. And so were you.

[dexxtrosee]

In the middle of the night

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader

TW: mentions of canon violent mass event, panic attack.

He doesn’t talk to you about it.

Days pass and pass, and then they turn into weeks. More patients come, more patients die, more patients live. Jake doesn’t talk to him, Leah's parents invite him to the funeral. Still, he doesn’t tell you about any of it, aside from shaking his head when you ask when Jake's coming over again. It was on the news, he's not stupid enough to think you have no clue about what he went through, you just don't know how bad it was.

You don’t know any of it from his own mouth, and still, it bothers him when you don’t seem even slightly surprised every time he wakes you up with his nightmares and his crying. You just let him hide his face on your neck, let him clutch your body against his while the sobs wreck him. You push his hair back, kiss his forehead, wait until he's calm enough to manhandle him back to lying down. He falls asleep to your fingers tracing the lines of his face more often than not.

One particularly bad night, he manages to wake himself up in silence, petrified. You don’t seem to notice at first, breath soft and slow, still sleeping. He can’t move, can’t make a single sound. His chest feels tight, his head is drowning in screams and sobs and people telling him he's not good enough.

The bed feels too soft, his shirt is choking him. Why couldn't he save them? Why is he even fucking trying? Fuck, he can't breathe. Adamson died on his watch, he made him suffer through a horrible, long death because he couldn't let go. And everyone had to watch him do it again with Leah, cling to an impossible task while docens of people needed him and she was already fucking dead. Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck-

"Robby. Hey, Robby, look at me. Open your eyes love, come on."

Your voice makes him jump. He realizes for the first time he's hyperventilating now, squeezing his eyes shut.

God, he feels pathetic for putting you through this again and again. You're gonna end up leaving him, he's sure. He's too much and too little at the same time, more baggage than man. He can’t keep doing this to you, he can't, he can't he can't-

"Robby, open your eyes."

He feels you grab his arms and pull him into a sitting position. His entire body breaks into shivers, his heart trying its best to burst out of his chest.

"Robby, open your eyes."

When he finally does, he doesn’t like the concern plastered over your features. He pushes you away slightly, bending to the side.

"I-I think I'm gonna be sick."

You don’t seem to listen to him, instead jumping over the blankets until you're kneeling by his side. You push his head back with the heel of your hand, and he closes his eyes again. He doesn’t think he can handle your worry right now.

A balloon stretches inside his throat. His hands fly to clutch at his neck, but your hand grips them both and pushes them down until they're pressed against his legs. You're seeing right through him, right into all the things he's tried hiding from you ever since he met you.

He doesn’t want it to reach you.

"Robby, I think my lip is bleeding. Can you take a look at it?"

Your question freezes him on the spot. Did he accidentally hit you? Oh fuck, fuck-

"I bit my lip too hard earlier today, I was sewing up my green sweater and got lost in my head. It's the one you gave me, remember? The knitted one."

Robby frowns, squeezing your hand tighter. The green one? The one he got in Philly after your third date?

"The one you say feels too rough unles you're wearing it."

Ah, Robby remembers that one. It felt itchy, he asked about it when he gave it to you and you put it on right there. Then you had shaken your head and smiled, telling him it was softer on the inside.

"Open your eyes, babe."

Slowly, he does. You're bent in front of him, and there's a small speck of blood close to the edge of your mouth.

He raises his hand, cleaning it up with shaky fingers. It doesn’t really help, just spreads it over your lower lip and paints it a faint red. It makes him chuckle, but the sound resembles an animal in agony.

Out of nowhere, he feels something cold and metallic press against his neck. He gasps, unintentionally pulling you closer.

You let him. You shuffle closer until you're kneeling between his legs, and he wraps his arms around you. His face is wet, his entire body feels weak, made of paper.

"Where did you even get that sweater from? You may need to buy me a new one if I can’t save this one."

It was a local, old shop. The owner was an older man, running the store on his own, if he had to guess. Full of old furniture, the kind that lasts generations.

"I-I can try and h-help you mend it."

Your chest shakes slightly against his, laughing. He buries his head on your shoulder. "Sure you can, doc."

Minutes pass. Your hand tangles inside his hair, the other caressing his back up and down. Your warmth seeps into his clothes, his body, relaxing it until he feels he can barely stay upright.

You kiss his cheek, his temble, his shoulder. He can’t really help it when he bursts into tears.

"Take a deep breath, it’s okay. I'm right here."

His sobs rock the entire bed. He wishes he could hug you close enough to merge his soul with yours.

"It's okay love, you can let it out."

In the middle of the night, with the other half of his soul wrapped around his, he finally does.

[bananayuyu]

Tell Me No {3}

Pairing: professor!Yunho x f reader

Genre: smut, dark academia vibes

Word count: 4.3k

Summary: The semester is finally coming to an end, and the chance is upon you now to have Professor Jeong in every way. You wonder, what will the future hold?

Warnings: smut, MDNI, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex

A/n: I hope y'all enjoy this last part <33

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Masterlist | Read it on ao3

"When are you coming home?"

Your Dad's voice is distant and distracted coming through the phone, as it always is. He hadn't called all semester, just texted every Friday at the same time to ask 'how is school?' You were sure his secretary had put it in his planner, probably even sent the texts herself. He never texted further; you weren't even sure if he read your responses. Which was fine. You always said the same thing. 'Fine'.

You'd just completed your last exam of finals week, day two of Professor Jeong's final, the short story portion. You didn't think you'd written something as unique or atmospheric as you had during your trial run at his house, but it was adequate, you were quite sure. And with good grades on your three papers, you were sure at least a passing grade was coming your way.

When you'd set the completed story on his desk, Professor Jeong's eyes sharply locked onto yours, before he went back to reading his book, trying to ignore you. You had walked in wearing the puffer jacket he'd given you a few days before, that last evening spent together before he told you no more, that you must focus on your finals ahead and not think of him at all. You wouldn't be able to do that. You'd forgotten to wear a jacket when you made your way to his place that day for the same reason; your mind too full of your lust for him to remember how frigidly cold it was. Making it through the week of exams with your focus elsewhere was an unbelievable challenge.

There was something about seeing you in his clothes that had his pants feeling tighter in an instant. Out in the world, no one knew that the oversized black coat was his, but he did, and in his own way it felt like he'd staked his claim, knowing that as you wore it you felt the same, that you belonged to him, that there was no one else in the world you'd rather steal a jacket from.

It made his heart skip, like he was a shy, nervous teenager. Mine, he thought. Another few hours and you'd no longer be his student. He'd let himself have you, in the way he'd wanted to all along. It was tortuous watching you walk out the door of his classroom, knowing he'd have to wait around to answer questions, clean up and lock his classroom for winter break, and check in with his fellow teacher Professor Song before meeting you.

When you walked into the hallway, you opened your phone to find a text from your Dad. It was Friday, and his text came through predictably as it always did, late in the afternoon. His name on your screen made you roll your eyes, but this time you decided to actually answer him. Maybe it would twist the knife in a little more to know you were actually doing quite well. 'Good, just finished my last final,' you typed. Then, to your absolute surprise, he called you.

"You pass them all?" he asked without greeting you, his voice distant and thin, the sounds of his office wafting through in the background.

"I don't know yet, the professors have a week before final grades are due," you said, trying to keep your voice down in the desolate hall, knowing multiple finals were still ongoing in classrooms surrounding you. The walls of this old building were thankfully thick and impenetrable, but it would be your worst nightmare to get in trouble for disrupting another class's exam.

"When are you coming home?"

"I don't know yet," you finally answered him, with a deep sigh. Why did he care? He hardly ever asked you anything about your plans.

"Well I'm going to be in Singapore for business until the twenty-second, I leave tomorrow. And the house was in desperate need of a new paint job, so whole place is going to be in complete chaos until the day I return. If the workers finish as fast as they say they will, we'll see," he says, pausing. "One minute, Mr. Kang," he calls, much louder. Then, to you again, "I wouldn't come until then, unless you want to hang out in the guest house with your cousin."

The thought makes your face crinkle. Your cousin Jake was everything one would expect of a kid who grew up filthy rich: a partier, shit-stirrer, and uncommitted to anything. He was living in your Dad's guest house now because his parents had finally cut him off, and you remember the day he moved in vividly, watching through the window as your Dad slapped him on the back and laughed jovially, the pair two peas in a pod.

You knew he would offer the stupid boy a place in his company soon. Yet another reason you were determined to avoid the same fate for yourself.

"I'll just stay here then," you answered.

"The dorms will be empty though, is it safe?" he asked, and you scoffed. He only pretended to care about your safety when he was trying to control your next move, and you wondered what it was this time that he would try to force upon you.

"I think I'll stay with a friend," you said, sighing.

"A friend? Who, Sana? Jihyo?" he asked, mentioning the only friends of yours he knew by name. You supposed he might think these two were your only friends here at college, and that was by design; they were the only girls you befriended who came from money like you did, and you knew he wouldn't approve of all of the other amazing people who'd graced your life, who'd helped you gain perspective and a better understanding of your place in the world. Your Dad didn't give a shit about that.

"No, it's a new friend I made this semester," you said.

"Don't you dare go stay with a boy, I can't have you getting pregnant and running to me to fix the situation," he chided. "If you come with me to Singapore you can see more of the business, meet a good friend of mine, it would be much better for you."

"I'm not going with you," you laughed, shaking your head at his continued attempts to pull you into his world. "I'm staying here, and I'll see you at Christmas."

With that final statement you hang up the phone, setting it on the bench beside you and sighing into your hands. You pull your knees up and curl into a ball, finally taking a moment. Finals were done. You had done it, you'd survived. You almost couldn't believe it, the last week passing with such exhaustion and your mind full of concrete, it seemed. It was like you'd worked your brain so hard it was turning to stone.

Now that it was all over, the fatigue was hitting you. You yawned, resting your head on your knees. You hadn't planned what you would do after your exam today, having been so focused on just getting yourself through it to think beyond. You feel yourself nearly drifting off, your eyeslids heavy. A quick nap couldn't hurt, you think. You'd seen other students doing this too, and were sure the bustle of students finally leaving their exams would wake you. You sat your bag on the bench beside you and laid your head on it, pulling Professor Jeong's jacket over you like a blanket.

When you wake, the hallway is as empty and silent as you'd left it, but somehow the building feels colder, and completely still. You feel a slight wet spot beneath your cheek, and much to your dismay realize you'd been drooling. Quickly you sit up and wipe at your face, before hearing the jangling of keys coming from down the hall. Two men exit the room by the front door, standing in hushed conversation in front of it. You look over your shoulder through the window behind, and see a line of students meandering towards the dorms and dining hall, others walking in the direction of the train station. The building is empty, you suddenly realize, and you'd completely slept through the end of exams. You snap your head back to the professors, watching them make for the front door to leave.

"Wait!" you call out, the pair turning their heads in unison. Now you see, one has rich black hair and those devilish eyes you love. The other is just as tall as Professor Jeong, but with lighter hair, and glasses.

"You alright?" the other man calls to you, stopping in his tracks.

"I fell asleep, I'm sorry," you call, grabbing for your bag, then realizing you need to put your jacket on first and setting it down again.

"You go ahead Mr. Song, I know the Dean's expecting you. I'll help her," Professor Jeong says to the other man, and in a moment the front door opens and closes, and you're alone in this huge hall with this perfect man, his long strides bringing him to you quickly.

"I thought I told you to just meet me at my house," he says as he nears you.

"I know, I just was so exhausted, I didn't mean to fall asleep for so long. All the exams are over, right?" you ask.

"Yes, I'm glad you called out to us, we were about to lock up the building for the winter."

Your eyes are wide with fear and shock when you look to him, making him chuckle. "It's okay, the Janitor is scheduled to come through tomorrow, so you wouldn't have starved to death." You playfully punch at his arm in shock, shaking your head. Your life here really did feel strange sometimes. You sighed and looked up at him, wishing you could kiss him now and leave all of this behind. But there was still a window, still all of campus to contend with.

"Listen, we have to go out the front door today so I can lock up, so you just head to the station and meet me at my place. Here's money for your ticket," he says, pulling out his wallet and setting it in your hand.

"I just wanna go with you," you say as you stand, starting to walk out with him.

"I know darling, me too," he sighs, pulling you against a corner of the hall by the front doors where there were no windows, and kissing you hard against the wall.

"Just another hour and we can be together in private," he sighs, moving his lips to your ear, your throat, your collar bone. You moan and push him off, shooting daggers with your eyes.

"Stop teasing me," you pout, but you're loving every minute of it, loving that he couldn't even make it out of this hallway without kissing and touching you.

Outside the wind is blowing, the grass on the lawns close to dead, the sky half covered in winter clouds. Without another glance in his direction you make for the train station, hoards of other students doing the same, suitcases and duffel bags in hand. You zip your jacket high up to your neck, pulling the hood over your ears to keep the freezing wind from bruising them. It hits you suddenly that you'll never be his student again, that you'll never be sat in his class daydreaming about the professor in front of you instead of actually listening to his words.

"One ticket to Forthsmith station please," you tell the man at the ticket booth, handing over your dollar.

It's a bit disappointing to know that cozy classroom will never be your classroom again. The making eyes at each other, the stolen glances and brief touches, the way it all felt so wrong and so right. Things would be so different going forward, there was no question.

But as much as you dreaded the change, there was relief in it too. You were pretty sure now things could escalate further, that he'd finally have you all the way. And maybe beyond college, if you were careful enough with him and he with you, you'd find a companion for the long journey called life.

"You heading home too?" Marcus's piercing voice cuts through your daydreaming, bringing you right back to the crowded, stuffy platform you're standing on.

"No, heading to a friend's house," you sigh softly, while he makes his way to stand right next to you, suitcase in hand.

"Were you able to finish your story?" he asks, turning to look at you, but you don't meet his gaze. As much as you'd stopped hating him, you were sort of thankful you wouldn't have to see him anymore, either. You were on different degree paths, only overlapping for this one class. It wasn't sad to think you wouldn't be hearing this voice ever again.

"Yeah, did you?" you ask sharply.

"Barely, just as prof said we were out of time," he says. You look to your right and finally spot your professor, who makes his way in your direction. "I'm sure it was good enough to pass, and if that asshole fails me I'll just have my dad take it up with the Dean."

You hear a soft chuckle behind you, and with a quick glance see the man he's just called an asshole, biting his lip to trying to stop smirking.

"I think he overheard you," you say to Marcus. His face shoots over his shoulder now too, and his eyes go wide at seeing Professor Jeong's face.

"Sir- I- I'm so sorry-"

"It's fine, I grade based on principal, not on how much I like my students," he sighs, shooting a quick look your way. You chuckle, knowing his distain for your classmate. It was one you shared, you supposed. Both glad to be done with him.

But more than anything, both glad to have time to yourselves.

You sit apart on the train, the car packed the whole way to his station, many students heading the full two-hour ride up north to the neighboring city they were from. Few get off at his station, and you're so happy for it, realizing how much the privacy and calm of his neighborhood mean to you. Campus was fun in it's own ways, and you appreciated being so close to so many things, but out just a ways in this tucked away street, you felt completely safe to just be you.

With him, you could just be. It had been that way since the first night, that night when you'd worried and fretted as you walked in his house, that night when your lust overcame you and sent you down a path that now stretched far ahead. The landscape of your love was filled with gorgeous forests and rainy days, with the softness of snow and the warmth of fire. You never wanted to leave this cozy nook, his arms around you, nose in your hair, body strong and warm beneath you.

As soon as you'd arrived, you'd both changed clothes, and for the first time you saw him in grey sweatpants and a baggy hoodie, looking cozier and softer than ever before. You borrowed a hoodie and a pair of shorts; they reached down to your shins, looking almost like pants. With a pair of thick long socks on too, you looked ridiculous, like a twelve year old boy in his dad's clothing. But it was comfortable, and that was what mattered. You laid down on his couch, cuddling in the warmth of the fire, sighing into each other.

"Semester's finally over," he says, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"I'm so nervous for my grades," you respond, sighing.

"You shouldn't be, I know you've worked very hard. Your short story was marvelous."

"You read it already?"

"While the other students were finishing theirs," he says, smiling into you.

"You liked it?" you ask.

"Of course I did, you're quite the little genius," he praises, making your body ache with need. "Do you wanna hear just how much I loved it?"

You giggle into his chest, knowing that he knows just what this does to you, how much it turns you on.

"Yes," you whisper, heat springing in your cheeks, your entire body flushing.

"You set the tone perfectly, you have a way with doing that. The first sentence immediately grabbed me, because it was exactly what I was expecting until the last word. And I had been expecting another gothic or horror story from you, because of your last two, but you went with fantasy instead. It shows me you have such range, you can manipulate words beautifully no matter where they're coming from, or where they're headed..."

His words are going straight to your cunt, your head fuzzy. How could you possibly so lucky to find someone who knew you so well? Who said all the right things, was sweet enough but rough enough too, was balanced and inspiring, setting you in the right direction. He was a mentor to you, not just the man you lusted after; he was keeping you on track, making sure you'd have the confidence you needed to finish your degree and go succeed in the real world.

"You're perfect," you mumble, completely relaxed.

"No, that's you," he says, kissing your forehead again, wrapping his hands all the way around you and pulling you directly on top of him, squeezing you tightly. You giggle at the sensation, lifting your head up to place a quick kiss on his plump lips, but soon it's more, soon your knees are pulled up on either side of him and your tongue is finding his, soon you've forgotten where and who you are, completely lost in him.

He sits up and lifts you, the kiss only breaking for a moment as he starts walking down the hall. He slowly pushes open a door you've never been inside, the hinges creaking slightly, and then he breaks the kiss again to turn on a lamp in the corner, finally illuminating the space. You look to your side to see his bed, his reading corner, the stack of books on his nightstand. You're finally in his room, finally seeing the space he spends every night, and you hope one day it's as familiar to you as it is to him, that you can call it your home, too.

He lays you down gently, holding you with tender care as he kisses you more, your mouths wrapped in a perfect dance, licking and biting in perfect rhythm; just weeks in and you already know everything, how to mold to him, how to be the perfect reflection of his every movement. It feels like angels are singing as he deepens the kiss, as he swipes his tongue over yours harshly, as he grabs onto your ass and leaves your skin red from the strength of it. He snakes his hands under the hoodie you're wearing and feels over your chest too, loving how you moan in his mouth at the slightest touch of your nipple, how they pebble instantly in his hands. His mouth moves to your neck as he reaches under your waist and almost devours you, letting your soft moans escape into the buzzing air of the room, letting them drift into his ears and make his cock hard.

Satisfied with how you're writhing beneath him, he finally sits back, tugging at the waist of your shorts to pull them down and off, then diving into the hot wet spot between your legs, lapping up the arousal already leaking from you. He makes quick work of you, already knowing how you like it, what makes your legs shake and your mouth hang open. He doesn't finger you though, knowing what's about to come and wanting you to wait for the shock of the feeling. He knows he's big, and has no idea what your experience is, but is sure the look on your face will be priceless when you finally feel him stretching you from within.

Your thighs are clenching around his head as he licks slow circles over your clit, and you're tipping over the edge so quickly, still unsure how he can do it so easily, how he's already figured you out. He comes up for air looking deliciously disheveled, and you reach out your arms, beckoning him to you. The taste of you on his lips is intoxicating, musky and heady and the tiniest bit sweet, and you're grasping at him underneath his hoodie, relishing the feeling of his skin, needing more of it. Soon you're pulling at it, and he relents his kissing to allow you to take it off, his muscular torso greeting you, pale skin almost yellow in the soft light of his room. He then pulls at your hoodie too, and soon you're in nothing but your socks, and he is too, and you can see his long cock is hard and flushed at the tip, making your mouth water with need.

You'd only ever felt it through his pants, and now feeling it in your hand is electrifying, how heavy and hot it is, how utterly perfect. He hisses at the feeling, your hand cold against him, sending shockwaves of pleasure through him, his pent up need finally showing itself. He'd lied to himself all semester, pretending he didn't think anything of you; it was wrong to lust after a student, of course it was, but it was something he couldn't help. He'd begun to think you'd never talk to him, that you didn't have even the slightest bit of interest back; after that first night in his office he'd been waiting to do this, to finally feel every part of you, to be locked together in this most perfect way.

He sinks into you slowly, holding the base of his shaft as he does, trying to be careful. He can see already, only halfway down, that you're having trouble taking him; your head falls back with your eyebrows knitted together, as if in pain. But you beg him to go on, to give you everything, and there's no way he can say no to that. With effort he finally sheaths himself, leaning down into you to just hold you, letting your cunt take its time adjusting. With soft kisses and praise he distracts you, and soon you're not feeling any pain, only the perfect sensation of being completely filled, his cock touching every part of you inside.

"Please move," you whisper, pulling on his hair and kissing him deeply, as he chuckles.

"Of course, angel," he smiles into you, slowly pulling out, and pushing back in even slower, dragging out the immense pleasure. You're both groaning messes, completely entranced by the feelings it's bringing, so intense, so sweet, so deep and sating. It's hard to believe you are here, experiencing this; you're coming around him so quickly, shaking and holding onto him as you moan, his arms around your waist again as you arch into him. Again he's reading you so easily, knowing exactly how to make you feel best, even though you've never done this together, before; it's a feeling you want to capture and bottle, so you can bathe in it whenever you need a reminder of just how wonderful life can be.

You quickly come again, slick gushing out of you with force, covering his sheets in wetness. His pace picks up in reaction, and soon his moans are growing too, his movements more erratic, until he's releasing inside you with a low 'fuck,' his warmth filling you. The sensation is delectable, another you wish to know over and over again. His body collapses on top of you and you wrap your arms and legs around him tightly, squeezing tight as you kiss and hold each other, the minutes passing by with ease.

This bed was now familiar to you. And the smell of his skin was, too.

"Can I ask you something?"

It's you who finally breaks the silence, running a hand through his hair.

"Hm?" he responds, lifting you both up to a sitting position, wrapped around each other still as you lean against his headboard.

"I can't go home until the 22nd," you start, "can- can I stay here with you?"

"Of course darling, I'd love that," he says, kissing your cheek. "I will be very busy with grading over the next week, so it might be quite boring for you."

"With your library, I could never be bored," you say, and a huge smile breaks out on his face, his bottom lip catching in his teeth a moment.

"God, you're wonderful," he sighs, tipping your face up to meet his, kissing you deeply.

"I wanna be with you," you say, breaking the kiss, looking into his eyes deeply, knowingly. You couldn't hold it in any longer; it was true, it was all that you could think of, and you needed him to know. It was serious for you, the feelings you were having. It was too early to call them what they were, but you were sure that four letter word described them perfectly.

"I wanna be with you too," he smiles, pulling you into a warm, caring hug. He's still inside you, your bodies still locked together. It was too perfect of a feeling to not savor to the bitter end. That was how he felt with you, in ever way; he wasn't sure how long you'd be there, but as long as you were in his life, he'd savor every minute.

{the end}

Taglist: @iamalily @atzri @marii1087 @dilfkimhjj @yunyuniverse @yourfavoritedeluluspot @wizorbit99 @yeottoks @ateezgurl @hanjiyunho

thank you for reading my work, my loves <33333

[storiesfromasmalltown]

YOU WERE ALWAYS ON MY MIND

or

The five times you danced with Michael Robinavitch

f!Reader x Dr. Robby

Warnings: cursing, drinking, bittersweet stuff idk, happy ending, not beta read, reader is Robby’s age, reader has hair and is shorter than him (let me know if I forgot anything!)- reader has also never gotten over anything

No use of Y/N

Best paired with Maisie Peters Elvis Song, Lucy Dacus and Hozier Bullseye, Taylor Swift Holy Ground

1.You met at a party during undergrad, he was all floppy hair and laughter back then- tall and lanky in the way college boys are before they really grow into their own. He was pre-med, you were undecided. Maybe he was the shove you needed to commit to medicine, but that didn’t matter at the time. The party was held in a sticky frat house, full of people and smoke and he fit right in, laughing loudly, playing beer pong and you were in over your head the moment you saw him. It was a cliche meet cute, your eyes met you excused yourself to your friends and made your way to the drinks table. He was cute, you were three drinks in and when he gave you that smile and said you his name is Michael but everyone calls him Robby you couldn’t help the butterflies. 

“Do you dance Michael?”

He raised an eyebrow at the name and extended his arm, long fingers reaching for yours.

“I do with pretty girls who call me by my first name.”

You felt warmth spread around your cheeks and he pulled you into the crowd and didn’t leave your side for the rest of the night. 

You spent the rest of that year studying on his sofa bed in the rented apartment just off campus, sharing chemistry notes and kisses when his roommates were away. He was perfect but you were always a bit of a flight risk and on one of the many nights you spent with his arms around your waist pulling you onto his lap as you sorted through notes you thought 

oh I am in over my head

“What’s on your mind?”

His voice shakes you out of your thoughts, a worn greatest hits Elvis record draws You were always on my mind in the back.

“Nothing hon’, I’m just tired.”

He gave you a look and you leaned to kiss his cheek while your brain screamed that this was never going to work.

2. The second time you danced was at a graduation party, you didn’t really date anyone after him, you applied to med school- even after his name started swimming in front of your eyes whenever you would close them,  but you made your choice- he gave you everything and you left, you had no right to be the hurt one here. 

“Congratulations.”

He must have had a bit to drink but so had you, you turned to face him, there was a strange shadow across his face, one that wasn’t there before you but you closed your eyes and for a second imagined a life where you didn’t walk out of his kitchen on a Sunday morning and never walked back in.

“Do you still dance with pretty girls who call you by your first name?”

He gave you a sad smile, arm reaching to fix the strap of your white dress.

“Only those that broke my heart.”

You turned to walk away but he closed his hand around your shoulder.

“I don’t want to dance with anyone but you tonight, it doesn’t have to mean anything. For old times sake?”

And you both pretended it didn’t break your heart.

“Did you get into med school?”

You felt him nod, he rested his head on top of yours for a second, it was a slow dance, friends and lovers swaying to the same fucking Elvis song again.

“Yeah, you?”

You nodded into his shoulder, a tear escaping you. He would haunt you for the rest of your life.

3. You hated fundraising galas, but you were a star pediatric resident for the Philadelphia hospital you matched into. You thought working your ass off would be enough but you guess you had to be paraded around as a show pony too. Your dress felt uncomfortable, it looked stunning but you were hyper aware of every stitch that touched your body. You held a glass of white wine in hand, it had gone warm but it felt good to hold something. The networking and chatting part of the night passed by and people were sitting and talking or swaying on the romantically lit dance floor- not that it made any sense to you why a dance floor for a fundraising gala would have romantic lighting but you assumed it softened people. You scanned the crowd for the familiar face you caught a glimpse of earlier. His shoulders looked broader, he had a few laugh lines etched into his face. His once soft clean shaven face had a neat beard on it and his floppy hair was cropped shorter, but it was him, you couldn’t forget those eyes if you tried. You saw him when he entered, a man with short curls came in with him, they were deep in conversation and you slipped out for air, because the what-if’s didn’t rest. You couldn’t leave while the chatting up was happening and now you really itched to get away but your friend was flirting with a woman at the bar and you had come in together. 

“You always looked good in black.”

He materialised by your side, hands in the pockets of his slacks, doing that thing where he tries to make his impossibly tall body shrink.

“Thank you Michael.”

He offered a smile and you offered a compliment in return.

“You should stand up straighter, your posture is fucked.”

“Well that's what the ED will do to you-”

“You specialised in emergency medicine?”

He nodded his head, shy and proud, blushing again at the way you looked at him with eyes full of pride. Like he forgot you broke his heart into a million pieces.

“You?”

“I’m in pedes.”

“Do you want to dance doctor?”

“I would love to.”

And something cracks a bit more on that dance floor, he moves you around it and the small talk feels like its mapping out the ocean wide divide between who you used to be and who you are now. The dance ends and you kiss his cheek and leave without saying anything else, picking up pace- your friend finds you crying in the bathroom and you tell her how much you missed him every day for the past 8 years and she doesn’t understand why you can’t go back.

4.  You’re at a wedding, not yours- even your mother gave up on that once your turned 45, but the first one since you moved to Pittsburgh. You check your phone wondering if it is too early to leave, maybe you can take up a shift at the hospital, get into the groove a bit more. The pediatrics attending position you got an offer from the board of the PTMC was too good to refuse, until you attended a meeting and found yourself sitting across from a familiar face. 

He came in late, black scrub top, navy blue hoodie, salt and pepper beard and a face that felt like a map of moments you had missed. He looked tired, depleted- like he carried the world on his shoulders.

“This is our new attending for the pediatrics department-”

The administration woman- Gloria, started to introduce you but you zoned out, she didn’t motion for you to stand up and just kept going through what you assumed was her usual repertoire. You busied yourself by writing notes on the legal pad in front of you because if you looked up and saw him there- Dr. Robinavitch, chief attending of the ED, tall and confident and still so warm with the same eyes that used to melt you in your spot.

You heard the chair next to you move and you knew who it was this time, you had stopped trying to fight it.

“Nice to see you have a social life.”

You snorted in your drink.

“Look who’s talking.”

He laughed before replying-

“Well I think I’m still better than Abbot.”

You met Dr. Abbot on a consult and you caught a healthier coping mechanism than whatever Robby had going on.

“One of you goes to therapy and it’s not you.”

“I actually came by to ask you for a dance not for a mental health check.”

You felt brave, for the first time in a long time, like someone who won’t burn it all down out of fear, like a woman who has too many lonely years behind her. So you reached out your hand, steadier and more confident than it was at 20.

“I would love  to dance with you Michael.”

You were on the dancefloor for a while when he whispered in your ear during a slow dance.

“I always liked dancing with pretty girls who call me by my first name.”

“Pretty girl is a bit of a stretch for one who is over 50.”

He pulled away to study your face, the only one he had ever  memorised that way.

“I meant beautiful woman, but I never forgot the pretty girl.”

You took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t run.”

“Don’t interrupt me- I’m sorry I ever did run.”

And that was all you had to say.

5. You were on the fence about getting married at your age, but you found you couldn’t tell him no, not when he had asked nicely in your kitchen. The one you shared in the house you shared, the place you did laundry together, cooked meals, where your shoes mixed by the door, where people came in for a glass of wine after a long day, the garden you had barbecues in, the place you played that same 30 year old Elvis record. 

“Well good morning Dr Robinavitch.”

You laughed at him, voice strained by the morning, hands around your waist, he was fully wrapped around you.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

“You know we didn’t dance yesterday-”

“We were in a courthouse.”

“Yeah but I think that I would really love to dance with my wife.”

So you let him spin you around like he had so many times, but instead of mapping the places you missed it was circling the life you finally got to live. Smoothening the cracks you weren’t there to mend the first time.

[mysteriousxgirls]

She watched him rise, every movement deliberate, like he was still expecting the walls to break open around them. But the moment his hand touched her shoulder—solid, warm, real—her panic eased, if only just. His voice, low and steady, told her the boys were next door. That was all she needed to hear. Her heart still raced like a trapped bird in her chest, but she nodded, grounding herself in his presence. This place—this cold, forgotten bunker—it didn’t matter. Not if Henry was safe. Not if he was here. She didn’t care about the rest. Not the storm they’d left behind. Not the bruises lining her ribs or the sting in her palm. Not even the fact that she had no phone, no way to reach out. None of it mattered now.

Her gaze dropped to his leg, and it came rushing back—the shot. The way he collapsed, the pain etched into his face as he refused to let go of her. “Are you okay?” she asked softly, her fingers curling around the hand still resting on her shoulder. She didn’t wait for permission—just gently tugged, guiding him down to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. “Sit... don’t stand,” she whispered, concern threading her voice. He was close now. Too close. And for a second, she had to lean back, overwhelmed by the gravity of his nearness. The air between them felt charged. Too many things left unsaid. But she pushed through it, raised her hand carefully, brushing her fingertips against his cheek. Her thumb moved softly across the sharp line of it—like she needed proof he was real. “Azriel... I—I don’t know how to thank you,” she whispered. Her voice trembled, but she didn’t look away. “I know you didn’t do it for me. You did it for Henry. I get that. But still... thank you.”

She hesitated, chest tightening. “I’m sorry you got hurt because of me. But that man... he was the man. The one who took Henry. And when I saw him walking back toward you guys, I—I panicked. I thought if I took him out, it would be one less person for you to worry about. I thought I could end it myself. I thought...” She stopped. Swallowed. “I was wrong,” she admitted quietly, voice cracking around the words. “You saved me.” Her hand was still on his face, thumb still moving. And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like she had to run. Didn’t feel like the world was about to collapse beneath her. She was scared. Shaken. Sore. But not alone.

This… this was the craziest night of her life. She tried to breathe, but her ribs screamed. Every inhale was sharp, broken. But it wasn’t just the pain in her body—it was the pain clawing at her mind. Her soul. “I killed someone.” The words spilled out before she could stop them. They didn’t sound real. They didn’t sound like her. She didn’t even feel the tears on her cheeks until she tasted salt on her lips. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even think. He tried to shoot you and Henry, and I just—grabbed the knife. And I…” Her voice cracked, and her shoulders curled in, like she could hide from the memory. “He stopped moving. Just like that.” Her body gave a violent shiver. Her her other hand curled tight around the edge of the blanket, knuckles white. “And the other one—I stabbed him. With glass. In the eye.” Her voice dropped, hoarse. “There was so much blood. I can still feel it on my hands.” She looked down at her bandaged palm like she didn’t recognize it.

Not once, since they’d crossed into the bunker, had Azriel’s gaze relinquished its hold on Luna. Eyes like cold flint, watching. The others had long since retreated—silent shadows helping them through the reinforced door into the old war shelter. Constructed decades ago for a world already lost to time, the safehouse bore the stale breath of history: stone walls thick with damp, air acrid with rust and rot, the ghosts of conflict whispering between hairline cracks in the concrete. It was a relic of another kind of violence—now repurposed for theirs. Two of the boys slept fitfully in the adjoining room, collapsed on rusted bunks with threadbare mattresses and sleep that came more from exhaustion than peace. Luna lay unmoving on the only double bed, her silhouette bathed in the muted flicker of a low-watt bulb dangling from a single exposed wire. And across the room, motionless as stone, Azriel sat in vigil.

Hours had passed in silence, time marked only by the steady drip of water somewhere deep within the foundation and the weight of pain humming behind his eyes. The blood-soaked trousers had been discarded—now replaced by black joggers stored for occasions exactly like this. His pistol rested across his thigh, idle but not inert. A statement of readiness. It wasn’t aimed at her—yet it wasn’t pointed away either. After tonight, trust had been irreparably shaken, fractured like glass beneath pressure. Whether the threat would come from Luna or from the world outside, Azriel intended to be ready. Stillness reigned—until her breath hitched. Something beneath the surface began to stir. Azriel rose with deliberate precision, the creak of the old chair swallowed by the oppressive quiet. Shadows stretched across the floor as he crossed the space between them. He reached her side and placed a firm palm on her shoulder, grounding her with subtle force before she could fully rise. “You’re safe,” he said, voice stripped of warmth but not cruel. “The boys are next door.”

Eyes roved the perimeter—checking, recalculating, always assessing. Then back to hers. Icy. “We’ll stay here until the smoke clears. The orphanage is under surveillance. Your house too. The garage and warehouse—cleaned. The bodies disposed of.” A beat passed, heavy and final. “This place is secure. Bolted from the inside. No one gets in. I've taken your phone so there will be no calls to the outside.” No embellishment. No comfort. Just facts, laid bare in the stale air between them. And still, something haunted the space. Not the bunker. Not the bloodshed. Her. And him—watching, waiting to see what version of her woke up next.

[eeveelover23]

You're my best friend

Summary: You grew up in a small town, where you first met (Characters name) during your childhood. You were neighbours and quickly became inseparable.

🌹Riddle Rosehearts🌹

Your Bond: Riddle was always the serious, rule-abiding one, but as kids, you two were inseparable when it came to organizing games and making up imaginary rules.

Headcanon:

🌹 Riddle was the type to give you a "queen's order" for fun, and you'd pretend to be the rebellious one who had to "break" the rule.

🌹 He was the kind of kid who would insist on bringing a pocket watch to play, just to "keep time" for your activities.

🌹He'd bring you flowers from his garden when you were feeling down, and even now, he still gets embarrassed when he does it, but secretly loves it.

Cute Moment: One of your fondest memories is when Riddle tried to bake a cake for your birthday, and it ended up a disaster—he cried over the burnt edges, but you two laughed until you cried.

🌹❤️🌹❤️🌹❤️🌹❤️🌹❤️🌹❤️🌹❤️🌹❤️🌹❤️

🦁Leona Kingscholar🦁

Your Bond: Leona was the laid-back, "too cool for school" type, but he would always show up at your house when you needed a partner for whatever you were doing, especially if it involved a snack break.

Headcanon:

🦁 Even as a kid, Leona would always claim to be too lazy to participate in games but would secretly enjoy it when he was in the mood.

🦁 He would often fall asleep on your couch, his hair all messy, after a day of playing, and you'd have to wake him up with snacks.

🦁 Leona's affection is subtle, like how he'd give you a little nudge when you were feeling down or share his snacks without saying anything, expecting nothing in return.

Cute Moment: You remember how Leona tried to teach you how to climb a tree, and although you were scared at first, he assured you in his gruff way, "You got this," before watching you conquer it with pride.

🦁💛🦁💛🦁💛🦁💛🦁💛🦁💛🦁💛🦁💛🦁💛

🐯Kalim Al-Asim🐯

Your Bond: Kalim was the ever-optimistic, cheerful friend who would always drag you into fun adventures. He loved making up games that involved dancing, singing, and a lot of laughter.

Headcanon:

🐯As kids, Kalim would always try to cheer you up if you were ever feeling sad by offering you random gifts, like a flower, a stone he thought looked cool, or even his favourite sweets.

🐯He was the first to volunteer to help you with anything, even if it was completely unnecessary (like carrying a toy or doing a "big mission").

🐯Kalim’s love for fireworks began when he was little, and he would try to make his own (often failing) to impress you.

Cute Moment: Kalim once made you a “friendship bracelet” when you were feeling insecure about something, and it became your most treasured item. Every time you looked at it, you were reminded of his pure heart.

🐯🧡🐯🧡🐯🧡🐯🧡🐯🧡🐯🧡🐯🧡🐯🧡🐯🧡

🐙Azul Ashengrotto🐙

Your Bond: Azul was the one who would organize games with elaborate rules and always made sure that everyone had a fair chance (even if he secretly loved to win).

Headcanon:

🐙 As a child, Azul had an intense love for collecting shiny things—rocks, seashells, anything that glistened—and would always try to trade you them in exchange for something you had.

🐙 He was an expert at making up stories, often enchanting you with tales of deep-sea adventures.

🐙 He’s always been a little protective of you and would often worry about you in silence, making sure you were never left out.

Cute Moment: You both used to go swimming together. Even though Azul was initially too scared of swimming in deeper water, he would always end up swimming deeper than you —and proudly showing it off to you with a grin.

🐙💜🐙💙🐙💜🐙💙🐙💜🐙💙🐙💜🐙💙🐙

👑Vil Schoenheit👑

Your Bond: Vil was always the refined, elegant one, even as a child. He would insist that you follow proper manners during your playdates, but he secretly adored your carefree personality.

Headcanon:

👑 As a child, Vil was obsessed with making sure everything looked perfect, so you'd often get involved in elaborate dress-up games (even if it meant you were wearing ridiculous costumes).

👑 He would try to teach you how to carry yourself with grace, often making you practice walking in a straight line, which you secretly hated, but adored his attention to detail.

👑 His “true” affection came in the form of compliments, though they'd be subtle and sometimes veiled in his usual critiques.

Cute Moment: There was that one summer when Vil insisted on performing a play he wrote (a very dramatic love story, of course) and you played the “damsel in distress”—it was a ridiculous but adorable production.

👑💗👑💗👑💗👑💗👑💗👑💗👑💗👑💗👑💗

🎮Idia Shroud🎮

Your Bond: Idia was always the quiet, tech-loving friend, but he had a soft spot for you. He'd rather be playing video games, but you two would often have late-night gaming sessions where you'd compete, or he’d teach you how to use new gadgets.

Headcanon:

🎮 Idia would share his love for all things gaming and tech with you, even building you little gadgets as gifts (they usually didn’t work perfectly, but you always cherished them).

🎮 He was never really good at socialising, but with you, he would talk endlessly about his favourite characters, games, and anything tech-related.

🎮 He would be the one to give you quiet advice during rough times, his words always thoughtful, even if wrapped in awkwardness.

Cute Moment: When you were younger, Idia tried to teach you how to play a game he loved, but you kept losing miserably. He was very patient and would cheer you on every time you made progress, even if it was just a tiny bit.

🎮💙🎮💙🎮💙🎮💙🎮💙🎮💙🎮💙🎮💙🎮💙

🐉Malleus Draconia🐉

Your Bond: Malleus was always the mysterious and somewhat distant one, but you two shared a bond that no one else could understand. You’d often meet in secret places to talk about things that others wouldn't understand, especially the magic world.

Headcanon:

🐉Malleus’s quiet nature came from his royal upbringing, but with you, he could be his true self—curious, playful, and occasionally mischievous.

🐉As a child, Malleus would often gift you rare, magical trinkets, like enchanted stones, or sometimes, flowers that only bloomed in hidden parts of the forest.

🐉Malleus adored your sense of wonder, and as children, he would sometimes sneak off with you to explore hidden places where no one else dared to go.

Cute Moment: Malleus once built a tiny secret “dragon’s lair” for you both to explore, complete with treasures (mostly shiny rocks), and you two would pretend to protect the realm from intruders together.

[youthguk]

Encore 3: Curtain call (Finale) | jjk (m)

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: “Some endings beg to be rewritten.”.

warnings: explicit sexual content (multiple scenes), oral (f + m), fingering, unprotected sex (be responsible!), angst, unresolved feelings, toxic relationship tension, emotional breakdown

w.c: 13k

author's note: I don’t have enough words to describe what Encore means to me — but maybe that’s the magic of it. This story was born from a single spark of tension, and it grew into something raw, aching, layered, and deeply personal. I poured so much of my soul into this series — every whisper of heartbreak, every charged glance, every line of dialogue that trembled with what wasn’t said. From the first quiet heartbreak to the final kiss — thank you for letting me write it all. Encore will always have a piece of my heart.

part 1 | part 2 | final (you're here)

The hallway is quiet.

Dante’s penthouse suite glows gold behind you, warm and opulent, his cologne still lingering faintly at the collar of your dress, though he never touched you. You stand in your heels, spine stiff, lips parted — trying to think of something elegant to say, something that doesn’t sound like you’re choking on guilt and regret and the echo of Jungkook’s name.

He watches you with that half-lidded charm he wears like a signature suit, loose and luxurious, as if nothing ever truly touches him — not press, not rejection, not women who shift under his gaze but don’t fall.

You inhale sharply and speak, voice smooth even as your fingers tremble at your sides.

“I can’t.”

He doesn’t move. Just smiles.

“You can’t,” he repeats, like it amuses him. “Is this the part where you tell me about office ethics?”

You nod once, but your tone doesn’t waver. “It’s Vogue Korea policy. Editors don’t sleep with partners, clients, or hosts.”

“And I,” Dante murmurs, stepping closer, “am powerful enough to change policy.”

You meet his eyes — calm, perfectly still — and it should be easy to pretend. You’re practiced at this, at being unreadable, untouchable, above desire. But something cracks. And you don’t know if it’s the scent of Jungkook still trapped in your memory, or the way your heart has been aching in silence since you left him in that hallway, but the words leave your mouth before your pride can stop them.

“I can’t,” you repeat, quieter now. “Because my heart’s already taken.”

Dante's expression shifts, a subtle change that sends a chill down your spine. His carefully crafted smile twists into something unreadable as he takes a careful step back.

And then, slowly, his lips curl into something that isn’t quite mocking and isn’t quite sincere. His voice is velvet with a blade hidden underneath.

“First time I’ve ever been used by a woman to get back at someone else,” he says, almost like a toast. “I hope he’s worth all this theater.”

The words hang heavy in the air. You can't bring yourself to answer.

You leave without another word, dress whispering around your legs, hair falling loose as the night finally breaks over your shoulders like a closing curtain. The air outside bites at your skin, sharp and alpine-cold, and the valet raises an eyebrow when you step into the waiting taxi without giving a destination.

“Anywhere,” you say, voice soft, eyes distant. “Just… drive.”

Lake Como flickers by like a dream unraveling, all soft lamplight and shuttered balconies and cobbled hills bleeding into the next. Your cheek leans against the window, chilled glass numbing the side of your face, and you watch the world blur as if motion will erase everything you did, everything you wanted, everything you still feel clawing beneath your ribs.

Lake Como's beauty feels like a cruel joke against your emptiness, its picturesque streets and twinkling lights mocking the deafening silence that reminds you with every step that he didn't come after you this time.

You don’t return until the sky begins to lighten with the haze of dawn, pale lavender washing over the peaks like the softest lie. Your heels echo on the marble of the hotel corridor, a ghost retracing her steps. You dig for your key card, heart still beating too fast, thoughts already shifting to how you'll pack your suitcase in silence, how you’ll leave everything that happened in Italy behind.

Rounding the corner to your door, you freeze in your tracks. The sight before you knocks the air from your lungs: Jungkook lies slumped against your suite door, his usually pristine appearance now a portrait of violence. His head rests back against the wall, revealing a swollen-shut eye and split lip crusted with dried blood. His black dress shirt, now wrinkled and stained crimson, clings to his beaten form while his raw, scraped knuckles tell their own story of the fight.

Your clutch slips from your grasp as instinct takes over. You’re on your knees in seconds, hands on his face, your voice breaking apart with panic as you shake him gently, his lashes fluttering under your touch.

“Jungkook—what—oh my god, what happened—what did you—Jungkook, wake up—”

His eyes barely open, dazed and unfocused, lips parting with a soft groan as you press your palm to his cheek.

“Shh—don’t talk, fuck, just—come on, I need—fuck, we need to get you inside—”

You fumble with the key card, hand trembling, managing to drag the door open and guide his weight into your arms. He’s deadweight at first, but then his hand finds your waist, clutches it faintly, and he lets you lead him inside — not out of strength, but because he trusts you still, even like this.

The suite is still dark. You ease him onto the velvet chaise by the window and rush to the bathroom for towels, first aid, anything — your chest heaving, your pulse thundering in your ears. When you return, he’s sitting hunched over, elbows on his knees, blood dripping sluggishly from the corner of his mouth, but his gaze finds you when you kneel in front of him.

“Y/N,” he rasps, and it sounds more like worship than pain. “You’re here.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, tears hot at your temples. “Don’t talk. Not until I clean this up.”

You press warm cloth to his lip, swearing under your breath when he flinches.

“What the fuck did you do, Jungkook? Who did this to you?”

He doesn’t answer. You dab at the blood on his temple, your fingers gentle, and when you ask again — slower this time, voice shaking — he finally speaks.

“I went after him.”

You freeze and your hand stills against his skin.

“You—what?”

“Dante,” he murmurs, head dropping. “I followed you both. I couldn’t— I thought— I didn’t know if he—”

You close your eyes. “Jungkook—”

“He was alone,” he says, voice hoarse. “I found his place. I lost it. I yelled. Demanded to know where you were. I… I swung at him. I tried to hit him.”

“You what?!”

“His bodyguards came before I got far. They—” he pauses, gesturing vaguely to his bloodied state. “They handled it.”

“They told me you left,” he adds, quietly. “That nothing happened. That you said no.”

You stare at him, heart caving inward.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you whisper, hands trembling again as they fall to your lap.

“I know,” he breathes. “But I couldn’t lose you. Not again. I—I’d rather bleed for you than live pretending I don’t still love you.”

The words hang in the air like smoke. Dangerous. Irrevocable.

You meet his gaze, see the red blooming beneath his eye, the vulnerability split right down the middle of his mouth, and you don’t think — you just lean forward.

And kiss him. Soft at first. Searching. Trembling. But then he surges into it — one hand gripping your thigh, the other cradling your jaw — and the kiss turns deep, slow, devouring. Your tears mix with the blood on his lip, and still you don’t stop. Your fingers curl into his ruined shirt, and his tongue brushes yours like a promise, like a prayer, like a please, please don’t leave me this time.

His lips are cracked, faintly bloodied at the corner, but the kiss is impossibly soft. He moves like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again, like this moment is a thread and he’s terrified to tug it too hard. His hands find your waist — trembling, careful — while yours grip the sides of his face, fingertips brushing over bruised cheekbones and sweat-damp curls.

You kiss him like you’re trying to make sense of all the ruined years. He kisses you like you’re the only reason he’s still breathing.

And when you finally pull away — chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, the silence trembling between your mouths — you whisper, “You need to stop.”

But he doesn’t let go. His eyes are glassy now, lashes wet, pupils wide with everything he’s been swallowing for years. His fingers slide from your waist to your hands, curling around your wrists like he’s trying to anchor himself in them.

“Please,” he breathes, and his voice cracks on the word and you freeze.

“Y/N,” he says again, and this time, the plea is quieter — more broken. “Don’t send me away. Not like this. Not when I just found you again.”

He’s crying now — not the dramatic kind, not the kind that demands anything from you. Just quiet tears slipping down his cheeks, landing in the creases of his lips, the bruises on his skin. The boy who left you all those years ago has become a man who’s falling apart in your hotel room, weeping for a version of you he never stopped needing.

“I know I don’t deserve you,” he says, voice trembling, hands tightening slightly on yours. “I know I was selfish, and cowardly, and fucking blind. But I’m not that kid anymore. I’m not running. I’d stay this time. I’d stay even if it killed me.”

You feel your heart twist, stretch, threaten to shatter.

But you’ve rebuilt too many pieces of yourself alone to let them crack again now.

You reach up, thumbs brushing away the wetness on his face, and it breaks something in you to see how he leans into your touch like it’s the only comfort he’s known.

Still, your voice stays steady. “You need to go pack. Our flight leaves in a few hours.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t care about the flight.”

You step back slightly, but his hands follow — ghosting over your hips, then gripping them, desperate.

“Please,” he chokes out, voice cracking again, lower now, raw like his throat’s been scraped hollow. “Please don’t ask me to walk away. Not after this. Not when I finally—”

You shake your head, gently, firmly. “Jungkook—”

“I’ll stay,” he says. “I’ll wait. I’ll do anything. Just... don’t let this be the end. Don’t shut me out again.”

His eyes are shining, his hands trembling as they slide up your arms, as if trying to memorize the shape of you through his touch alone. He leans in again, forehead resting against yours, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye onto your cheek. It doesn’t sting — it only reminds you how close he still is.

“I love you,” he whispers, wrecked and breathless. “I love you more than I’ve ever known how to say. And I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything, but please—don’t send me back into a world that doesn’t have you in it.”

Your eyes flutter shut. You want to say yes. You want to let him stay, crawl back into his arms, pretend it’s enough — just this moment, just this need. But you can’t.

You open your eyes and lift your hands, placing them softly over his as you gently — almost tenderly — remove them from your waist.

“You need to go,” you whisper.

His lips tremble.

You press a kiss to his forehead — one final grace — and then step away completely.

“This,” you murmur, voice steady even as it aches, “stays in Italy.”

He lingers in the doorway, eyes searching yours one last time. His fingers trace the doorframe, hesitating.

"Y/N..." His voice catches, barely a whisper.

You keep your gaze steady, arms crossed against your chest. The silence stretches between you like a physical thing.

Finally, his shoulders slump. Without another word, he turns away, each step heavy with resignation. The door opens with a soft creak, then closes behind him with a quiet click that echoes through the empty room.

You stand there in the darkness, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway until there's nothing left but the hum of the air conditioning and the weight of your decision settling into your bones.

Seoul, One Month Later

There is something strangely comforting about the hum of the Vogue Korea office — the way espresso steams through the marble-counter café bar on the sixth floor, the way heels echo down glass-lined corridors, and how every monitor glows with Pantone palettes, layout grids, and a rotating carousel of pre-spring collection drafts. You’ve always found sanctuary in this rhythm — the precision, the pressure, the need to be perfect and perform it effortlessly.

The November air is sharp, bracing as it filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Seoul glints outside like a jewelry box, all chrome and movement, as you sip your Americano from a Maison Kitsuné mug and scan the proofs spread across your desk — feature layouts for Chanel Beauty, three possible headlines for the Balenciaga editorial, and a string of half-formed notes for a Seoul Fashion Week retrospective you were too tired to finish last night.

Your laptop pings. You don’t flinch. Another edit request for the holiday issue. You glance at the schedule on your phone — back-to-back today, copy deadlines and a round-table pitch for the February Valentine’s campaign — and somewhere in the middle of it, a fitting appointment with a model who’ll be shot draped in Loewe’s upcoming campaign shawls.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’ve trained your body to move without letting the inside show.

No one here knows what happened in Italy.

No one knows how you’ve been waking up at 3:17 a.m. every night since, sheets tangled between your legs, the ghost of his breath still hot on your neck. No one sees the way your hand freezes sometimes while drafting interviews, your mind skipping like a scratched vinyl — back to the way he whispered your name while tasting your skin. Back to the blood on his mouth. The way he kissed you like dying was an option.

You touch yourself to that memory more than you’d ever admit.

And when you come, you hate how softly you whisper his name.

But none of it shows. Not here. Not between the racks of sample clothes or in the chilled hush of the editors' lounge or when Kara walks by with that same acidic smile she’s been wearing all month. You’ve noted how her eyes linger on you longer than necessary — not in jealousy anymore, but in something more deliberate. It doesn’t matter. You’ve been avoiding her since Italy, and you plan to continue doing so.

You’re in the middle of annotating a Burberry accessory spread when the PA chimes: a department meeting in fifteen minutes. You slide on your blazer — cream Jacquemus — and gather your notes, making your way to the long oval conference room on the east side of the floor.

The glass walls are half-frosted, the room already filled with editors in signature blacks and muted creams. You take your seat. Smooth your skirt. Sip from your water bottle.

You are calm.

You are unshakeable.

Until you hear his name.

“I want to thank everyone for the incredible performance on the October cover,” your boss begins, her tone clipped, composed, the sleeves of her Céline coat folded neatly against her chair. “The BTS feature put us back on the map, and the numbers are better than projected. That being said, January needs to go even bigger. Jeon Jungkook will be launching his solo album that month, and we’ve secured him as our January cover.”

Your pen doesn’t fall. Your posture doesn’t shift. But inside? A slow twist, somewhere between the throat and the spine.

“Y/N will lead the campaign again,” she continues, not even looking at you — because of course, it’s a given now. “Photoshoot. Feature article. Backstage access. His team already agreed. You’ll follow his schedule — starting with the Louis Vuitton shoot next week, then trailing him through his album production.”

The table buzzes lightly with murmurs — approving, congratulating. Someone across the table says, “Well deserved,” and another smiles at you and adds, “Iconic pairing.” You offer a diplomatic nod. A perfect smile.

Kara doesn’t smile.

And then — sharp as broken crystal — her voice cuts across the table.

“Is she really the best choice for this?”

The room stills, you feel every eye in the room. 

You don’t look at her, but you hear everything in her tone — the ice, the bite, the implication. Your boss doesn’t flinch.

“She’s proven herself capable,” she replies evenly. “If you have concerns, Kara, bring them to me privately next time.”

Kara falters. Just a blink. But it’s enough. Her mouth sets into a tight line, and she looks away.

You blink once, calmly, and wonder — for just a moment — since when she’s become so reckless, so willing to sabotage in public.

But the thought doesn’t linger because your mind has already gone somewhere else.

Two weeks.

Two weeks in and out of shoots, tracking studio sessions, trailing the man you’ve spent every night trying to exorcise from your system. You know how he looks in soft morning light. You know how he sounds when he begs. You know how he tastes when he’s desperate.

And now you’re supposed to trail him with a notebook and call it journalism.

You swallow hard. Your hands don’t tremble. But you think — just for a second — that maybe this is where the real performance begins.

✦✦✦

It’s still early when you arrive at the studio — the kind of early where the lights are too cold, coffee tastes like necessity, and the air smells faintly of fresh paint and concrete dust. The Louis Vuitton team has already begun assembling the set, a curated dreamspace of vintage suitcases, faded wallpaper florals, and a stately brass bed that rests like a memory in the middle of the soundstage. Every element carefully chosen, every texture soft with nostalgia, as if the shoot itself is caught mid-sentence — a story without an ending, paused between what was meant and what became.

You move through the crew like silk — smooth, precise, unfazed — giving notes to lighting techs, nodding approval to stylists, adjusting a rack of garments that had been arranged slightly off-sequence. The shoot, your shoot, is titled “Une Lettre Jamais Envoyée” — A Letter Never Sent — and every frame is meant to ache. Garments are archival but lived-in, all sepia-toned cashmere and sharp tailoring softened by time. The concept is simple: the solitude of a man in a room filled with things he cannot throw away, haunted by someone who never answered.

The irony is not lost on you.

You check the call sheet once more, your voice steady as you walk through the logistics with the producer. Monochrome lighting for Look One. Diffused sun-flare for Look Three. Music low, intimate — you’d asked for Debussy, for that familiar aching piano to fill the air like perfume.

And when he arrives, you don’t need to see him to feel it. The room shifts.

The energy bends around him the way candlelight bends around the mouth of a bottle — quiet, warm, dangerous. Jungkook steps onto the set in full silence, a charcoal overcoat draped over his shoulders, his dark hair slightly tousled as if someone had already run fingers through it. His jaw is set, lips slightly swollen from either sleep or biting them raw, and his gaze scans the crew until it lands — unerringly, unrelentingly — on you.

But you don’t look up.

You don’t flinch, don’t pause, don’t show the way your stomach flips once, hard, like a page turning before the story’s ready.

Instead, you speak to the photographer, a veteran French lensman who prefers film over digital and only calls you chérie, no matter the chaos on set. He adjusts the angle slightly, then lifts his hand mid-frame and calls out across the room, “Y/N, can we get him styled a bit looser in the sleeves? It’s too structured for the concept.”

You exhale once, slow. Professional. Composed. You cross the set and you touch him.

Just his wrist, where the cuff sits too stiff against the edge of his hand. You unbutton it slowly, rolling the fabric back with careful fingers, exposing the delicate veins on his forearm, and then you do the same to the other — ignoring the way his eyes never leave you, ignoring the way he breathes like it hurts to stand still.

You smooth down the line of the coat. His skin brushes yours. Your fingers burn.

Still, you don’t speak. He does. A whisper, meant for you and no one else.

“I missed your hands.”

You don’t look up. Instead, you step back and signal to the photographer that the frame is ready.

The shoot begins.

Jungkook moves like poetry — like he knows what this campaign is about, like it was written about him. He sits on the edge of the bed, eyes glazed, one hand tangled in the hem of a scarf that doesn’t belong to him, and he looks like someone who’s been left behind but still hopes the door might open. His expressions shift with each shutter click — longing, silence, disbelief, ache — and every single one of them feels too close to what you remember of him beneath your fingers in Italy.

You manage the room like nothing’s wrong.

You direct the crew, review the monitor feed, adjust the tone when someone gets too loud. When Look Three is rolled out — the white cotton button-down, slightly wrinkled, collar open like he just woke up heartbroken — you hand it to wardrobe yourself, knowing full well how it will sit against his skin. You do not speak to him again. Not even when the stylist forgets to tuck the tag and the photographer gestures for you to fix it.

You step forward, one last time.

You reach for the collar of his shirt, your fingers brushing his throat, and for a second he leans toward you — barely — as if the instinct is still there, like gravity. You ignore it. You tuck the tag. You fix the line. You walk away.

You finish the shoot an hour ahead of schedule.

You thank the team. Compliment the assistant stylist. Sign off on the film canisters and hand them over to the creative director. You do everything you’re meant to do, perfectly, professionally — and only when you sense him start to move behind you, feel the slightest shift in the air as if he’s about to reach for you, do you grab your bag and walk out, heels clicking loud and fast against the polished concrete floor, the sound of your escape echoing louder than his footsteps ever could.

You don’t look back. Because if you do — even once — you know this whole thing will burn.

✦✦✦

The next day of the schedule starts with a shutter click.

You arrive five minutes early, which is late by Vogue standards but early enough to look effortless. The studio is already lit in soft amber tones, flashes tested, light reflectors set in that subtle arch that frames the subject like an exhale. A quiet team of production assistants, stylists, and makeup artists hums around the space like bees in a glass hive. You take a seat near the edge of the shoot — clipboard in hand, pen capped, expression neutral — because today, you are not his past.

You’re just the editor and this is work.

Jungkook sits beneath the lights, draped in minimalist Givenchy, collar just low enough to hint at the ink curling across his collarbone. His skin is impossibly clear, styled to perfection, and you note — clinically, without emotion — that his eyes have dark circles under them that no amount of concealer can blur. Still, he poses like he was born under halogen, relaxed spine, parted lips, chin tilted, like he knows his angles and isn’t afraid to use them.

Across the room, Vogue Korea’s designated campaign photographer adjusts her lens and calls for frame five. You’re not on set — not yet — but you’re close enough to hear his voice when he answers a casual question from the stylist.

You’re also close enough to feel the air ripple when his eyes flick toward you between shots.

You’ve been in this industry too long to show weakness — not under studio lights, not with a photographer framing him like a god and a camera trained on every shadow.

Instead, you glance down at your notes. The interview outline is clean, with your handwriting pressed into the margins beside each question — an efficient, emotionless skeleton of conversation. You’re scheduled to ask about the album’s concept, the title RE:ENTRY, his intentions behind the tone, and any specific themes he’s chosen to highlight.

The theme is obvious. But you’ll ask anyway.

At exactly 11:30 a.m., the shoot breaks for rotation. You’re called over by the PR manager, and then by the Vogue photographer, who wants you on set to check visual tone and continuity.

You cross the studio slowly, adjusting your blouse at the wrist, pen still tucked neatly between two fingers, heels clicking softly against the concrete. When you step into the center of the lights, you feel it again — the way the room bends, the way his gaze wraps around you like silk that’s been soaked in heat.

You ignore it. The photographer points to a slight wrinkle in the shirt Jungkook is wearing. “Y/N, can you smooth that for me? It’s catching glare.”

You nod once. Step forward. Your fingers brush the hem of the shirt, then flatten over the fabric just above his waist. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But his breath shifts — you feel it bloom against your cheek, and your skin prickles with memory. Still, your hands are steady. Your eyes never meet his.

You adjust the fit, step back, nod to the camera.

Then you return to your seat. The rest of the day is efficient. You conduct the first half of the interview in a lounge corner of the studio, Vogue’s photographer snapping lifestyle-style candids in the background. Your questions are clean, practiced — too practiced. You ask about sonic inspiration, the shift from being part of a group to working solo, what scared him most about releasing something under just his name.

He answers well. Articulately. Formally. As if you aren’t the one person in the world who knows exactly what the track titled Notte Bianca is about.

You nod politely. Take notes. The shoot wraps at 5:00 p.m.

You thank the team, nod to the brand rep, shake hands with the makeup artist who complimented your ring. You don’t look at him again. Not until the very end, when you sense — not hear, not see, sense — his movement behind you. A reach. A step too close. Fingers about to graze your wrist.

You turn your head sharply — not enough to meet his eyes, just enough to remind him that you saw.

And then you leave, your car door shuts with the cleanest click you’ve ever heard.

✦✦✦

The car ride to Jungkook’s studio is unnervingly quiet — no music, no notifications, just the rhythmic tap of your nails against the Vogue press badge clipped discreetly inside your tote. Outside the window, Seoul moves like water — all steel and winter glass, a city too fast to hold your nerves.

When the taxi pulls up, you almost miss it.

The recording studio doesn’t flaunt its purpose. It’s hidden behind a row of designer cafés and flower boutiques in Hannam-dong, masked in matte black brick, with only a brushed steel door and keypad hinting at what it guards. There’s no sign. No name. Just silence. Which, you realize the moment you step out into the crisp air, is entirely the point.

You let yourself in with the temporary guest pass his team sent the day before, and the door opens on a different world — warmth, hush, acoustics tuned to velvet. The air is low-lit and humming with equipment, the scent of coffee and ozone hanging above a polished concrete floor. On one side, a glass-walled booth with layered sound panels and a hanging condenser mic; on the other, a leather couch and a wall of analog gear that looks far too expensive to touch.

You recognize it instantly as a space meant for vulnerability — but guarded like a vault.

Jungkook’s voice reaches you before you see him.

“Hey.”

You turn, and there he is — already seated near the mixing console, one leg folded beneath him, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fingers idly toying with a capless pen. He looks… quieter here. Not styled. Not sculpted for press. Just him.

You nod, polite. Controlled. “Hi.”

And then — like before — you don’t sit right away. You set your bag down carefully, unfold your notes, pull out the recorder, and begin the slow work of building a wall between the memory of his mouth on your body and the man now waiting to be interviewed.

“Thanks for making time for this,” you add, walking to the velvet chair opposite him.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Thanks for not avoiding me anymore.”

You ignore that. You press record.

“This is for the January cover feature,” you say, your voice even, practiced. “It’s a longform editorial piece to accompany your solo debut. I’d like to begin with the album title. RE:ENTRY. Why that name?”

He shifts in his seat, looking toward the floor before answering.

“I liked the idea of burning through the atmosphere,” he says. “Coming back into something that used to feel like home, but being changed by the fall. Everything’s faster now. Hotter. You survive it… or you don’t.”

You nod. Your pen glides across the paper.

“And the sound?” you ask. “You move between genres — synth, stripped-down ballads, late-night R&B. What ties them together?”

He tilts his head. “They’re all from the same orbit.”

You look up at him.

He adds, “Even when I was making Private Room, I was still haunted by Encore. I wanted sex and silence in the same breath. I wanted the story to feel like it was begging for one more night.”

You don’t blink. “So Encore is the centerpiece track?”

“I guess,” he shrugs, and smiles like it costs him something. “It’s the one that hurts the most.”

You cross your legs.

"And Don’t Look Back (You Did)?"

“Regret. Ego. Silence.” He meets your gaze. “You’d know.”

Your pen stills — for just a second — but you move on.

“And Her Ghost Wears Chanel?”

He breathes out, voice lower now. “That’s about waking up next to people who still aren’t her.”

You don’t flinch. You just write the line down, word for word, inked sharp and clinical across the page.

There’s a beat of quiet. You can feel the shift — the closeness, the weight of everything unsaid leaning into the pause.

You redirect.

“Let’s talk about New Year’s Exit,” you say, voice crisp again. “It opens the album.”

He nods. “It’s about starting the year without something you thought would be permanent.”

“Someone.”

He doesn’t deny it. You lower your pen, pause the recorder gently. “Would you be willing to let me hear a track?”

He’s already moving.

He rises from the chair — graceful, relaxed, more fluid than you remember — and walks toward the mixing board. The entire room shifts with him, like gravity, like muscle memory, and when he turns back to you, the lights catch his cheekbones in a way that makes your breath stutter in your chest.

He presses one key. And then Notte Bianca begins.

The track opens with the soft pull of fingers over a guitar string — warm, breathy, deliberate — and you feel it before you register the sound, something low in your spine tightening like recognition. The room doesn’t change, not visibly, but it feels different now, like every shadow is suddenly looking at you, like the light itself has gone still just to listen.

You remain seated, back straight, pen still in hand even though you haven’t written a word since he pressed play. Your eyes flick toward the console screen where the waveform glows and moves, but it’s his voice that finds you first — low, layered, textured with static and restraint, the way he always used to sing when he wanted to break your heart quietly.

"Lake light on your thighs / Moon in your throat / My name under your breath like it burned."

You don’t move.

"You kissed me like the night was rented / Like it wouldn’t last the drive home."

He’s not watching the screen. He’s watching you.

You feel it — not just in the air, but under your skin, like heat rising too fast. The lyrics pour out in waves, brushed with the same decadence that coated the marble floors of that Italian hotel, the same pulse that dragged you toward him under that chandelier, the same unbearable ache of wanting him and hating him in the same breath.

You swallow once. Your pen is trembling now.

"You said nothing when you left / But your lipstick stayed in my lungs."

The last chord hangs for too long. And then silence.

You lift your eyes, slowly, knowing that if you meet his gaze for more than a second, your composure will unravel like thread under fire.

Jungkook doesn’t speak immediately. He lets the quiet linger between you like a question you haven’t earned the right to ask.

When he finally does speak, his voice is soft — not teasing, not smug — just quietly devastating.

“That one came out fast.”

You blink once, slow.

“It sounds…” You reach for a word, but none of them feel professional enough. “It sounds… expensive.”

He smiles faintly, almost sadly. “It was.”

There’s a silence again — not awkward, just heavy.

You flip the page in your notebook with a hand that pretends not to shake. “Is it about someone specific?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He leans back, fingers threading behind his neck, body angled like a challenge, like he’s trying to look relaxed while waiting to see if you’ll flinch first.

“Only one person would recognize it,” he says finally.

You don’t answer.Instead, you click your pen closed and lower your voice, just enough to remind yourself that you're still in control.

“Any other tracks you’d like to walk me through today?”

He tilts his head — a little amused, a little bitter.

“I thought this was just a feature article,” he says. “Not a postmortem.”

You force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “They’re the same thing, sometimes.”

He stands.

And the room bends with him — subtly, but you feel it, like the soundproofing is no longer between the walls but between your ribs.

“I want to show you something,” he says. You don’t respond, but you follow him. 

The glass door to the recording booth is already cracked open, a soft glow pulsing from the mic’s standby light. He gestures you in, lets you step past him first, and when the door clicks shut behind you, the quiet becomes absolute — not silence, but a vacuum, the kind of hush you feel in your teeth.

He doesn’t move to the mic, standing behind you instead. Too close.

You can see your reflection in the glossy black of the sound panel in front of you, and the moment his voice drops — low and velvet — near the shell of your ear, you feel your pulse skitter hard behind your ribs.

“You didn’t ask about Private Room,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes.

Your voice barely works. “I didn’t think I needed to.”

He leans in from behind, breath warming your neck, his mouth not touching but close enough that your skin knows what he wants.

“Maybe you should’ve.”

You don’t know who moves first.

It could be you shifting your hips, or him closing the distance between his mouth and your neck. But the second he kisses you again, everything unravels. The studio is quiet — dangerously so — the only sound the low hum of the condenser mic and the soft hiss of your breathing when his lips skim your skin again, lower this time, finding that place beneath your ear that always made your knees tilt inward.

You stand there, frozen and burning, arms hanging useless at your sides while his hands move with a kind of hesitant worship — first hovering at your waist, then settling at the slope of your hips. Your skirt is short. You wore it because it was sharp. Professional. Structured. Not so it would make it easier for him to find your skin beneath it. But now, when his thumbs dip under the fabric and he groans softly against your neck, you know you made a mistake thinking you could stay in control of this.

You reach for him behind you, fingers closing around his wrist, guiding it higher — first to your ribs, then up, until his palm cups your breast through the thin fabric of your top. He breathes your name into your hair, barely a sound. You don’t respond.

You push backward, just enough to feel the line of him — hard, warm, pressed against the curve of your ass through too many layers. The contact sends a bolt of heat through your core, sharp and sweet and horrible.

He growls then, low and ragged, and spins you gently, urgently, until your back is against the padded wall. His gaze is molten, his lashes dark with restraint. One hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your lip.

“I don’t have a condom,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours, breath fanning hot across your mouth.

Your eyes stay on his, steady. “I’m clean. On the pill.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m clean too.”

You tilt your head, lips almost touching now. “Then fuck me. Raw.”

He kisses you — not sweetly, not gently — and it knocks the breath out of you. The kiss is wet, open-mouthed, all tongue and memory. His hands yank your top up and over your chest, dragging it to your collarbones while he palms your breasts, rough and aching, mouth breaking from yours only to attach to your neck, your jaw, the space just above your collar.

His fingers tug your skirt higher and he drags your underwear down in one motion, breath catching when he finds you soaked.

“You wanted this,” he mutters, almost angry.

“You left me,” you snap.

And still — your legs part for him.

He strokes you once, twice, and you arch into the wall with a gasp. He leans in, teeth grazing your earlobe.

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re hard,” you whisper back.

He groans — deep, feral — and with one hand gripping your hip, he aligns himself and pushes in, slow and thick, stretching you open in a way that makes your jaw go slack.

The first thrust is unbearable. The second nearly makes your knees give.

It’s different — raw — in every sense. Hotter. Messier. You feel every inch of him, no barrier between you, no distance, no excuse. He presses you into the wall and begins to move, hips rolling deep, his breath catching against your neck with each thrust. One hand holds your thigh up, the other slides around your stomach, anchoring you to him as he rocks into you harder, deeper.

“You feel—fuck—you feel like sin,” he breathes, and the sound of it makes your head fall back.

You clench around him and whimper something that sounds like his name. His grip tightens.

“You want me to stop?” he murmurs against your skin.

“No,” you breathe, eyes fluttering. “Don’t.”

He fucks you like a memory he refuses to let fade — slow and deep, then fast and filthy, each thrust wet and loud and obscene in the echo of the booth. You’re both making sounds now, breathless and unfiltered. His hand slips between your legs, fingers rubbing where you’re swollen, and when you cry out, he curses under his breath.

“Don’t be quiet,” he groans. “Let me hear you.”

You come fast — it crashes into you like the snap of a wave, your body going taut, your thighs trembling as your orgasm rips through you, pulsing around him.

He barely holds it together.

The rhythm stutters, grows erratic. He grunts something low against your shoulder, and you feel him spill inside you, hot and full, buried as deep as he can go. Your walls flutter around him, milking every drop, and he stays inside for a moment — just breathing, just holding.

Then, wordlessly, he pulls you off the wall. He lowers you into his lap as he sinks into the studio chair, still sheathed inside you, still hard, still not done.

You let your weight settle onto him, and for a moment, you both just breathe — foreheads brushing, skin hot and trembling, his hands skating up the back of your thighs with reverence that feels dangerous. You grind once, slow, a test — and he exhales like he’s been holding it in for years.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs.

You plant your hands on his chest, lift your hips, and begin to ride him — deliberately slow at first, dragging your wetness along every ridge of him, letting the stretch burn again just because you want it to. Your head falls back with a moan that echoes off the soundboard. He watches you like he’s in a trance, jaw slack, hands gripping the curve of your waist to steady you as you find rhythm again.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he groans, voice rough, low. “On me. All mine.”

You don’t answer — you just roll your hips harder, faster, chasing friction and heat.

He growls, leans forward, and his hands cup your ass, fingers digging into the flesh as he guides you faster, helping you ride him with bruising force now. Your moans turn breathless, pitched higher, your thighs shaking from effort and overstimulation, and he leans in to suck a mark beneath your collarbone, murmuring filth against your skin as he does.

“Fuck, baby… You’re gonna make me—”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Do it.”

That’s all it takes.

He thrusts up once, twice — hard — and then holds you still as he comes, buried deep, heat spilling into you, a low growl rasping out of his throat. You shudder once more with him, clenching around every pulse of him, drunk on the stretch, the fullness, the rawness of it.

You collapse onto his chest again, trembling.

He breathes against your hair. “Round two?”

You smile. Slow. Lazy. Still wrapped around him.

“Not tonight.”

You pull back, fingertips smoothing the line of his jaw. You press one soft kiss to his lips — all heat and no promise — and when you stand, he groans at the loss of you.

You smooth your skirt down, roll your top back into place, gather your pen from the floor like it matters.

Then you look at him over your shoulder.

“Thanks,” you say, voice satin-sweet, already turning toward the door. “That was a very, very good fuck.”

[you can read the article of OC and Jungkook’s album tracklist here]

✦✦✦

The morning stretches itself across the Vogue Korea editorial floor in long, ivory ribbons of winter light, filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows with theatrical precision, as if the sun itself is rehearsing a cue for your moment. The glass table gleams beneath your fingertips. Your laptop screen reflects back your masterpiece — the completed feature article for the January issue, centered around Jungkook’s solo debut, your words threading through each song like the fine gold stitching of a couture hem.

You’ve read it a dozen times this morning alone. Still, it holds. Still, it sings.

Each paragraph cuts clean. Every pull quote lands like a lyric that never needed melody. You’ve captured RE:ENTRY the way it was meant to be seen — not just an album, but a confession dressed in synth and sweat and late-night regret. It is, without a trace of false humility, the best work you’ve ever done. And the issue? Your issue. The layout. The vision. The headline structure. The branded social rollout. All of it — yours.

The room is full — editorial, design, digital, partnerships — everyone seated around the long conference table, coffee cups half-full, coats draped over the backs of chairs, winter breath still lingering in some of their voices. You finish your presentation with a confident click, closing the laptop and lifting your chin slightly as you glance toward your boss.

For a beat, there’s silence. And then it starts — a ripple of soft applause that swells into something louder, more genuine, until even the department heads are nodding to each other in agreement. Compliments bloom across the room like perfume. Someone says the piece reads like a movie. Someone else calls it transcendent. Even Hyerin catches your eye from across the table, mouthing a quiet “you killed it.”

Then, from the head of the table, a slow, deliberate nod.

Seo In-kyung, the Editor-in-Chief herself — rarely warm, never effusive — folds her manicured hands atop her tablet, tilts her head slightly, and lets the words fall in that sharp, measured tone she reserves for verdicts and final cuts.

“I don’t say this lightly,” she begins, her voice cool and commanding, “but your feature has set the tone for this issue in a way I haven’t seen in years. It’s layered. It’s intimate. And most importantly, it’s Vogue. I can already feel the ripple effect.”

You exhale slowly, the praise sliding over your skin like sunlight through silk, warm and grounding and almost enough to distract you from the truth that’s been haunting you since the night at the studio: that no matter how clean your layout, how polished your sentences, how composed your posture — you let him in again. And you’ve been ignoring every message since.

But for now, you’re untouchable. Or at least, you were.

Until Kara stands.

The sound of her palms meeting each other breaks through the air with a peculiar cadence — a slow, sarcastic clap, each strike louder than the one before. The entire room shifts toward her in confusion, and when she smiles, it’s the kind of curve that doesn’t reach her eyes, the kind of expression that warns before it wounds.

In-kyung’s voice tightens like a drawn thread.

“Kara. Sit.”

But she doesn’t. Instead, she adjusts the fall of her designer blouse, takes a step forward, and clears her throat delicately — the kind of theatrical gesture that lets everyone know she’s about to make the moment about herself.

“Maybe,” Kara begins, her voice sugar-laced and perfectly pitched, “if the rest of us were fucking with the people we were interviewing, we could all produce work like that.”

For a moment, you don’t breathe. No one does.

The room plunges into silence so deep it hums, and you swear you hear the central heating system kick on just to fill the space with something. Across the table, Hyerin’s eyes widen. One of the junior editors drops their pen. Someone mutters what the fuck under their breath, barely audible.

And you? You sit motionless. Perfect. Stunned. Your spine straight, your limbs gone cold.

Your name is not said. But it doesn’t have to be.

In-kyung straightens, rising from her seat like the ghost of judgment in ivory cashmere.

“Kara. My office. Now.”

Kara offers a slow, graceful blink, like a model turning for her close-up, and walks toward the exit with a posture that suggests not shame, but triumph. You follow, legs heavy and heart racing, still unsure how reality is moving beneath you when the ground feels like it should be giving way.

Inside the office, the door clicks shut with a finality that feels fatal. You don’t sit. Kara does.

She opens the folder in her hands and begins sliding photos across In-kyung’s desk with infuriating precision — one after another, each print more invasive than the last. There’s a shot of Jungkook’s hand on your back outside the gala limo. Another of him stepping into your taxi the following morning. A third from years ago, the two of you on the sidewalk in Mapo, your fingers linked, your faces flushed with the kind of joy only twenty-year-olds and fools believe is permanent.

You stare in disbelief, pulse hammering behind your ribs.

“What the hell is this?” your voice cracks. “Were you following me?”

Kara doesn’t even look up. She keeps arranging the photos like artifacts.

“No need,” she says, light as air. “Your fuckboy is a walking goldmine of sasaeng activity. I just reached out to a few desperate little fan accounts. They practically threw this at me.”

Something in you shatters.

“Are you hearing yourself?” you hiss, turning to In-kyung with disbelief. “She bought photos from stalkers. This isn’t journalism. It’s harassment. Jungkook has no privacy and you’re—”

But In-kyung doesn’t raise her hand. She doesn’t shout and doesn’t look at the photos a second time.

She simply closes the folder in one deliberate motion, turns her eyes to yours — steady, unreadable, perfectly composed — and delivers her verdict with the same calmness she uses to kill stories at the pitch table.

“You’re fired.”

You feel the words before you hear them, the coldness of them landing first in your stomach and then rising like bile to your throat. You blink, stunned, trying to make sense of what you’ve just been told.

“What?”

Her tone doesn’t change.

“The article will be reassigned,” she says. “The cover credit will follow. You’re dismissed from your position, effective immediately.”

You can’t move.

“This is—this is insane,” you whisper. “You’re rewarding her for a smear campaign built on sasaeng surveillance—”

You want to speak — to scream, to argue, to defend yourself with everything you’ve built — but your mouth doesn’t open. Kara sits still, smug and silent, as if she’s already lit the match and is simply watching the room burn.

“You made a choice,” In-kyung cuts you off, voice quiet, cold. “To violate our professional code. To sleep with a client. You gambled your credibility. And you lost.”

Kara exhales like a cat stretching in the sun. “Have a nice life, sweetheart.”

You look to In-kyung again, searching for anything — reason, mercy, even disgust.

But she’s already turning back to her computer.

You are no longer something she needs to look at.

“Please escort yourself out,” she says without lifting her gaze.

And just like that, you are erased.

✦✦✦

The office is quiet now — too quiet — the way a room sounds after applause ends and everyone forgets to look back. You sit alone in the corner cubicle that used to buzz with purpose, dragging your Vogue-embossed storage box closer with one hand, the other carefully wrapping cords, tucking notebooks, flattening printed drafts that once mattered more than breath itself. Your coffee mug — the one from Paris Fashion Week with the chipped handle and a faint lipstick stain that never came off — goes in last.

You don’t cry. Not because you’re strong. But because there is something so bitter, so insulting about the way it ended that it leaves no room for tears, only a scalding sort of fury that simmers behind your ribs like boiling perfume.

You don’t look at Kara’s desk. You don’t even let your gaze hover near it.

You think about the years it took to get here — from intern to editor, the nights you stayed late under flickering lights, rewriting celebrity copy while Kara slipped out early for rooftop events she didn’t earn. You think about the trust you built, the reputation for polish and precision, the way your boss once said you were the kind of woman who made Vogue feel like Vogue again. And now? One grainy photo from a sasaeng with a zoom lens and a grudge, and it’s over.

Your jaw clenches. When you close the lid on the box, the snap of it feels ceremonial.

Footsteps approach, soft-soled and hesitant. You don’t look up until Hyerin’s voice breaks the hum of your rage.

“They’ll reconsider. I know they will. You just need to wait it out.”

You meet her eyes — kind, worried, sincere — and something in you softens for a breath. But only a breath.

“I don’t want them to,” you say, your tone low, flat, final. “If this is what they stand for — if this is what they protect — then I don’t want to belong to it.”

Hyerin looks stricken. “Y/N…”

But you’re already standing, lifting the box with both arms. It’s heavier than it should be. Or maybe you’re just exhausted.

“I didn’t sleep with him for a cover,” you add, pausing at the edge of your cubicle. “But even if I had — I’d still have more integrity than someone buying evidence from stalkers. And they chose her over me. That’s all I need to know.”

✦✦✦

The taxi ride home is silent. Not a single notification or a single tear.

But when you step inside your apartment, place the box carefully on the floor, and shut the door behind you — it breaks.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a sharp inhale, a trembling lip, and the way your shoulders fold forward like they’re finally allowed to collapse. You don’t scream. You don’t sob. But your hands shake when you reach for your phone, and your heart races the moment his name lights up the screen.

You press call. It rings once, then twice.

“Y/N?” His voice is thick with disbelief, like he never actually expected to hear from you again. “Wait—are you okay?”

You don’t answer him right away.

“Do you know,” you begin, voice steady despite everything, “how many sasaengs follow you?”

There’s a pause. A beat of silence that stretches too long.

“…Yes,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You swallow. “Do you know they’re selling photos of you?”

The panic in his voice is instant, sharp as a blade. “What? What the fuck—why are you asking? Did they follow you? Did they send you something? Y/N, what did they—”

“They didn’t come to me,” you interrupt softly. “They went to someone else. Someone who used it to destroy everything I worked for.”

Another silence. And then, his voice drops — low, furious, gutted. “Tell me who.”

You laugh — not out of humor, but out of something hollow and tired and cruel. “Does it matter? It’s done. I’m fired.”

“What?”

“I lost everything,” you say, softer now, like you’re just realizing it yourself. “The article. The credit. The cover. All of it.”

He curses under his breath. You can hear him pacing, hear the frustration laced into every inhale. “They can’t fucking do that. You worked for years—"

“I don’t care,” you lie.

“Yes, you do.”

You sit on the floor, legs crossed beneath you, staring at the wall like it might offer you something. “I care about writing. I care about fashion. But I don’t care about a company that protects stalkers and punishes women for who they love.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then his voice shifts — softer, more cautious.

“I know you still love Vogue Korea like that.”

You hesitate.

“I don’t love them,” you say finally. “I love the work. I always did.”

There’s a pause. Then a breath. And then—

“You know the October cover? The BTS one?”

You blink. “What about it?”

“It was my idea.”

You frown. “What?”

He exhales, like he’s been waiting to admit this. “I found out you were working there. I pitched the cover, and insisted on Vogue Korea. I told them I wanted it — told the team I’d only do the solo campaign if they agreed. I didn’t know how else to get to you.”

“You…” your voice falters. “You did all that just to see me again?”

“Yes.”

The confession hangs between you, delicate and irreversible.

“And now they’re stealing your work from you — the very thing I pitched because I wanted you back in my world. I’m not letting them get away with that.”

You don’t know what to say. So instead, you whisper, “I hate that you still make me feel things.”

“I hope,” he replies, voice breaking just slightly, “you hate it a little less tomorrow.”

✦✦✦

The glass walls of the Vogue Korea conference room still gleam with that same sterile gloss — the scent of designer leather chairs, faint citrus from someone's perfume, and the cold metallic hum of power thickening the air. You shouldn’t be here. You know that. And yet, you sit at the long oval table, fingers clasped in your lap, spine straight, head high — not for them, not anymore, but for yourself.

You didn’t ask to come back. You wouldn’t have. Not after how they discarded you with such dispassion, like the work you bled for had never stained their brand bright enough to matter. But then the invitation had come. Not from Seo In-kyung. Not from the Vogue board. It came from HYBE, with your name printed in clean, exacting type, and a tone that wasn’t a request — it was a summons.

The door opens behind you.

Seo In-kyung enters first, all sharp angles and polished silk, her expression unreadable except for the faint crease between her brows — as if being made to explain herself is beneath her title. Kara walks in just a step behind, her expression a masterpiece of faux neutrality, lips pressed together so tightly that they’re nearly colorless. She sits without greeting you, without a glance. You return the favor.

And then he enters.

Jungkook was dressed in black head-to-toe — blazer open, shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, no tie. His jaw is locked, his posture coiled and still, and there is something in his gaze that makes the whole room stiffen as he steps inside alongside his manager. You don’t flinch. You meet his eyes. And this time, you don’t look away.

Because if they fired you for loving him, then let them see it. He sits directly across from you, and the silence lingers just long enough to curdle. His voice is calm when it finally comes, but barely.

“I’ll make this simple,” Jungkook says, his eyes never leaving In-kyung. “I’m no longer consenting to my January solo cover if the credit for the article is assigned to the wrong person.”

A pause. In-kyung blinks once. “The credit is a formality,” she begins smoothly, tilting her head ever so slightly toward you, “though of course I understand there’s a... personal stake here.”

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t shift — but the temperature in the room does.

“No,” he says, tone even sharper now. “It’s not personal. It’s ethical. I don’t condone plagiarism. Or fraud.”

His manager clears his throat beside him, carefully composed. “We have emails, timestamps, raw drafts, BTS’s own recording sessions — all traced directly to Y/N’s involvement. Any change to her authorship would not only be inaccurate — it would be actionable.”

Kara shifts in her seat, the first sign of discomfort flashing in her eyes.

But Jungkook isn’t finished. He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, and when he speaks again, the edge in his voice is no longer subtle.

��And even beyond the article,” he says, “I still don’t understand how she was fired. Not reprimanded. Not reassigned. Fired. And replaced with someone who sourced photos from fucking sasaengs.”

Kara’s voice shoots up before anyone else can respond.

“I didn’t take the photos myself,” she snaps, finally cracking through her composure. “I bought them. They were already out there. I didn’t create the scandal—”

“You weaponized it,” Jungkook cuts in, tone now dark and lethal. “You used stalker photos to humiliate a colleague in a professional setting. You endangered my privacy. Her safety. And you dragged a private relationship into a boardroom as ammunition. You think that’s not disgusting?”

His manager steps in before Kara can reply, voice cool, detached, lethal in its corporate precision.

“The fact remains that these images, regardless of origin, were disseminated within an official Vogue Korea meeting — and used to provoke professional consequences. From our legal standpoint, that constitutes a violation of privacy law and creates grounds for a breach-of-contract dispute. Unless remedied.”

In-kyung’s expression tightens. She smooths her skirt, then folds her hands, composed but calculating.

“We’ll reinstate the credit,” she says at last. “The article will be published under Y/N’s name as originally planned. And the cover will remain with Mr. Jeon.”

There’s a flicker of triumph in the air — but it doesn’t reach you.

Because you already know what you’re about to say. You speak before anyone else can.

“I’m not coming back.”

Jungkook turns to you so sharply it’s like someone tugged a thread from the center of the table.

In-kyung blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I won’t return to Vogue Korea,” you repeat, voice steady, gaze pinned to your former boss. “You may put my name on that article — because I wrote it — but I will not work for a publication that values power and optics over people. That protects stalkers. That dismisses women for the crime of loving someone inconvenient.”

For a moment, no one speaks.

Then Jungkook shifts again, slowly this time, turning his head toward In-kyung with that same quiet finality that has sold out stadiums.

“I want Kara fired,” he says, voice so calm it almost feels kind. “And I want that request noted in the official record. From the artist. Personally.”

You don’t look at Kara. You don’t need to.

Because this time, when you walk out of that office, the door doesn’t slam behind you.

It closes — soft, final, clean. The hallway feels brighter on the way out.

Jungkook catches up to you at the elevator, a half-step behind, and when he speaks, it’s softer now — less fire, more ache.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says. “Not for me.”

You turn to him with a bitter smile. “I didn’t. I did it for me.”

He nods once, and the elevator dings open. You both step inside.

“I owe you,” you say after a moment, voice low. “You didn’t have to show up like that.”

“I’ll always show up for you,” he replies, and for once, it sounds like a vow.

Silence settles again — warm, heavy — until he glances at you and adds, “Do you want a ride?”

You hesitate but nod. And this time, when you get into the car with him, it doesn’t feel like surrender.

It feels like agency.

✦✦✦

The car is silent for a while, the kind of silence that doesn’t ache — not exactly — but hums with something tentative and unspeakable, something that lives between the past and the possibility. Outside the tinted windows, Seoul glows with its usual contradiction — steel and chaos dressed in elegance, neon halos wrapped around glass buildings, traffic humming like a restless symphony beneath them.

You sit with your hands folded neatly in your lap, your body angled toward the window, your thoughts stretched thin between relief and exhaustion. And then you hear him breathe in like he’s been holding it for too long.

“How are you?” he asks.

You glance at him, not expecting the question to land so gently.

“I’m fine,” you say, voice calm and even. “I’ve saved up enough to hold myself through a few months. And I have an idea. A project, maybe.”

He turns slightly, enough for you to see his profile against the soft glow of the passing streetlights.

“What kind of project?”

You pause, then let it slip — not with rehearsed polish, not as a pitch, but as something tender you’ve been nursing in the back of your mind.

“A digital magazine,” you say. “Something fresh. Modern. Built around voices that actually have something to say. Not just trends, but meaning. I want to tell stories again — without being filtered through nepotism and ivory towers.”

His mouth parts like he’s about to interrupt, to offer something, but you continue before he can find the words.

“And I’ll be fine,” you say. “I always am. I’ve got this.”

He nods, slowly, his jaw tightening just slightly.

“I could help,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, not pushy — more like a hand hesitantly extended in the dark. “If you need funding. Or reach. Or anything.”

You smile, soft and kind.

“I know. But it won’t be necessary.”

His brows twitch. “You sure?”

You turn your head toward him then, really look at him. “I got everything I ever had on my own. I want this to be mine, too.”

It’s not rejection, not really — but it’s a boundary. One spoken with grace, but firm enough to bruise. And yet, he doesn’t pull away. He only nods again, his lips parting for a breath that he never quite exhales, eyes now fixed on the blurred city rushing past.

He doesn’t say it, but you feel it anyway — the desperate, quiet ache of a man trying to find any way to stay in your orbit, even if all the lines have been drawn in stone.

By the time the car pulls up to your apartment complex, the tension has shifted. It’s not heavy anymore. It’s just there — coiled in the silence, lingering in the static between your fingers.

Jungkook reaches for the door handle, but stops when you speak again.

“You know,” you murmur, eyes sliding toward him, tone feather-light, “you could come up for a minute.”

He pauses. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, letting the smallest smirk tug at your lips. “Your blazer is still at my place. I figured you might want it back.”

He blinks once, a beat of disbelief, then — a smile. Real. Wide. Bright in a way that makes him look younger, almost like the boy you used to know before the world taught him how to disappear.

“Right,” he says. “The blazer.”

And just like that, he follows you up the stairs.

The door swings open with a soft click, and the warmth of your apartment spills into the hallway — soft lamplight, the faint scent of fresh flowers, and something faintly sweet clinging to the air like vanilla and ink. Jungkook follows you in, quiet behind you, his steps slowing as he takes in the space — small, yes, but so meticulously curated that it feels like stepping into the pages of a life built by hand.

Your bookshelves are stacked not just with titles, but with memories — worn copies of fashion memoirs, old literary paperbacks with creased spines, a row of thick archival issues of Vogue from various countries, and a ceramic pen holder shaped like a Chanel No. 5 bottle. Your desk is minimal, sleek, but lived-in: a half-used candle, a leather-bound planner with sticky notes peeking out, a cup of cooling tea beside your laptop. On the wall just above it, perfectly framed and hung in a gold-trimmed black mount, is the October issue of Vogue Korea.

His cover. Your article.

You watch him approach it, his eyes scanning the glossy finish, the sharp serif headline, the tension frozen forever in that singular photo you both helped bring to life. He doesn’t speak, not right away. His throat works around the words he doesn’t say, and you leave him there, letting him take in the quiet proof that even now, even after everything, he still lives here — in your space, in your timeline, pressed between your fingerprints and your dreams.

“I didn’t know you kept it,” he says finally, voice low.

You smile gently, already walking into the small open kitchen. “Well, I wrote it,” you reply, pulling down two glasses. “It was mine before it was anyone else’s.”

He turns at that, and the look on his face is almost boyish — reverent, maybe. Like he’s seeing you again for the first time, not through a lens of guilt or memory, but through the stillness of now.

You return with the wine and a sly glint in your eye, nudging his elbow as you pass. “Don’t look so serious. We’re not here to mourn.”

He lifts a brow. “No?”

You hand him a glass and settle onto the plush, soft-blanketed couch that dominates your small living room, the cushions already sunken from nights spent editing drafts and reading fashion week recaps. You tuck your legs beneath you and raise your glass in a mock-toast.

“We’re here to celebrate. My freedom. My future. Today was a win.”

He clinks your glass gently, eyes never leaving yours. “To your freedom,” he murmurs.

The first few sips pass easily, the taste rich and deep. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker — something French and sultry, the kind of thing you play when you're pretending not to romanticize solitude. The conversation flows without effort, meandering through memories, playful jabs, late-night ramen disasters from your early twenties, the ridiculous way he used to sneak into your dorm through the laundry exit, how you once nearly got caught at a public library and laughed for fifteen minutes straight after.

He’s different now. Older, yes — carved sharper, his fame molded into his posture — but when he laughs like that, head tilted back, lashes low, he feels like the boy you never really stopped loving. Not completely.

And maybe he never stopped loving you either.

When the wine bottle is nearly empty and your legs are stretched lazily across his lap, the mood shifts. Not jarringly — no crash of thunder, no sudden silence — but something gentler, something that folds over the room like velvet being pulled across bare skin.

He brushes a piece of hair from your cheek, his fingers staying there, calloused and warm against your skin. His thumb drags softly along your jaw, then rests at the corner of your mouth as if memorizing the shape of your silence.

“You deserve the best things in this world,” he says, voice tender, achingly sincere. “And I wish I never disappointed you the way I did.”

You look at him, eyes wide and open, the sting in your chest blooming and soft all at once.

“I don’t want you to carry that forever,” you whisper. “We’ve both made peace with the wreckage. I want us to move forward — not with guilt. With hope.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You really believe we can?”

You nod, slowly, deliberately. “I believe in starting again. And I believe in us, if we choose it.”

That’s when he leans in.

There is no sudden urgency, no hunger to consume — only the slow, careful gravity of two people finding home in each other’s mouths. His lips meet yours like a secret finally spoken aloud. The kiss is slow and reverent, a study in restraint, his hand still on your face, the other slipping to your waist as if asking permission he already knows you’ll grant.

You move together like something rediscovered — nothing desperate, nothing rushed. When he lifts you into his lap, you don’t hesitate. Your fingers tangle in his hair, his hands glide beneath your shirt, and every inch of contact feels like returning to a language your bodies never forgot.

You murmur his name. He breathes yours against your neck.

“I love you,” he says, not as a plea, not as a promise — just truth.

You whisper it back, slow and trembling, as you guide his shirt off, as he lifts you in his arms and carries you toward your bedroom. 

The door to your bedroom creaks open as he carries you inside, the backs of his fingers still stroking your waist beneath your blouse, as though he can’t bear to stop touching you even for a second. The room is small but bathed in warmth — draped in deep tones and the faintest scent of your perfume that lives in the pillows and hangs from the edges of the curtain. He sets you down at the foot of the bed as if you’re something precious, something fragile and sacred, but the look in his eyes tells you he also wants to ruin you.

You pull your top over your head, slow, deliberate, leaving yourself in nothing but a bralette and that little skirt you forgot you were still wearing. He watches you with parted lips, chest rising, gaze molten as he reaches to kiss you again — slower this time, deeper, his tongue licking softly into your mouth while his hands slide over your thighs.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he breathes, voice hoarse, kissing your collarbone, your shoulder, his mouth tracing the line of your bra. “Do you know what it’s been like? Wanting you like this, every night, for years?”

Your fingers are already tugging his shirt out of his pants, unfastening buttons one by one, letting your nails graze the inked skin of his chest.

“I want you,” you murmur, breath catching as he kisses just beneath your breast. “All of you.”

He lowers you onto the bed with maddening control — pressing kisses along your ribs, your stomach, as his hands tug your skirt down your legs. You feel like fire under his touch. You arch into him, gasping when his mouth finds your inner thigh. His breath is warm, heavy, teasing, but he takes his time. He licks you through your panties first, a slow press of his tongue that has you already clenching around nothing, already aching for more.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “So fucking sweet.”

When he finally pulls your panties to the side and buries his face between your thighs, you forget every coherent thought. His tongue is slow and deliberate — soft licks at first, then deeper, firmer, as he moans against your skin like he’s starving for it. One of his arms hooks around your thigh to keep you still while his other hand trails up your body, palming your breast through your bra, rubbing his thumb over the peak.

You whimper, fingers tangled in his hair. “Jungkook…”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, licking up and down your folds. “Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good again.”

And then his tongue circles your clit — slow at first, then faster, as he sucks you into his mouth and keeps your hips pressed down. You can’t stop the moans, the way your back arches, the way your thighs tremble under his grip.

You fall apart like that, shattering beneath his tongue, crying out his name as your orgasm crashes over you. But he doesn’t stop — not even when you twitch and squirm and plead. He licks you through it, groaning against you like he needs it, until you’re gasping, breathless.

When he finally comes up for air, lips wet and eyes dark, you’re already reaching for him — unbuttoning his pants, tugging them down with a quiet desperation.

“Please,” you breathe. “I need you inside me.”

He curses under his breath, leans over to grab a condom — but you stop him.

“I’m still clean,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “I’m still on the pill. And you?”

His eyes lock with yours — hot and heavy and searching. “Yeah. I’m clean.”

You nod once. “Then fuck me raw.”

That’s when something in him snaps.

He strips down in seconds — shirt, boxers, everything — and when you see him, thick and flushed and already leaking, your mouth waters. You reach for him, running your palm down his length, watching the way his eyes flutter shut.

But he grabs your wrist.

“No teasing,” he growls. “Not this time.”

Then he’s on top of you — dragging your panties down the rest of the way, lifting your leg around his waist as he lines himself up and pushes inside.

You both gasp. The stretch is slow, hot, overwhelming. You cling to him, nails raking down his back, his name spilling from your lips as he rocks into you inch by inch.

“Fuck,” he moans, voice shaking. “You’re so tight. So warm. I missed this. I missed you.”

When he bottoms out, he stays there for a beat, forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling at the sheer intimacy of it. You feel every inch of him, bare and pulsing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

“I love you,” you whisper, your breath stuttering. “I love you so much.”

He kisses you then — slow, open, deep — and begins to move.

The rhythm builds gradually, your hips meeting him halfway, your fingers digging into his arms as he fucks you with long, dragging thrusts that make your entire body sing. The room is filled with your moans, your names falling from each other’s lips like prayers. There’s no distance between you anymore. No layers of pain. Just skin and sweat and love.

When he pulls your leg higher and goes deeper, you sob out a broken cry, eyes squeezed shut from how intense it feels.

“Look at me,” he pleads. “Don’t look away.”

You do. And you see everything.

When you come this time, it’s with him — bodies pressed close, lips locked, everything clenching and shivering as you fall together.

After, you lie in the quiet, tangled in each other, your fingers brushing over his chest, his lips on your forehead, your thigh, your hand.

“I love you,” he whispers again, soft and sure.

You smile against his skin. This time, you believe it.

There is no fight, no push-pull. Only warmth. Only skin. Only the slow, glorious ache of making love to someone who knows where your soul lives — and chooses to return to it.

The night unfolds like a second chance.

And when you both fall asleep — tangled, bare, with no lies left between you — it’s not the end.

It’s the encore that mattered most.

.

.

an: you can get access to early chapter and exclusive content to my stories here 🖤

taglist: @twiinkletae , @whoa-jo, @emixlyn, @maariinaaaaa , @strawberryberrygirl , @viacb97, @bhonbhon , @baechugff, @mrspotatas, @hrndzsposts , @zzztaegizz , @bubblyyz , @vandjklove , @queenmasterxx, @lynnnnnnn23 @alittlelostalittlefound @whoa-jo @azaood @mar-lo-pap @sweatycherryblossomluminary @jk-190811 @kelsyx33 @rkive994 @asyr97 @do-the-shammy @gracelyxxx @slut4jeon @alessioayla @deeznutkooks @thatbtssong @bjoriis @chxiosworld @ushymushygushy @vantaelis @ilovehotmen1234 @sillyminmin @kreighposts @llallaaa @anyarealita @youthguk

[sapphicdalliances]

So I agree with this up to a point – I've seen a lot of people in the tags say "the miscommunication was on both sides", and I do feel that in the specific case of the golden core transfer and the ways in which that affected their relationship, that was definitely not a mutual miscommunication, but very simply a lie, a deliberate deception on WWX's part.

It's completely true that JC is very honest and forthcoming when it comes to information, his thoughts, his circumstances, etc, and all of that is usually in hopes of helping someone close to him (be that his siblings or the rest of Yunmeng Jiang). He's also able to navigate the "Yanli's feelings toward Zixuan" minefield with reasonable efficacy, taking the time to hear Yanli's thoughts and such. It's a very stark contrast to WWX who has buried every negative feeling he's ever had 6 feet in the ground, deflects most questions he doesn't want to answer and just fully ignores the rest, bulldozes through a bunch of his loved ones' opinions and boundaries in his attempts to protect them, and even deceives himself on a number of LWJ-related issues.

But I think there is still something JC isn't very successful at communicating to WWX, and that's his affection. This is, predictably, the same with Mme Yu as others in the comments have brought up, though her situation is much more exaggerated: she communicates her thoughts and opinions quite clearly, but declines to do the same with her sentiments. She actually loved her children and her husband, but refused to express this until her dying breath – I think many can probably relate who has a parent like this: of course she loves her children, so why should she waste breath on something everyone knows when she could be loudly explaining how they can better themselves in society for the 2,408th time. (Chinese culture itself is quite actions-forward; some will say that providing for her children and educating them is in itself a clear sign of love! But like girl come on.)

Similarly, JC doesn't like to speak his love aloud, but shows it in his actions. (This is why in the books, where his actions can be easily missed in the narration, it's easy to interpret him as being cold and loveless.) Instead of "I love you Jin Ling", it's "tell me who made you cry!" and "don't get hurt or I'll break your legs!" and getting hostaged to protect him. Instead of "WWX you're my brother and I love you (but you are a great big bag of dicks)" it's running for a week straight through enemy territory, throwing himself between his brother and Zidian, throwing himself to the Wens to spare WWX, asking WWX to help name the baby, keeping Chenqing in perfect playing condition in a pocket next to his heart for 13 years. He doesn't hide his affection or go full "it's not because I care about you or anything, sh-shagua!" mode, but verbally, he always approaches WWX business-end first. Even at the Guanyin temple, he wasn't quite able to properly express that he missed WWX and wanted him to come home as his brother; he had to couch it in the language of fealty.

Would showing his affections more clearly have changed anything? Hard to say. WWX was in just about the worst mental state you can imagine a guy being in for several years consecutively, and there were many things he could not or would not hear. He had spoken JC's particular love language fluently for years, but I would hazard a guess that the unavoidable bitterness and resentment from that missing core may have turned his eyes away from the gestures that came in during the Burial Mounds era. So maybe it wouldn't have really made any difference.

But in my opinion, even by the time of the siege, JC still loved him. And I think WWX probably died the first time not believing that at all.

Lotta takes that are like "Jiang Cheng didn't change his behaviour at all in 13 years, that proves that he doesn't want to grow as a person" and it's like, sorry but why would he change his behaviour when the information that would recontextualise Wei Wuxian's actions and thus lead him to rethink his own reactions was deliberately kept hidden from him? From his perspective, his brother broke all his promises for no goddamn reason, picked a different family over him, lost control of the evil energy he swore he could control, and in doing so caused such a catastrophe that both of Jin Ling's parents were killed. We know that there's more to that story, but he doesn't, and it would be impossible for him to find out on his own because again, everyone involved was lying to him and hiding the relevant information on purpose.

He's told about the golden core transfer like three hours before the book ends, and frankly processes it faster than most people could reasonably be expected to after 13 years of grief and loneliness! "He had chances to improve his behaviour and didn't" HE LITERALLY DIDN'T HAVE ANY CHANCES BECAUSE WWX LIED TO HIM!! His behaviour was completely justified from his perspective and when his perspective is changed, and he realises that what he did was wrong, he's like, SUPER upset about it!

[hockeygirl101]

Blank Space

Quinn Hughes x singer!reader

Warnings: none, slight alcohol consumption.

Enjoy guys 😊

The cold air of the arena nipped at my skin, making my arm hair raise and small shudder to wreck through my body. Here I was, again, sitting in this cold plastic seat, freezing my ass off. My best friend had been dragging me to Hockey games for the past few weeks, she had started dating one of the guys on the team. She wanted to go support him, but didn't want to be alone so I agreed to a game. One game turned into the next four weeks, every-time I was free and they were playing, me and her were there.

"Did you know Brock mentioned the other day that a couple guys on the team are single." My girlfriend says to me after the buzzer signals the end of the second period. I look over at her and roll my eyes. I had met a few guys on the team in passing, mostly the captain, Quinn Hughes. Exchanged all of maybe five words to each other but I thought he was cute.

"Oh really? Well please tell Brock, I'm not looking for anything right now." I pick up my drink taking a long sip. My friend shakes her head at me.

"You have to get back out there. It's been months since your last relationship." She says fishing her phone out of her pocket. She was right, it had been months. But I had been in a very public relationship, since I'm a signer, everyone I date is thrown into the spot light. Most guys can't handle that, shockingly enough.

"Yea I know, I just don't want to deal with the media twisting another guy I date. I mean, my ex is going around to every major gossip site saying I'm insane and only date pro athletes. They all do it, I just can't deal with that right now." I turn to her, she looks up from her phone with a sad smile on her face.

"I know, I'm sorry babe. But just please, think about it." I nod at her words, I stand up and tell her I'm heading to the bathroom. Once I get back to my seat, the third period had started. I sit down and start watching the game, growing up in Toronto Canada, I love hockey. All my brothers played growing up, I have so many memories of staying up late in the rink cause their games would go long. I snap back to the game infront of me, and I notice one player has the puck on a break away, 43 Hughes. He skates through everyone like it’s effortless, on the very edge of his skates. When he pulls back to shoot, the puck flys right past the goalies glove into the back of the net. The goal buzzer sounds and I jump up clapping, before noticing my friends smirk in her face.

“What?” I roll my eyes at her as I sit down. She shakes her head laughing as they get reset for another puck drop.

“Nothing, just Quinn, one of the single guys I was talking about earlier.” She states before picking up her phone, she quickly pulls up hit stats and hands her phone to me. she knows I actually care about that kind of stuff. I like to know how well the guys I date are at what they do.

The first thing I notice is his hair, he had great hair, always had. Even passing him in the hallways his hair looked good. His stats were impressive, especially because he’s a defensemen. As I scroll through his highlights I can’t help but look at his face, he was so handsome. When she arrives back with drinks in her hand she give me a look.

“Can you set us up? One date maybe?” I mumble to her as I hand the phone back, she miles and nods, already sending a text to Brock. The game continues on without anymore goals, but my eyes stay glued to Quinn. The way he passed the puck was magic to me.

After the game I head back to my apartment, having to get up early and head to LA for some work stuff. As I’m in my bathroom brushing my teeth my phone lights up with a text from a I know number.

Hey

I stare at it, not very many people have this number because it was my personal one. Only very close friends and family had this number.

Sorry it’s Quinn Hughes. Your friend gave me your number saying I should text you.

This makes my heart beat faster, in a different way. Quinn was texting me, I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t think she would do it this soon, I told her to wait till I got back from LA.

Hey yes, sorry just not many people have this number. I just wanted to say I think you’re a great player.

After I send the text I slap my hand onto my face, what the fuck was I doing. I knew this was a bad idea, I should have told her no. But when I look back down Quinn had already texted me back.

Thank you, that means a lot. I was listening to some of your music on the way home, you’re really great.

I feel the blush creep up my neck, I can’t stop smiling. Not only did he like my music, he had listened to it just to mention to me I was great. I made me warm on the inside.

Thank you Quinn, I really hate to cut this short but I have a flight in the morning to LA. When I’m back did you wanna grab a drink?

I’m sorry for keeping you, but a drink sounds great, just text me when you get back. Goodnight, sleep well.

Sounds good, goodnight Quinn.

A few weeks had gone by, I had been so busy I hadn’t had time to text Quinn back, and I felt like and asshole. I knew his seasons was over by this point. But what I didn’t know was that he was in the exact same bar as me.

“Hey, sorry to bother you…” Quinn trailed off as he tapped me on the shoulder. I whip my head around, I had been hoping no one knew who I was, wanting to get a drink and then go home. When I met his eyes, my heart dropped.

“Hi Quinn, it’s good to see you.” I say softly smiling up at him. I looked him up and down, he had on a suit, very new money. He looked good. His tie looked a little tight. I could tell he was a little nervous. He smiles back. “Nice to meet you, kind of. Didn’t know you’d still be here, figured you’d gone home.”

“Yea I got a week or two left here before Michigan.” He says as he sits down on the barstool beside me, waving down a bartender. “I’ll get another and then whatever she’s had for the night can go on my tab too.” He slides his card over to the guy and he nods before running off.

“Quinn you didn’t have to do that, I haven’t even texted you back. Which I’m very sorry for by the way. I meant to, I just got so busy I mean I have a new album I have to put out and-” I trail off as I realize I was mumbling. That one drink I was going to have had turned into three before Quinn had even come over. I look over at him and he smiles, I mean really smiles teeth and all.

“You talk a lot, I like it.” He grabs my stool and slides me closer to him. “You know, I’ve always thought you were pretty, even before Brock told me you were single. Your friend was saying you guys were looking for somewhere to take a weekend away. Come to Michigan with me and my brothers to out Lake house, you’ll love it.” He says so casually, I blink at him in disbelief.

“You’re serious? Oh my god.” I start laughing gently, a little tipsy, now finishing my fourth drink of the night. I never had a guy offer to let me use anything of theirs, much less a whole house.

“Yea I am.” He chuckles out, looking down at me. “But in all honesty you will love it, you can text me yea?” He says leaning closer, “if you still have my number I mean.” He pulls back and winks before standing up. “I gotta head back to some friends I’m with, you want to join?” He asks sticking his hand out, I notice his watch on his wrist, and the time. Shit, I was sooo screwed, I had agreed to meet one of my brothers back at my apartment an hour ago.

“Fuck I’m so sorry Quinn I actually have to run, oh he’s going to be so mad I’m drunk. Sorry I will text you. And I will come with to Michigan.” I say as I quickly out my jacket on, and chugging a glass of water the bartender gave me a while ago, hoping it will sober me up. I text my driver to tell him I’m leaving and to meet me out front. I look up and Quinn’s still standing there. I lean over and give his cheek a quick kiss. “Thank you for the drinks, I’ll text you.” I grab my bag and walk out of the bar into the spring Vancouver night.

A few days had passed since the bar, I had texted Quinn when I got home that night, after I felt with a very angry brother waiting in the lobby. He had texted me the address and plane tickets for Michigan, once again shocking me. They were for the long weekend coming up, he said his brothers would be joining, and to bring whom ever I wanted.

The plane ride into Michigan had been good, me and all my girlfriends had sat together and gone over everything we wanted to do this weekend. Once we get to the front of the airport a driver was waiting for us. He drove us the next three hours to the Hughes lake house, but once we arrived, we all knew it had been worth it. The view of the lake house was enough to make me smile. But when I saw Quinn waiting on the front porch I smiled even wider. The car pulled up and Quinn opened the door helping me out.

“So? What do you think? Good enough for your weekend away?” He asks as he gently places his hand on my back as I look at the lake house.

“Quinn it’s so beautiful here I can’t believe it, this is amazing thank you.” I squeal as I wrap my arms around him, he immediately pulls me in hugging me back.

“Yea of course.” He mumbles out once he lets go, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “So small little problem, none of my brothers are going to be here till tomorrow, so you girls will get the house to yourselves tonight.” He smiles down at me, I give him a puzzled look. “They’re all idiots and booked their flights for tomorrow morning not this morning.” Quinn leans down and whispers in my ear, I blush at the small gesture.

“That’s totally fine, most of us are tired anyways from the flight and drive, probably gonna go crash right now actually.” I say smiling up at Quinn, trying to reassure him about the small mix up. He nods has picks up my bags, walking to the house.

“Come one I’ll show you guys to your rooms.” He walks up the steps, carrying my bags as if it’s nothing. I follow him closely as he shows my two friends their rooms, finally showing me mine.

“Mines right across the hall, so if you need anything just let me know.” He says hand in the door handle.

“Wait Quinn, can I ask you something?” He turns and nods, quickly moving closer, so close I can smell the cologne he put on this morning. “Why are you doing all this? It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, I do but it seems like a lot. I mean you bought my plane tickets, that’s crazy. We haven’t even gonna out yet.” I say moving so we’re both sitting down on my bed. Quinn nods along to what I’m saying, letting me move him to my bed.

“I mean, come on, you’re one of the nicest most deserving people I know. Even before when all we would say is hi to each other in the halls, I knew you were a good person. Why wouldn’t I do all this? I know what your exes say about you, and how the media has spun you into some guy obsessed signer, but I know you’re not. I just wanted to show you that.” He says softly, not looking at me but rather out hand that are still connected. I smile at him, pulling my hands away from his, his eyes snap up to mine.

“That’s the nicest thing a guys ever said to me, most guys are good for a weekend. I just grab my passport and their hand, the weekend ending in flames. I don’t want that with you, I can tell you’re a good guy Quinn. I don’t have to pretend to be a different girl around you. I like that.” I look down at my hands now, picking at my nails. “You don’t care that my exes all call me insane, or that I’ve been called young and reckless. I’ve never had that before so thank you” I look up at him and he’s already smiling.

“How about this, you nap, and in about three hours you and I will go to dinner and we’ll get that first date. We’ll take this nice and slow, and no one has to know anything unless you want them too yea?” I nod as I lay down onto my bed, Quinn gently gets up and goes over to the door. “Can’t wait to finally take you on a date.” He confesses as he turns out the light, closing my door.

I’m my mind I make a mental note, I scratch off my exes name and write down Quinn’s. I mean love is a game, you gotta play.

[kpop-reactions-povs]

Stray kids- Pregnant wife insists on keeping her independence

⸻

Bang Chan

Chan understands independence — it’s part of what he loves about you. But the first time he finds you on a step stool trying to clean a cabinet at 7 months pregnant, his heart drops.

“Babe,” he says quietly, taking you by the waist. “What are you doing?”

“I just wanted to get it done before you got home—”

“No,” he breathes, voice shaking slightly. “I can’t let you do things that put you or our baby at risk. Please.”

You start to argue, but he cups your face. “I know you’re strong. But part of being strong is letting someone help. And I need you to let me help. It’s all I ever wanna do.”

⸻

Lee Know

Minho gets passive-aggressively soft. Not angry — just… overly helpful.

You reach for a bag. He’s already taking it from your hands.

You start sweeping. He appears with the vacuum.

Finally, you snap, “I can still do things!”

He blinks. “And I’m still going to stop you.”

You huff. “You’re so annoying.”

He leans in, smirking, “You’re carrying my kid. That means you’ve been upgraded to queen status. Queens don’t mop floors.”

He pulls you into his chest. “Let me take care of you. You already do everything else.”

⸻

Changbin

Changbin sees you carrying groceries and immediately rushes over.

“You should’ve called me!”

“It was just a few things,” you say, brushing him off.

“Still too much for my precious girl and my baby,” he pouts, unloading the bags.

Later, he sits you down and gently cups your hands. “I know you want to be independent. I love that about you. But when it comes to your safety? I won’t ever be chill. I just won’t.”

He kisses your knuckles. “Let me spoil you. Please.”

⸻

Hyunjin

Hyunjin is half dramatic, half whipped. He catches you on your knees scrubbing the floor and gasps like it’s the end of the world.

“WHAT are you doing?”

“Cleaning!”

“You’re pregnant, not Cinderella!”

You laugh, but he’s dead serious. He pulls you up and sits you on the couch.

“I admire your fire,” he says, brushing your hair behind your ear. “But I need you to save your energy for growing our baby, not fighting the dust bunnies.”

From then on, he makes every task a joint effort — chore time becomes cuddle breaks, cleaning turns into dancing, and you never scrub floors alone again.

⸻

Han

Han is a mess. He walks in on you lifting a box and goes full panic mode.

“NOPE. Nope nope nope.”

“Jisung, chill.”

“You’re not a forklift! You’re growing a baby! That’s your only job now!”

He takes over, still muttering under his breath like a cartoon character. Later that night, he apologizes, arms around you.

“I know I overreact. But I just… I love you so much, I can’t take any risks. I need you both safe.”

You kiss his cheek, and he melts.

“I’ll try not to panic next time,” he says, “but you gotta let me help sometimes too, okay?”

⸻

Felix

Felix is the softest. He sees you doing something — anything — and gently pulls you away without a word.

You frown. “I was fine.”

“I know,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “But why do things alone when I want to do them with you?”

You start to protest, and he smiles. “You’re the strongest person I know. But strong people still deserve rest. And you, my angel, deserve the world.”

That night, he makes your favorite meal, rubs your feet, and whispers, “You’ve done enough. Let me take care of you now.”

( Felix without makeup 🔛🔝)

Seungmin

Seungmin pretends to be chill. Until he catches you lifting a full laundry basket.

“Oh? So we’re carrying bricks now?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s laundry.”

He takes it from you anyway, giving you the look. “You can glare all you want. You’re banned from lifting anything that’s not a fork or a baby name list.”

Later, when you’re snuggled in bed, he rubs your back and says, “I know you don’t want to feel useless. But to me? You’re doing the most important job in the world. Let me do the rest.”

I.N (Jeongin)

Jeongin doesn’t fight you. He outsmarts you.

“Oh, you’re going to mop? Cool. I already did it.”

“You were going to vacuum? Done.”

“You wanted to walk to the store? Too bad. I already ordered snacks.”

Eventually, you call him out. “Stop babying me!”

He pauses, then cups your cheeks. “I’m not babying you. I’m loving you. And our baby. And this whole little life we’re building.”

He kisses your forehead. “Let me do it all, just for a little while. You’ve done enough.”

[camille-plumb]

𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆|| ʙʟᴜᴇʟᴏᴄᴋᵒⁿᵉ ˢʰᵒᵗˢ

Nagi Seishiro x female reader

Title: •❈•❉•❊•₪₪🎮🐇✨𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐘✨🐇🎮₪₪•❃•❅•❆•

Song: Dolls by Bella Poarch

Warning: smut.🔞

Tags: Request, bunny clotles, plug, seduction

••••••••⇆ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ㅤ ▷↻••••••••

Okay, now or never...

<<Reddit discussion: "My boyfriend doesn't pay attention to me. Ever since we met, he loves to play video games all the time, and I'm fine with that. The problem is that he's a streamer now and only goes out to eat. I'm on vacation and I want to spend more time with him. I try to kiss him and caress him, but it still doesn't work. He keeps staring at his damn screen. He just says, 'Dude, are you bored of me?' Should I expect the worst? Is he going to break up with me? Girls in a similar situation... help..."

(Y/N) frantically moved her fingers, typing on Reddit's discussion forums. She didn't know what to do anymore. This situation was driving her crazy. She posted on several forums hoping to at least find an answer in one of them.

When she finished, she slumped in her seat, waiting for an answer. But how did she end up in this situation? Well, it was a simple answer: she had a lazy boyfriend. Ever since they started dating, she didn't care that he didn't want to do anything at home; in fact, it was the best thing for her.

She loved to do everything her way, the decoration, the food, absolutely everything, in the past her old relationships ended because of that detail, they told her she was excessively controlling and that no one would stand her, and just when she thought she would be alone, that's when she met her beloved boyfriend, a 1.90 white-haired man who reminded her of a soft and fluffy sheep, she met him in a cafeteria, apparently he was lost or his friends left him, he only had his phone in his hand. and a carefree attitude that caught her attention and made her feel tenderness, when talking to him she realized that he was lazy enough to ask for help or directions, that's why he had been in that cafeteria for a long time, from the moment she helped him he was trapped in her heart and she couldn't get out of it, even more so when the white-haired man accepted everything she wanted, it was always a yes to everything no matter what it was, the only thing he asked for a change was to be served and play video games.

She loved the idea from the beginning of their relationship. She loved serving him, preparing his favorite dishes to see his satisfied face when he tasted them. Every moment they shared together was always accompanied by caresses and kisses.

Oh, and sex…

The white-haired man liked to bury his face in her tits while playing their games. He used to say they were very soft pillows and that they were his favorites. Sometimes he would casually suck on her nipples during their games. When they were together, he always kept her warm; he was her downfall. After long stimulation sessions, the day would end with her riding him hard in the room they shared.

Everything was perfect until she changed jobs and couldn't be home all day anymore. Now they only saw each other at night. Although at first the routine seemed the same, it gradually began to break down. The time they saw each other grew shorter and shorter, and when she tried to invade his space in the playroom they had at home, he completely ignored her. She heard his soft laugh in the hallway, the laugh he dedicated to his viewers during his live streams.

The laughter of his fans sickened her.

Her heart pounded with worry every time she felt the distance grow greater, and that's how she ended up on Reddit, on the discussion forums.

If she was lucky, she might find an answer, she thought, putting down her phone to take a shower. When she finished showering, she saw she had some notifications, unlocked her phone, and began reading the replies to her forum.

—"Oh wow, being ignored is ugly. If I were you, I'd break up with that idiot." 👊

— "Something similar happened to me. They did that to me before we ended our relationship 😞"

The first comments were discouraging. (Y/N) lost hope with each comment until two comments caught her attention.

—"I had a streamer boyfriend. I gave him a blowjob during a live stream, and he never ignored me again ☝️, cheers, honey~"

—"A bunny suit can save you🐇🔥"

The idea in the last comment and the message from the previous one gave her a fantastic idea. She just needed to go out and buy a few things.

She arrived home at night and, as usual, everything was dark except for her boyfriend's playroom. Usually, that situation would drive her crazy, but now she had a plan.

After getting everything ready, she went to the room with colorful lights at the end of the hallway. Upon entering, she saw her boyfriend's tall figure; he looked as handsome as ever.

She saw him move his head when he heard the noise she made when she entered, but he didn't turn around or pay attention to her like he had been doing lately. His indifferent attitude annoyed her and made her put her plan into action.

The webcam showing her boyfriend's face focused on the white wall with LED lights, which together served as a background for her streams.

(Y/N) was wearing the white-haired man's oversized white T-shirt; it was her favorite. She positioned herself at a perfect angle so the camera could focus on her. Her boyfriend remained oblivious, his attention on his game screen.

(Y/N) played the song "Dolls" by Bella Poarch, the sound filling the room as she began to take off her shirt, following the rhythm.

Cute, think I'm polite, stereotype, got your full attention

She moved her body calmly, enjoying the scent of her boyfriend impregnated on the shirt. She lifted the garment completely, taking it off. A sensual bunny lingerie appeared in front of the stream viewers' screens.

Think that you can play with me, you better watch your back

As she placed the white ears on her head, still with her eyes closed and moving to the rhythm of the music.

She realized that everything was silent.

Fuck, nothing prepared her for what was coming next.

"Ah….a….h~….Nagi ahhh~" she let out a loud moan as she felt her opponent's hard thrust. The sound of bodies colliding violently filled the room, only gasps and moans of pleasure could be heard.

"Couldn't you stay still, you spoiled little bunny?" The white-haired man's fingers dug tightly into her hips. "You had to show everyone who's mine." A spank on her white ass accompanied each movement. "Great, now I'll have to delete my account and create another, what a pain." He moved his hips faster as he felt her wet walls squeeze him tightly.

"Now you have my full attention…bunny," he bit her earlobe while, amid short, hard thrusts, he spilled his sperm, wetting her legs.

"All this time I tried to hold back with you," the white-haired man murmurs, still buried inside her, placing soft kisses on her back. "I thought my considerate and adorable girlfriend must be tired of dealing with a pain like me." Nagi's words echo in her chest. He wasn't ignoring her because he didn't love her; he was just trying to cope with his new routine.

"But you blew all my effort to hell, bunny." A resounding slap ended the reflection she was making in her mind. "Now I'm not going to share you with anyone, not even with your damn job. Why do we have so much money if I have to share you with the world?" She could feel the seriousness of her boyfriend's words. She knew his eyes shone with confidence and passion.

"You have a bunny suit, don't you?" he asks in a deep growl filled with desire. "I could see from my screen how you were waggling your white tail for me, inviting me to make you mine. Since we're animals now, I'll have to complete your heat cycle until I'm full of my babies."

Oh god, yes~

He moved the butt plug he had as a tail, eliciting a moan of pleasure from her and marking the start of a second round.

He still had something unfinished business…

"Thanks to all of you for your advice. I was able to save my relationship, and now I have my boyfriend's attention every day… remember, if you're in a situation like mine, A bunny suit can save you🐇🔥"

Reddit discussion closed, replies no longer accepted.

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