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batmanlovesnirvana · 2 months ago

Text

— ‘the frenchwoman.’

RUPERT CAMPBELL-BLACK x FEM!READER

words : 4k

synopsis : You’re no journalist, but a last-minute favor thrusts you into an interview with Rupert Campbell-Black, the infamous Olympian-turned-MP. You hate everything aristocratic, a sentiment no doubt rooted in your French ancestry and your country’s history with the elite. Still, the lines between duty and danger blur with every word.

A/N : English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. I’m not entirely sure what I just wrote, but I hope it’s still enjoyable! :)

THE RUTSHIRE COUNTRYSIDE unfolded before you like a scene from a postcard: undulating hills, pristine fields, and the occasional splash of wildflowers in vivid hues.

It was undeniably beautiful, yet to someone who’d grown up in Paris and now lived in London, where beauty was always wrapped in the chaotic buzz of life, it felt unsettlingly perfect—almost too serene.

You weren’t a journalist—not by any stretch. Your expertise lay in veterinary medicine, not in chasing headlines or conducting interviews.

But when your friend had called, her voice trembling with desperation and barely holding back tears as she tried to explain why she couldn’t make it to England for an urgent assignment for her boss at a high-profile media firm, you hadn’t been able to say no. She’d stammered through her plea, insisting it was a last-minute decision, that none of her colleagues could take her place, and that you were the only French person she knew living in England—making you the perfect stand-in.

She wasn’t famous, but the company she worked for certainly was. Thankfully, they didn’t have a photo of her on file, just the knowledge that a French journalist was coming to interview the infamous womanizing MP.

You fit the role perfectly—or at least well enough to fool them.

So, with a deep breath and every ounce of courage you could summon, you stepped into her shoes, ready to play the part.

The house—no, the manor—loomed ahead, a lavish testament to old money and unchecked arrogance.

Stepping out of your worn-down car, your high heels crunched against the polished gravel of the estate’s driveway of the Campbell-Black estate.

Already, you regretted your choice of footwear, but it was necessary—you had to look the part.

Dressed in a sharp, polished red blouse and matching skirt, you quickly verified that the notebook containing the questions your friend had painstakingly prepared was still tucked safely in your bag. Adjusting it under your arm, your fingers tightened momentarily as you glanced at the grand manor towering before you.

God, you just hoped you wouldn’t embarrass yourself—or blow the cover entirely. The sheer weight of history and expectation seemed to hang in the air, pressing down on you as you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the charade that lay ahead.

“Ah, and here she is.”

The voice, smooth and laced with amusement, came from your left. You turned to see him leaning against a sleek sports car, arms crossed and radiating an air of smug privilege.

Rupert Campbell-Black.

He towered over most, tall and broad-shouldered, with an air of infuriating self-assurance that seemed to demand attention without even trying. His smile, sharp and knowing, was the kind that could either make you want to roll your eyes in disbelief or, if you were feeling particularly bold, slap it right off his face.

Everything about him screamed aristocrat, from the crisply tailored blazer that looked like it had been made for a throne to the way he carried himself with an effortless arrogance, as if he owned the world and was simply letting the rest of us pretend we had a say in it.

It wasn't that you hated him—not exactly. It was more the idea of him, the things he represented, the polished, perfect image he projected of old money, entitlement, and an almost offensive ease with the luxuries of life.

You despised that.

But your irritation with him had mostly been built from the things you’d read in the tabloids. You didn’t want to buy into the gossip, but it was hard not to when everything you read painted him as the worst kind of privileged, pompous snob. Still, like everyone else, you couldn’t help but feel a certain curiosity toward him.

And when you saw him in person—standing there with his smirk and that goddamn perfectly disheveled hair—you had to admit, he was more handsome than you'd imagined. The kind of handsome that made you want to look away just so he wouldn’t notice how much you were looking.

Of course, you wouldn't let him know that.

“You must be the journalist,” he said, his voice smooth and rich, like the kind of tone one might use when speaking to someone far beneath them.

He straightened up, his movements calculated and assured as he began to saunter toward you with that predatory grace, as though he had just spotted an interesting mouse.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms with deliberate calm. “And you must be the aristocrat who thinks it’s still 1815,” you fired back, taking in his perfectly polished shoes, the tailored cut of his suit, the way he walked as if he were the only person in the room worth noticing. You couldn't help but scan him from head to toe, that critical, discerning eye you had well-practiced over years of dealing with people like him.

He halted in his tracks, his smirk widening as though your words had delivered precisely the challenge he’d been anticipating. “French, then?” he asked, his tone laced with a hint of amusement, underpinned by that ever-present air of casual superiority.

Of course, Rupert already knew the journalist was French—he would have done his homework before agreeing to the interview. No, this was just him, toying with you.

“Oui,” you replied with a quick glance and a little more bite than usual, your arms still crossed tightly over your chest. "Is that going to be a problem?" you added, the challenge in your voice clear, daring him to say something, anything, that would prove your impression of him wrong—or, more likely, confirm it.

“Not at all,” he said smoothly, with a flourish of his hand toward the house. His voice carried a casual, almost theatrical quality as if he were performing for an audience. “In fact, it’s quite refreshing. Most journalists they send are painfully polite. You, on the other hand, seem… different.”

You rolled your eyes, a small, exasperated laugh escaping you. “If by ‘different,’ you mean I’m not here to stroke your ego, then yes, I suppose I am.”

Rupert’s laugh rang out, deep and assured, as if he were privy to some private joke. The sound both irked and intrigued you. Without missing a step, he fell into stride beside you as you neared the entrance. “Miss Duvallet, is it?” he asked.

You opened your mouth, ready to correct him with your real name and a sharp insult, but then it hit you—you were supposed to be Miss Duvallet.

Swallowing the sudden lump in your throat, you simply nodded and replied with a curt, “Yes.”

“Tell me,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, taking on a hint of curiosity, “why take this assignment if you’re so clearly opposed to everything I represent?”

You shot him a look, your response as blunt as ever. “Work,” you said simply, shrugging as if that were the only answer that mattered. “Not all of us have the luxury of inheriting a manor.”

“Touché,” he replied, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, before he opened the door for you, ushering you inside.

The manor greeted you with all the grandeur you’d expected—high, vaulted ceilings, furniture so polished it seemed to shine even in the dim light, and walls adorned with heavy portraits of ancestors whose eyes followed you as you moved. It was all so… much.

You paused, taking it all in, trying to stifle the small twinge of awe that prickled at your insides.

“Impressed?” Rupert asked, his voice light with amusement, clearly savoring the effect his surroundings had on you.

Yes, you were impressed. It was a beautiful place, no denying that. But you would never let him know that.

You glanced at him, your expression flat, even though a part of you was bristling with the impulse to give a biting reply. “If by ‘impressed,’ you mean mildly nauseated, then yes, I suppose you could say that.”

Rupert’s laughter rang out again, deeper this time, full of genuine surprise. The sound was so unexpected that it caught you off guard, making you wonder if you had misjudged him. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, clearly entertained by your response.

Shaking your head, you redirected the conversation. “So, where do we start? I assume you’ve prepared some kind of agenda.”

“Of course,” he said, leading you down a grand hallway. “But first, let me clear the air about one thing.”

You stopped, turning to face him. His tone, while still light, carried a sharper edge.

“I don’t know what you’ve read about me, but I’m not quite as terrible as I’m made out to be.”

You tilted your head, a small, skeptical smile playing on your lips. ��Let me guess. You’re not like the other rich men?”

His grin widened, wolfish and unapologetic. “I’m worse.”

You hummed, clearly skeptic about him. "Very well, Mr Campbell-Black."

“Rupert,” he corrected smoothly. “If we’re going to spend time together, you might as well call me by my name.”

“Fine,” you said with a shrug, keeping your tone professional. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m here to work, not to feed into whatever thing you think this is.”

“Perish the thought,” he replied with mock solemnity. “But I should warn you—things around here can get… unpredictable.”

You sighed, the weight of the situation settling on your shoulders. Already, you were questioning your life choices. “Wonderful,” you muttered under your breath, yet you forced a polite, practiced smile—one honed through years of dealing with difficult interview subjects.

Rupert led you into another room, as grandiose as the first, if not more so. He referred to it as the green tea room, a name that seemed almost as carefully curated as the room itself. Emerald green walls framed the space, accented by high ceilings and sculptures that, if you had to guess, cost more than a year’s salary. The furniture—rich, heavy pieces that seemed to whisper of luxury—only reinforced the wealth that dripped from every corner of the manor.

He guided you to a plush, velvet-red canapé, the cushions soft beneath you as you sat. “Drink?” Rupert asked smoothly, uncapping a whiskey bottle and beginning to pour himself a glass.

“No, thank you,” you answered, your tone firm.

But Rupert, ever the charming host, wasn’t easily deterred. “Not even wine?” he pressed, his gaze flicking toward you with mild amusement.

“I don’t drink,” you replied, trying to maintain your focus.

He raised an eyebrow, unperturbed. “Tea, then? I can call the maid to prepare us some,” he offered, as if suggesting something as simple as breathing.

You leaned back slightly, your patience thinning. “With all due respect, Rupert, I’m here to discuss politics. Shall we start?”

For the first time, a flicker of surprise crossed his face, his posture shifting as he registered your refusal. His usual easygoing charm was momentarily unsettled. “Straight to business?” he asked, amusement creeping into his voice. “Not even a little foreplay? Do all French journalists lack a sense of occasion, or is it just you?”

You didn’t flinch, meeting his gaze with an evenness that only made his grin widen. Then, uou inhaled deeply, willing yourself to remain professional. “Again, If you think I’m here to flirt or fawn, you’re mistaken. Let’s just say I’m not your usual… audience.”

Rupert’s laugh was low and lazy, like a cat stretching in the sun. “Oh, I like you. Sharp. Refreshing, really. Most people who visit spend the first ten minutes fawning over the place.”

“Then let me save us both the trouble,” you said crisply, gesturing vaguely at the ornate surroundings. “It’s very big. Very… lovely. Now, can we start ?”

Perching on the edge of the overstuffed armchair, you pulled out your notepad, determined to stay focused.

“So,” you began in a neutral tone, “the Tory Party. What inspired your allegiance to them?”

Rupert leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed, yet his confidence radiated with every movement.“Allegiance? That’s a bit strong for my taste,” he said with a faint smile. “Let’s just say I appreciate certain efficiencies, the kind that get results. I’ve always been drawn to winning teams, the ones that know how to play the game and come out on top.”

His eyes sharpened, the casual tone shifting into something more calculating. After a brief pause, he swirled the liquor in his glass, the crystal catching the light. “And as for ‘inspiration,’ that’s a bit too lofty for me. I’ve always believed in the importance of tradition, in maintaining order. That’s what keeps everything running smoothly.”

You jotted his response down but didn’t look up, deliberately keeping your tone sharp. “Do you think the party reflects the realities of modern Britain?”

His eyes sparkled with a challenge as he met your gaze. “That depends. Whose reality are we talking about? But you’re French, aren’t you? Tell me—what do you think of it all?”

You met his gaze without flinching. “I find the British fascination with monarchy and class structure quite intriguing, especially for a country that prides itself on being ‘modern,’” you finished, emphasizing the word with two fingers forming quotation marks.

His smile sharpened, full of challenge. “Careful, you’re starting to sound like a revolutionary.”

You smirked, leaning back in your chair. “Don’t worry. I left the guillotines at home.”

“For now,” he added, his grin widening.

You rolled your eyes, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “If we’re done with the banter, let’s get back to the topic. Do you believe your policies address the needs of modern Britain, or are they focused on preserving this… tradition and order you mentioned?”

His expression grew thoughtful, though the amused glint in his eye remained. “A good politician knows how to balance the old and the new,” he said. “The past is what grounds us, but the future… that’s what keeps things interesting.”

You jotted down his words, biting back the urge to challenge him further. Rupert Campbell-Black might be as infuriating as he was charming, but he was certainly keeping your interview lively.

“Are you always like this, or do you save the charm for interviews?”

“Only when the company’s as delightful as this,” he replied smoothly, leaning forward slightly. “But tell me, do all French journalists enjoy poking the British aristocracy, or is that just your particular specialty?”

You raised an eyebrow, refusing to be drawn in. “I ask questions. Whether or not they’re uncomfortable is up to you.”

His chuckle was low and unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. “Fair enough. Though I do hope this isn’t all business. You’d miss the best parts.”

You ignored the bait, your pen poised over the notepad. “Let’s stick to the topic. How do you think the Tory Party’s policies address the concerns of everyday citizens?”

Rupert tilted his head, his expression unreadable for a moment before he responded. “That’s a rather broad question. Perhaps you’d like to narrow it down. Or would you prefer I give you the polished party line?”

"Why don’t you surprise me?” you countered.

His lips twitched in a faint smirk, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as if weighing his options.

"Minister of Sport—it’s quite the title. How did that come about?” you pressed, switching tactics.

He relaxed further, his expression a mix of amusement and pride. “I suppose you could say it was a natural fit. My background in racing and polo gave me some credibility, and my, shall we say, people skills helped me secure the role.”

You snorted softly, scribbling in your notebook. “People skills. Is that what we’re calling it?"

“Well,” he said with a self-assured grin, “knowing which hands to shake and which backs to pat is half the battle in politics, isn’t it? Or did you imagine my ascent was purely a matter of sporting excellence?”

You smirked, meeting his gaze head-on. “I imagine most ascents, political or otherwise, involve a little grease on the ladder.”

His laughter was warm, though tinged with challenge. “I suppose your right. Do you apply the same cynicism to journalism? Or do you reserve that for the likes of me?”

“That depends,” you shot back lightly. “Are you going to give me a real answer, or keep playing the charming aristocrat?”

“Ah, but why not both?” he replied smoothly, his grin widening, leaning slightly forward. “I’ve always believed in a balance between charm and substance. Something I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”

You gave a small, knowing nod. "I’m starting to see that."

"Careful," he warned, though his tone was light. “I might start to think you’re underestimating me.”

“Never,” you said, matching his smirk. “But I am curious—what’s your vision for British sport? Surely it’s not all polo matches and champagne receptions.”

Rupert’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of genuine focus. “It’s about more than just the elite sports, though they’re important. Grassroots programs, improving facilities, getting kids involved in physical activity—that’s where the real work is. If we want to compete on the world stage, we need to start at the bottom and build up.”

It was an unexpectedly thoughtful answer, but you weren’t about to let him off the hook. “And yet, critics have accused you of focusing too much on prestige projects—Wembley renovations, international events, things that benefit the few rather than the many. How do you respond to that?”

He chuckled, but there was a sharpness to his gaze. “Critics always find something to complain about. But let’s be clear—those ‘prestige projects’ bring in revenue, jobs, and attention. They’re investments, not indulgences.”

You tapped your pen against your notepad. “Fair point, but how do you balance that with ensuring access for underprivileged communities? Because from where I’m sitting, the gap between elite and grassroots sports seems to be widening.”

Rupert’s jaw tightened slightly, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d pushed too hard. Then he nodded, as if conceding the point. “It’s a fair criticism. And it’s something I’m working on. But change takes time, and unfortunately, not everyone has the patience for that.”

You leaned forward, deciding to test the waters further. “And does your political affiliation ever get in the way? The Conservative Party hasn’t exactly been known for prioritizing social programs.”

His laugh was low and sardonic. “There it is! The classic dig at the Tories. Tell me again, do all French journalists come armed with clichés, or is it just you?”

You shrugged, unfazed. “I call it like I see it.”

“Well,” he said, his tone softening, “to answer your question—yes, politics complicates things. But if you spend too much time worrying about what everyone else thinks, you’ll never get anything done. My job is to fight for what I believe in, even if it ruffles a few feathers.”

“And what do you believe in?” you asked, genuinely curious now.

He hesitated, a rare moment of vulnerability crossing his face. “Opportunity,” he said finally. “The chance for everyone—no matter where they come from—to excel at something. Whether it’s sport, business, or, hell, journalism.”

You arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t peg you for an idealist.”

“Don’t let it get out,” he replied with a grin. “It would ruin my reputation.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not in the habit of sharing state secrets—yet.”

Rupert chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Good to know. I do have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

You smirked, tapping your pen against the notepad. “And what exactly does that reputation entail? The charming, polo-playing, politician with a knack for public appearances?”

His eyes twinkled, but there was a hint of seriousness behind his smile. “I’d say it’s more about the vision—being able to see the bigger picture and making things happen, no matter how tough it gets. The rest is just...window dressing.”

You studied him, weighing his words. “So, you’re not just about the photo ops and the VIP events?”

“Not by a long shot,” he said, his tone firm. “But sometimes, you need the spotlight to shine on the issues that matter. If it means people pay attention for a moment, then so be it.”

You nodded, impressed despite yourself. “Okay. But what happens when the spotlight moves on to the next shiny object?”

Rupert’s gaze softened, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if he was weighing your words carefully. “Then you keep working, quietly if necessary, until the next opportunity comes along. The real work doesn’t stop just because the cameras are elsewhere.”

You held his gaze for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the silence stretch between you both.

Then, with a deliberate motion, you snapped your notebook shut, the sound cutting through the still air like a signal.

Rising to your feet, you extended your hand, offering a final gesture of professionalism. “Thank you, sir, for the meeting.”

He looked at your hand for a heartbeat before raising an eyebrow, his voice tinged with amusement. “We’re back on formalities, then?”

“The interview is over,” you said simply, your voice unwavering, though there was a subtle shift in the air around you. You felt the pull of something lingering, a moment that hadn’t quite finished yet.

But then, in a smooth, almost predatory motion, he reached for your hand. Instead of shaking it, he pressed it gently to his lips, his breath warm against your skin. It was an act of such quiet intimacy that it caught you off guard, the sudden closeness making your pulse quicken.

For a split second, you hesitated, caught between politeness and a strange surge of discomfort. But before you could think too much about it, you jerked your hand away, the movement sharp, almost defiant.

Rupert chuckled lowly, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Touchy, aren’t we?” he remarked, the words laced with amusement but underpinned with something else, something harder.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you turned away, taking a breath to steady yourself.

The conversation, the unspoken tension—it was all unraveling, leaving behind the brittle veneer of professionalism that had kept you in check.

Despite your protests, Rupert insisted in accompanied you to the grand entrance of the Campbell-Black estate, his presence beside you unexpectedly warm despite his usual aloofness.

There was a slight tension in the air, an unspoken undercurrent that made the walk feel longer than it should have.

Perhaps it was the way his casual remarks seemed to chip away at your defenses, or maybe it was something in the way his eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary. You couldn’t decide.

“So,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “you’re really not going to tell me anything about your life in Paris?”

You glanced up at him, surprised by the sudden shift. “Paris?” you teased, a grin forming on your lips. “Do you know that I live in England? In a town, not far from London.”

He chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose Paris could get a little too chaotic. But I imagine life in an English town must be… more peaceful?”

You shrugged playfully. “Peaceful, yes. Maybe too peaceful. I mean, quiet streets are more my speed than the… vibrance of Paris.”

He smiled, clearly amused.

Before you could reply, a loud bark interrupted the moment, followed by the pitter-patter of paws on the marble floor. Two large, slobbering dogs came bounding around the corner of the hall, tails wagging enthusiastically.

They spotted you instantly, and before you could react, one of them lunged toward you, nose twitching excitedly.

You froze, your eyes wide and your heart pounding. Dogs. You hated dogs. It was strange, considering your work as a veterinarian, but when it came to dogs, you always braced yourself. Most of the time, they were calm, and if not, someone was there to help. But seven dogs charging straight at you? Yeah, no.

“Woah!” you squealed, taking an instinctive step backward, hands raised in a panic. “Oh my God—”

Rupert’s laughter boomed through the hallway, but there was no mockery in it, just pure amusement. He quickly stepped in front of you, guiding the dogs back with a firm but gentle hand. “Sorry about them. They’re a bit enthusiastic.”

You were still frozen, trying to suppress the irrational panic building in your chest. “I—I’m not really… a dog person,” you managed, your voice tight.

He raised an eyebrow, a playful curiosity in his gaze. “Really? Then what do you like?”

You were still half-hidden behind him, trying to avoid the dogs, and your brain, in a panicked scramble for an answer, came up with something entirely ridiculous. “Cows.”

Rupert blinked, clearly taken aback. “Cows?”

You rushed to explain, the words tumbling out in a flurry. “Yeah, you know... they’re calm, low-maintenance. I grew up on a farm... in the countryside, and—” You trailed off, realizing just how absurd you must sound.

Rupert’s smirk returned, though this time it was softer, less mocking, almost like he was seeing a different side of you. “Well, that’s a first,” he said, the amusement dancing in his eyes. “I’ve never had a woman tell me she prefers cows to dogs.”

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks, embarrassed, but oddly relieved by the absurdity of it all. “It’s the truth, though. Cows are just... easier to handle.”

“Fair enough,” he said, stepping back to give the dogs a little more space. They sniffed you cautiously, their noses twitching in curiosity but respecting the invisible boundary you’d created. “I’ll make sure they keep their distance from now on.”

The dogs seemed to sense the shift, obediently sitting beside Rupert, their tails giving a lazy wag, as if in approval. The air between you both lightened, the earlier tension dissolving into something a little more comfortable, though still charged with an undeniable undercurrent.

Your eyes met his briefly, and in that fleeting moment, there was something unspoken between you—a spark, perhaps, or just the ridiculousness of the situation. You couldn’t tell.

As you walked toward the door, Rupert’s presence beside you was oddly comforting, though you couldn’t quite shake the awareness that something else lingered in the air between you.

Just before you reached the door handle, one last bark echoed from behind you, and you turned to see the dogs sitting, tails wagging furiously.

Rupert glanced back, a grin spreading across his face. “They’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Thanks,” you said quietly, then added with a laugh, “And for the record, I’m still more of a cow person.”

He shook his head, still grinning. “I’ll remember that. Cows, not dogs. Got it.”

The door clicked shut behind you, an uneasy feeling lingered in your chest. The awkwardness, the subtle tension, his smile that never seemed to falter—all of it replayed in your mind, leaving you wondering what just happened and how everything had shifted so quickly.

You shook your head, trying to push the lingering thoughts away. It was over. You’d never have to face him again.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Still, a quiet, persistent voice deep inside whispered that this was only the beginning.

As you glanced in the rearview mirror, watching the manor shrink into the distance, you whispered to yourself, A bientôt, Monsieur Rupert.

#rivals #rivals 2024 #rivals hulu #rivals disney+#rupert campbell black #Rupert Campbell-Black x reader #declan o’hara #declan o’hara x reader #Rupert Campbell-Black #rupert campbell-black x oc

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fanfictionismyaddiction · 6 months ago

Text

Behind the Lens and the Heart

Word count: 1.4k

Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x reader

Summary: Y/N joins the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula 1 team as the new social media manager. From their first encounter, Lewis Hamilton is captivated by Y/N’s charm and passion. Despite his subtle advances and constant attention, Y/N remains oblivious.

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It was Y/N's first day as the new social media manager for the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula 1 team. The air was electric with the hum of engines, the chatter of mechanics, and the focused energy of the team. Walking through the paddock, Y/N felt a mix of excitement and nerves. This was a dream job, and she was determined to make her mark.

As she entered the team's motorhome, she was greeted by familiar faces from screens—engineers, PR reps, and, of course, the drivers. Her first task was a straightforward one: create a fun video to promote the upcoming Grand Prix. She was excited but a little anxious about asking one of the world’s most famous athletes to participate.

"Okay, first day," Y/N muttered to herself, straightening her posture. "You’ve got this."

She approached Lewis Hamilton, who was sitting at a table, reviewing some data with his engineer. He looked up as she approached, and the world seemed to slow down for a moment.

"Hi, Lewis," she said, her voice steady. "I’m Y/N, the new social media manager. I was wondering if you’d be up for a quick video?"

Lewis smiled, his warm eyes locking onto hers. For him, it was as if time had frozen. The moment she walked in, something inside him had clicked. She had a presence that was impossible to ignore—confident yet humble, with an infectious energy.

"Of course, Y/N," he replied, his voice smooth and inviting. "What do you need me to do?"

Y/N’s heart fluttered slightly at his easygoing nature. "I was thinking something fun—maybe a challenge with you and George? It doesn’t have to be anything serious, just something the fans will love."

Lewis chuckled, nodding. "Sounds good to me. Where do you want to shoot it?"

"How about in the garage? It’ll give the fans a behind-the-scenes feel," she suggested.

"Perfect," Lewis agreed, standing up. As they walked towards the garage, Y/N explained the concept, her enthusiasm clear in every word. Lewis listened intently, more focused on her than on the actual content of the video.

When they arrived, George Russell joined them, and the filming began. Y/N directed the drivers through a light-hearted quiz about the team’s history, throwing in some funny questions about their personal lives. The banter between Lewis and George was natural, and the video turned out better than she had imagined.

As they wrapped up, Y/N thanked them both. "Thanks, Lewis. Thanks, George. This was great. The fans are going to love it."

Lewis grinned at her, his gaze lingering a little longer than necessary. "Anytime, Y/N. Let me know if you need anything else."

She nodded, her mind already racing with ideas for the next video. Little did she know, Lewis was already thinking about how he could spend more time with her.

Over the next few weeks, Y/N settled into her role, creating content that the fans loved. Every time she needed a driver for a video, Lewis was always eager to participate. What she didn’t notice, however, was how he would light up whenever she approached, or how he made a point to seek her out during breaks.

One afternoon, after a long day of shooting and editing, Y/N was packing up her equipment when Lewis walked into the media room.

"Hey, Y/N," he greeted, leaning against the doorframe.

"Hey, Lewis," she replied with a smile. "What’s up?"

"I was just wondering… a few of us are grabbing dinner tonight. Would you like to join us?" He asked, his tone casual, but there was a hint of something more in his eyes.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, caught off guard. "Dinner? With you guys?"

"Yeah, just a small group. It’s nothing formal, just some good food and conversation," Lewis explained, hoping she’d say yes.

"Sure, that sounds nice," she finally agreed. "Thanks for the invite."

As they headed out to the restaurant later that evening, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that this was more than just a casual dinner. But she brushed the thought aside—after all, why would someone like Lewis Hamilton be interested in her?

The restaurant was cozy and intimate, a stark contrast to the fast-paced world of Formula 1. Lewis, George, and a few other team members were there, but Y/N quickly realized that Lewis had positioned himself next to her at the table.

Throughout the evening, Lewis engaged her in conversation, asking about her interests, her life before joining the team, and her thoughts on the upcoming races. He was genuinely interested in everything she had to say, his attention never wavering.

"You’re really passionate about what you do," Lewis remarked at one point, his eyes softening as he spoke. "It’s refreshing."

"Thanks," Y/N replied, a little shy under his intense gaze. "I love storytelling, and this job is a perfect mix of creativity and excitement."

Lewis smiled, pleased with her response. "You’re doing an amazing job, Y/N. The fans are really connecting with the content you’re creating."

Y/N blushed, not used to such direct praise. "Thank you, Lewis. That means a lot coming from you."

As the evening went on, Y/N found herself relaxing, enjoying the easy conversation and the warm atmosphere.

The next race weekend was hectic, with Y/N busier than ever. She was filming content non-stop, managing the team’s social media accounts, and coordinating interviews. But no matter how busy she was, Lewis always found a way to interact with her.

"Y/N, do you need help with anything?" he asked one morning, spotting her juggling a camera, a microphone, and a tablet.

She looked up, surprised. "I think I’ve got it, but thanks, Lewis. Aren’t you supposed to be in a briefing?"

Lewis shrugged, a grin playing on his lips. "It can wait. I’d rather make sure you’re not overwhelmed."

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. "I appreciate it, but I can handle it. You’ve got a race to win!"

"Fair enough," he said, his tone light. "But don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything."

As the weekend progressed, Y/N noticed how Lewis seemed to go out of his way to be near her. Whether it was offering to participate in last-minute videos, or simply stopping by to chat, he always made sure to engage with her.

But despite all the signs, Y/N remained oblivious to his true feelings. To her, it was just Lewis being friendly—after all, he was known for his kindness and approachability.

It wasn’t until the final day of the Grand Prix weekend that Y/N began to suspect something more was going on. The race had been intense, with Lewis finishing on the podium. The team was ecstatic, and the celebrations were in full swing.

As the champagne sprayed and the cheers filled the air, Y/N was busy capturing the moment on camera. Suddenly, she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. Turning around, she found Lewis standing there, his race suit unzipped, revealing the Mercedes-branded shirt underneath. His face was glowing with the thrill of victory.

"Can I have a word?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the noise.

"Of course," Y/N replied, stepping aside with him.

Lewis led her to a quieter corner of the garage, away from the commotion. For a moment, he simply looked at her, his expression serious but soft.

"Y/N, I need to tell you something," he began, his voice steady but laced with emotion. "From the moment I met you, I knew there was something special about you. You’re smart, passionate, and you have this energy that’s just… captivating."

Y/N felt her heart skip a beat. "Lewis, I—"

He cut her off gently, placing a hand on her arm. "I like you, Y/N. I’ve been trying to show it in little ways, but I think it’s time I just say it. I’m really into you."

Y/N stared at him, her mind racing. "But… you’re the Lewis Hamilton. You could have anyone. Why me?"

Lewis chuckled, his hand sliding down to take hers. "Why not you? You’re amazing, Y/N. I don’t care about the titles or the fame. I care about who you are—how you make me feel. And I think… no, I know, that I want to get to know you better. Much better."

Y/N’s heart swelled with emotion, a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming happiness. "I… I don’t know what to say. I’ve been so focused on work, I didn’t even realize…"

"You don’t have to say anything right now," Lewis said, squeezing her hand gently. "I just wanted you to know how I feel. Take your time, Y/N. There’s no rush."

#fanfiction #reader insert #fanfic #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #fluff #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you

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foreverisntenough · 3 months ago

Text

‘Movie Night’

Summary: If only life was like the movies. For years, you’d flirted with the idea of something more with Trent, your brother’s best friend. You'd always danced around the edges of something more with him, sharing flirty moments that felt like scenes straight from the cinema. You had been silently desperate for the main character of your life’s film to finally get the boy but you knew moments like that were saved for Hollywood. The lines were clear; you were always going to be his mate’s little sister. So what happens when you go off script? In a whirlwind of passion, secrets, and stolen moments, you're left wondering: will you and your brother's best friend get the happy ending you've been waiting for, or was it never meant to be more than a fantasy?

Index:

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of dv, loss of a parent, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Chapter 7 - Girl of The Season | ‘Movie Night'

word count - 11.3k

You went out to dinner with Jack, Noah, Trent, and a few more of their friends. At first you didn’t want to go but Trent texted you that he better see you tonight. It made you giddy when he followed up...

It was sweet, playful, and everything you’d wanted. The night had started with excitement, a thrill of anticipation as you’d read more of Trent’s message telling you he’d have a hard time keeping his hands off you. It all had you feeling like a schoolgirl. You’d gone out thinking it’d be fun—a way to let loose and enjoy the easy chemistry that had been brewing between you and Trent, even with everyone else around. You imagined the night like any other was lately, filled with laughter and stolen glances that no one else would notice. The evening buzzed with energy, drinks flowing and stories spinning across the table. The group banter was easy, familiar. But as you sat at the table, laughing along to their stories, everything changed in an instant. One boy looked at Trent and asked a question that’s intent was harmless but catastrophic to you.

“Bro, so who's the girl of the season right now?” The question was referring to something you didn’t know about. It hung in the air, a casual laugh among them, but it made you freeze. You tried to keep your face neutral, not wanting to react to something you didn’t quite understand. Trent shifted in his seat, letting out a small laugh as he shrugged it off, but the other boys egged him on, teasing him as if they were letting you in on some kind of inside joke. Trent couldn’t do anything but let it play out. He felt helpless and stupid at the mercy of his own history. You knew Trent got with plenty of other girls before you but you had no idea it was so routine. That he’d apparently find a girl ahead of each football season began so he’d have someone locked in for when he was away and because he’d be too busy to go out and find someone- it was convenience not love.

“Yeah, just share her now, mate. Or is she not locked in yet” Noah laughed. They kept laughing and adding to it, casually throwing around details as if this ritual was common knowledge, as if finding a girl for convenience was routine. It felt hollow, the notion that Trent had a pattern, that every season he had someone by his side just as a placeholder for when he was busy.

“Girl of the season huh?” You quipped with a raised brow. You felt sick but presented just teasing. You tried to keep your tone light, even though your pulse was racing. You looked to Trent for clarity, a reassurance he didn’t immediately give. The boys kept talking. Even Jack joining asking if it was maybe going to be the girl he rejected i.e you. i.e the girl Trent had told them about after your incident at the club. Your heart sank, you wanted to cry but you bit back tears and spoke up once more. Inside you felt horrible. Were you merely his ‘girl or the season?’ “So… is there a contract?” you asked, sarcasm laced in your voice. “When’s the deadline day?” You quipped. But the weight of the situation bore down on you, leaving you feeling like you were nothing more than an option, something temporary. You were trying to join the banter just to survive, even though you were crumbling inside.

“Y/N it’s not that serious, the transfer window is always open” one boy laughed. All the boys laughed, not sensing the discomfort behind your smile. They couldn’t possibly know this information hurt you. They didn’t know everything that had happened behind closed doors.

“Yeah, it’s rolling. I was just curious because Trenty usually has his girl locked in by this point. Season’s started. You know a lucky lady to keep him… entertained,” Noah laughed, the others nodding in agreement. “She’s lucky… and convenient. He’s a busy man, after all.” He joked further. You felt the blood drain from your face, but you forced a smile.

“Is it now? Wow… sounds really really good for you ” you sarcastically quipped.

“Nah, lads relax… it’s not.” Trent tried to stop this. He could feel your tension even though it wasn’t showing on your composed face. Trent cut in, sensing the shift, his voice softening as he tried to redirect the conversation. His eyes flicked over you with a trace of panic and concern but most of all guilt. But the boys continued, chuckling about his past conquests, reeling off names as if recounting game stats.

“Yeah remember the year you won the Champions league you were cooking with girls. Lol. Michele, Keely, Taylor…” Noah added. It was a boys dinner and suddenly you realized that and they didn’t. Noah forgot about the obvious crush you had on Trent. Noah meant no harm but this was making you sick. The illusion of intimacy shattered in your mind, leaving raw insecurity and a sudden urge to escape. Trent sensed it, reaching for your hand under the table, a dangerous move but it was the only thing he could do, his touch gentle, but you pulled back, suddenly feeling exposed. Trying to keep your composure, you excused yourself and walked quickly to the bathroom. Your hands shook as you closed the door, the glossy, tiled walls offering little comfort. The hurt hit you all at once, and you sank onto the floor, your breath hitching as you tried to hold back tears, feeling crushed under the weight of it all. The thought that you’d been so easily slotted into a role in his life—temporary, interchangeable, convenient—cut deeper than you’d imagined. Had you let yourself believe you were different to him? That you mattered more? In the solitude of the bathroom, the truth crashed over you in waves. It wasn’t just that he had been with other girls before—of course he had. But this casual talk, the way they all laughed as if his relationships were nothing more than placeholders, as if this ‘girl of the season’ title was just part of the cycle… it made you feel disposable. You wrapped your arms around yourself, hot tears blurring your vision. You felt naive, stupid even, for letting yourself fall for someone who’d apparently seen you as convenient. For thinking you were different. It felt foolish to imagine you could hold a place in his life that was anything more than temporary. In the cold, sterile quiet of the bathroom, you replayed every tender moment you’d shared with Trent, every laugh, every late-night conversation, every quiet touch that had felt so real. And now, it felt like it had all been a facade. How could you have been so naive?

After a few deep breaths, you pulled yourself together, standing up and dabbing at your eyes. You couldn’t hide out forever, no matter how much you wanted to. You checked your reflection, steeling yourself, and returned to the table, forcing a breezy smile as you slid back into your seat, a mask of indifference firmly in place. But as you settled in, Trent’s gaze caught yours, worry etched across his face. He’d seen the hurt lingering in your eyes, even as you tried to hide it. The question of whether he cared—whether he’d ever care as deeply as you did—hung between you, unspoken but heavy. And in that moment, you realized you didn’t want to be anyone’s ‘girl of the season.’ Not even his. Trent looked at you, his gaze intense, worry etched into his features. He didn’t know what to do, he couldn’t do anything and you loathed him for it. You averted your eyes, focusing instead on your drink, anything to avoid his gaze. Your heart was screaming that you weren’t. You’d wanted so badly for him to see you as more, for what you had together to mean something real. And now, you weren’t sure if it ever could.

The night had unraveled faster than you could process, and the hurt simmered, sharp and bitter, as the dinner ended. You didn’t look at Trent once more the rest of the night, you completely ignored him. Trent’s presence had been an ache next to you that you ignored, refusing to look his way, refusing to acknowledge him as if somehow that might make the pain hurt less. You were barely holding it together when you all stood up to leave. The others filed out, laughing and talking, but you pulled Jack aside and asked if he could drive you to Layla’s instead. Jack chuckled, a teasing grin on his face.

“Why did Trent even buy you that car if I’m always the one driving you around?” he teased, completely unaware of the turmoil swirling inside you. You forced a smile, ready to brush it off, but Trent stepped in, his voice firm.

“I’m heading that way, Y/N. Let me drop you at Lay’s,” he said. You snapped back a quick ‘No,’ trying to keep your tone dismissive, trying to make it sound like you just didn’t want to be a bother. But Jack insisted, scoffed teasingly, rolling his eyes.

“Go with him, Y/N. I don’t want to drive across town,” he said, half-joking, his car keys dangling in his hand as he made a show of locking his car door to prevent you from climbing in. Frustration bubbled up, and you were close to tears, caught between trying to hold it together and wanting to break down.

“Jack, please. Just drive me home then,” you whispered, your voice barely hiding the tremble. But after a bit more back and forth, with Jack being relentless and Trent silently waiting, the rest of the boys’ cars pulled out, Jack’s included, leaving you and Trent alone in the dark, quiet car park. The silence in the parking lot was thick, broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the soft hum of streetlights above. You stood there, feeling exposed, raw from the dinner that had stripped away your illusions. You wanted to hide, to be anywhere but here, but Trent’s gaze held you still. His eyes, so familiar and usually so gentle, were clouded with an intensity that made your chest ache.

“Come here,” he said quietly but sternly, his hand reaching out for you, his voice steady but soft. Trent was still, his face serious, any of the laughter from dinner completely gone.

“No,” you said sharply, pulling back. Your voice cracked, and you bit down hard on your lip to keep the tears at bay. “Just… don’t, Trent. Just leave me alone. I’m not going with you. I’ll call an uber.” You snipped. You wanted to shout, scream at him for everything you’d heard tonight and for the pain it had left you with, but you were too tired, too heartbroken to manage anything louder than a whisper. “Please leave me alone.” You whispered once more as the tears on your lash line finally tipped over. You felt the tears streaming down now, the anger and hurt tumbling out as you cried, unable to contain it any longer. But he wasn’t giving up.

“Y/N, look at me,” he said firmly, stepping closer, his voice firmer this time. “Do you know what year I won the Champions League?” His question made you flinch; the reminder of the stories his friends had told, of the girls they’d listed, was like salt in a wound. He was asking you to recall the very thing that hurt. He asked like the question mattered, like it would fix anything. You swallowed hard, struggling to keep your voice steady.

“I don’t care, Trent,” you whimpered, wiping a hand across your tear-streaked face.You glared at him, your eyes blazing with hurt. And then a different emotion appeared in full force. “I don’t care, T. I don’t care about any of it,” you snapped, wiping angrily at the tears falling faster. But he wasn’t deterred. His jaw was set, his eyes locked on yours, determined to make you hear him.

“The year I won the Champions League,” he began slowly, voice low but steady, “was the year you had that serious boyfriend.” His words hung between you like a confession, and for a second, you forgot to breathe. For context, he wasn't referring to Josh. You remembered that year — the love you’d thought you had found with another boy, the trust that had shattered when you’d learned of his cheating. But why was Trent bringing it up now? “I couldn’t stand it, Y/N,” he said, his voice softening, breaking just slightly. “I couldn’t stay home watching you be his. I needed… anything, anyone, to stop thinking about you with him. It hurt.” He explained but it wasn’t enough.

“Oh, am I supposed to feel bad for you, Trent? You needed a distraction while I was dating someone? He was cheating on me, okay?” The anger that had simmered in you suddenly flared up, burning bright. “So poor you. I’m so sorry that you had to fill your fucking bed with so many girls. And mind you so many that you couldn’t even be asked to be there for me during one of the worst years of my life. Trent, he was cheating on me! And now… now I’m here again, wondering if I’m just another ‘distraction’ for you.” You choked, the tears coming faster now, the memories making the hurt sting even more. “He had other women, and you’re doing the same thing. I’m never enough, Trent! You all always need someone else. Something more than me” You yelled generalizing all men. You were lumping Trent with every other man.

“Baby… please.” He begged with a pet name that made you wince at the minute. And while it wasn’t entirely correct what you were saying, there was truth in it. You took a step back, throwing your hands up, cutting him off.

“No! This is exactly what it is, Trent. I am never enough. I give everything, and it’s never enough for you… for any of you!” The words came out in a yell, louder than you intended, and in that moment, you couldn’t stop the full on sobs, letting them spill over, hot and blinding as they streamed down your face.

“Y/N, it’s not like that,” he said gently, reaching out to you, but you stepped back, crossing your arms as if to shield yourself from the pain. He shook his head, his eyes pleading, as he stepped closer trying again..

“This isn’t right,” you said, voice hoarse from crying. Trent was silent, his face losing its color as he took in the weight of your words. “We need to stop. I can’t… I can’t do this to Jack. Lying to him when he’s given me everything, and I’m giving it all to you, and to you I’m just… nothing.” The words cracked, a final, painful admission, the weight of it all too heavy to bear. Trent’s face crumpled with remorse, his gaze full of guilt, and without a word, he stepped into you, and this time, when he reached for you, you didn’t resist. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into him, and for a moment, you let yourself be held, resting your forehead against his chest as you breathed in his familiar scent amidst your tears. He was warm, solid, and despite everything, being in his arms felt safe. You fought him for a moment, weakly pushing against his chest, but he held on, his grip steady and strong, grounding you as you let the tears fall. Shame and guilt washed over him, silent and heavy, as he held you close, feeling the depth of what he’d let happen. And for a moment, the world fell away, the pain eased by the warmth of his arms, though neither of you could find words to fix it.

“I know I don’t deserve you, but I promise… it’s not like that. It never has been with you. You’re not just another girl. I’ve waited so long, Y/N…” He quietly whispered, voice thick with emotion as he gently stroked your back. “I should’ve done more to stop it, I just… I don’t know but I know I fucked up at dinner. I know I’m not doing enough but I also don’t know how to make this better, but I want to. I want this. I want you. And I swear, it’s not a game for me.” His fingers brushed through your hair, his voice a soothing murmur, and you let yourself lean into him, the weight of your pain easing slightly. But as he held you, another ache rose in your chest, heavier, more real.

“It’s just… Jack is all I have, Trent,” you said, voice muffled against his chest. “You and Jack… you’re all I have left.” And the words tasted like truth, a bittersweet reminder of everything you’d lost, of the fragile balance you were trying so hard to keep. “I can’t do this.” You whimpered. “Not for something that isn’t even real to you.” You whispered. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, a soft, tender gesture that made your heart clench.

“I don’t want you to feel like…. like this isn’t real to me. If it’s even possible it’s so much more real than I ever thought possible and I’m sorry I’m shit at handling it.” His words hung in the cool night air, full of promise, and as he held you, the quiet between you was thick with things unsaid. You closed your eyes, letting yourself believe him for a moment, letting yourself hope that somehow, you wouldn’t have to choose, that somehow, you could keep them both. His arms were a steady warmth around you, and though the pain hadn’t faded completely, in this moment, it felt like maybe… just maybe… there was a way forward.

The car hummed softly beneath you as Trent pulled out of the parking space, his hand warm and steady around yours, grounding you in a way that was both comforting and bittersweet. The weight of the evening still sat heavily on your shoulders, the words exchanged at dinner echoing in your mind, each one pulling at the fragile threads of the trust you’d placed in him. But now, in this quiet moment, his hand was solid in yours, and that simple touch brought a calm you desperately needed. You shifted in your seat, leaning into him, feeling the warmth of his shoulder against your cheek as you closed your eyes, letting the silence settle between you. He brushed his thumb softly over your knuckles, a small but constant reassurance that he was here, that he was with you. The faint streetlights casted a gentle glow over the car’s interior, illuminating his face in the soft shadows, and you felt yourself easing just slightly, even as your heart continued to ache.

“Do you think…. Erm, T…Do you think I could just go to your house tonight?” you whispered, barely audible stumbling to get to the ask out. “I’m really sad, and I don’t want to sleep alone.” Your voice wavered, thick with tears, and you sniffled, trying to steady yourself. He looked at you, a gentle smile tugging at his lips as he took in the vulnerability you were offering, no walls, no defenses. It’s not that you didn’t want to see Layla. It was just that you knew if you told her what you heard tonight she’d have an opinion and it wasn’t that you didn’t value her thoughts, you just needed to get yours in order before you debriefed. Was Trent’s bed the best place to sort those? No, but you wanted his comfort, he’d always been your comfort.

“Yeah, pretty girl,” he murmured, a tenderness in his eyes that was almost enough to make you believe everything could be okay. “You can come be with me tonight. You can sleep with me whenever you want, okay? My baby.” His words wrapped around you like a promise, one that felt as real as the warmth of his hand around yours, and you nodded, your head finding its way back to his shoulder. For a while, you just stayed like that, nestled into him as he drove, his thumb tracing soothing patterns over your hand resting on his thigh. The city lights blurred softly as he drove, casting gentle reflections against the car windows, and you let yourself sink into the quiet comfort of his presence, each moment a balm to the ache in your heart.

When you reached his house, he parked and didn’t let go of your hand as you both made your way inside, guiding you gently through the door, his touch never wavering. Once inside, he pulled you close, his arms wrapping around you, holding you like he never wanted to let go. You melted into him, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and for the first time all night, you felt yourself relax, the weight of the world slipping just a little as he held you.

He guided you to his bedroom and suddenly a big smile pulled on his face. Tiredly you asked him why he was smiling like that. You weren’t in the mood and really weren’t in the mood for any cheek. But that gorgeous cheeky smile all made sense once you were stood in Trent’s ensuite, holding a brand new pink Goyard wash bag in your hands. Despite everything weighing on your mind, you couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. You traced the soft pink leather with your fingers, glancing back at him with a puzzled smile as he came into the room, his own grin lighting up his face.

“T… what is this?” you asked, holding it up. He chuckled, stepping closer.

“It’s the same one I have, because, obviously, it’s the best one,” he explained, “mine’s white but I got it for you in pink so it’s like a Mr. and Mrs. thing, you know?” The sincerity in his voice melted something inside you. You turned and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close, and he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

“Go on, open it though,” he urged gently, nodding toward the wash bag, his eyes bright with anticipation. You hadn’t even realized the weight of it, realizing that clearly there were things inside of it as well. You raised a brow, a little surprised—did he really go beyond the bag itself? Unzipping it, you peeked inside and felt an instant laugh bubbling up as you took in all the familiar beauty products you’d mentioned to him the other night, each one carefully packed. You looked up at him in disbelief, a smile stretching across your face as he rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “I actually had to ask my mum to come with me,” he confessed, laughing as he watched your expression. “Didn’t want to look like a complete idiot in the beauty section.” You couldn’t help but giggle at the thought, picturing him awkwardly shuffling through the aisles, trying to get it all right.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, shaking your head with affection. Trent pulled you closer, his hand resting on the small of your back as he looked down at you, his voice softer now.

“You’re my only girl, alright? You know you always have been. I’m sorry that I did things that made it seem like you weren’t. I’m sorry it took me so long to show you that…Only girl I’d ever pay that kind of money for ounces of cream for.” He laughed, clearly mocking the price tag on your La Mer moisturizer. “But for you… anything.” And with that, the tears you’d been trying so hard to hold back started spilling over. You wiped at them with the back of your hand, giggling through your sniffles, embarrassed but touched beyond words.

“Stop, baby!” he laughed, reaching up to gently swipe a tear off your cheek with his thumb. “Please no more tears. I hate when you cry so, so much,” he whispered, pulling you close again.

“Sorry,” you murmured, a soft giggle slipping out as you looked up at him. You stood on your tiptoes, pressing a tender kiss to his lips, feeling the warmth and safety of him radiate through you. Trent brushed his nose against yours, his hand cradling your cheek as he whispered,

“I’ve got you, pretty girl. Always.” And for the first time in a while, you felt your heart settle, the ache easing just a little as you held onto him, feeling the promise of his words wrap around you.

You crawled into Trent’s bed, pulling back the covers, and let out a surprised laugh when you saw the smooth, cool silk pillowcases he’d swapped in just for you. Trent stood nearby, watching your reaction with a smirk, his hands on his hips.

“See?” he teased, puffing up a little as if he’d won a major victory. “Got the silk pillowcases and everything. I’m in, baby.” He cooed proudly. This act so clearly showed he was making an effort. You couldn’t help but feel your heart melt at the gesture, a warmth spreading across your chest.

“You actually do the most,” you said, shaking your head, but the grin on your face gave you away. The fact that he’d followed through with something so small, something that made you feel comforted and at home, touched you deeply. He moved closer, and you reached out, looping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent—a mix of his cologne and the lingering warmth of the day. He wrapped his strong arms around you, holding you like he never wanted to let go. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

“Thank you,” you whispered softly, your voice barely audible. You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “Thank you for liking me… for doing all of this.” His eyes softened, and he gazed at you with such tenderness that it made your throat tighten.

“Always,” he murmured. He cupped your face in his hands, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, then kissed your forehead. The touch was gentle, lingering, as if he wanted to press his feelings directly into your skin. You both climbed into bed, and as you got comfortable, you found yourself settling halfway on top of him, your back resting against his side, your legs tangled with his. His hand found its way to your collarbone, tracing light, lazy patterns that sent shivers down your spine. His touch was calming, grounding you in a way that made you feel safer than you had in a long time. In the dim light, with only the moon casting soft shadows across the room, you found the courage to ask something that had been weighing on your mind.

“T... Do you think…” you started, your voice hesitant, “we’ll ever be able to really go out together? Like, just… be out in the open?” You asked. The vulnerability in your voice made Trent pause. He turned his head slightly to look at you, his expression earnest. A gentle smile pulled at his lips.

“Yeah, course if you want that,” he said, his voice full of quiet conviction. His fingers paused in their gentle tracing, and he shifted slightly to look at you more directly. “I mean… things have been good between us I thought but I also didn’t know you wanted that. For us to like go on a date or anything. I wasn’t sure if you liked the secrecy. I don’t know what you thought.” He explained to you sheepishly. Clearly things worked well between you in the bedroom and while you had no problem discussing that, it was also so glaringly obvious there was more to this relationship than just the sex… you just hadn’t said it yet. You bit your lip, feeling both shy and exposed.

“I do,” you admitted. “I mean, I know it’s complicated, but… I just want to be with you.” He smiled again, this time with a deeper, knowing affection.

“I want that too. I really do,” he told you. “I just didn’t know how serious you wanted this to be. But if you want it… then I’m in. Silk pillow cases, dates, whatever you want.” His words made your heart flutter, and for a moment, the world felt a little brighter. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but this time they were happy ones. You didn’t say anything more, afraid that if you spoke, you might start crying for real. Instead, you leaned in and kissed his jaw, your lips lingering as you tried to show him everything you couldn’t put into words. That night, there was no urgency between you, no rush to tear each other’s clothes off or tumble into anything wild. Instead, there was a softness that blanketed the room, a shared vulnerability that felt like a bridge between your hearts. You both exchanged gentle, lingering kisses that were more about comfort and closeness than anything else, the tender brush of lips and shared warmth easing the hurt from earlier. As you settled into the soft sheets, the familiar comfort of his bed easing the ache in your chest. His hands gentle as they traced soothing patterns over your back. You curled into him, your legs tangling with his, seeking out every ounce of warmth and comfort he could offer. As you laid there, he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I want you.” He murmured softly. “And only you. Always have.” The sincerity in his voice made your heart squeeze, and you found yourself finally breathing a little easier. And as you drifted to sleep, his arms wrapped securely around you, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you could allow yourself to believe in him, in this, in a future where he was more than just a fleeting presence in your life. You squeezed his hand once more, a silent promise to yourself that tonight, at least, you could find peace in his arms. When you finally drifted off, you did so with your head on his chest, your arms wrapped tightly around his torso, your cheek pressed against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Your face was relaxed, your pouty bottom lip just barely brushing his skin. Trent lay there, his hand stroking your back in gentle circles, the other cradling the back of your head. He pressed soft kisses to your hairline, whispering to you even though you were already half-asleep. He stayed awake longer, watching the soft, peaceful expression on your face as you dreamed. Guilt twisted in his chest as he thought about how hurt you’d been earlier, how you’d tried to hide it but couldn’t quite keep the pain from seeping through. He wished he could take it all back, erase the moments that made you doubt him. The memory of your stricken face during dinner haunted him, and he knew he had to make it right. His mind began to work on a plan, a way to take you out on a real date, one that wouldn’t be about sneaking around or hiding. He wanted to show you off, to be open about how much you meant to him. He imagined a perfect night, one that would make you smile so brightly that he could forget the hurt he’d caused. As he held you, his chest tightening with how much he cared for you, he promised himself he’d make it happen. You were his only girl, always had been, and he was determined to show you that in every way possible. Even if he couldn’t fix the past, he’d make sure the future was full of moments where you never had to doubt what you meant to him.

After that dinner, things settled back into something you could only describe as uneasy but fine. You still were living this double life, lying to Jack. Keeping the extent of your new life beyond the first fuck from Layla. On the inside of houses, the confines of bedrooms, everything felt perfect; the chemistry with Trent was undeniable, and whenever you were together, it felt like the two of you were building something real. But the moment he left, that foundation started to shake. Alone, doubts crept in, the taunting whispers of insecurity that left you questioning every detail. The laughs and comments from the dinner echoing in your mind. Was this how he made every ‘girl of the season’ feel? Were they all secrets he kept? His history loomed over him. It made you wonder, was this just the same story with you? Only now, Jack's little sister had the lead role, the fact making you feel more self conscious of how he viewed you.

Layla's constant questions, innocent but probing, made it worse. She didn't know the real extent of what was going on, only that something had happened. She knew you fucked but after that… you kept your lips sealed. Saying you weren't sure either, which was a half truth... you didn't but you also were omitting the fact that you were spending night's together. And while you wanted to confide in her, every part of you held back, afraid of exposing too much-afraid it would all unravel the moment it wasn't hidden. More people couldn’t know, it was too risky. The secrecy felt safe but also confining, and your chest ached every time you thought of it. The double life weighed on you more than you'd ever let on to Trent. And yet, when he messaged you during his away game, that familiar excitement flared up, and you felt that ache turn into something else, a want to remind him of you, make him feel how much chemistry you two had. For the moment you were hidden but after the dinner, after his promises you wanted to make sure he was certain. He texted asking to call you. You were nervous to agree but who wouldn’t want to facetime Trent Alexander-Arnold in bed. You weren’t sure how to act at first but then you decided– You wanted to make it clear you wanted him. You wanted to make him want you. Apprehensive but determined, you sifted through your wardrobe quickly, finding the boldest, most daring piece of sleepwear you owned. It was underwear disguised as something casual. You finally sat in front of the camera, as his call pinged through your phone. You answered, and immediately his jaw dropped.

"Oh my fucking days," he murmured, his voice low, a mixture of shock and hunger flashing in his eyes. The look he gave you sent a thrill through your entire body.

"Hi," you cooed, feigning innocence as you adjusted your posture slightly, giving him an even better view. A small, mischievous smile tugged at your lips. You wanted this to be memorable. Trent leaned closer to the screen, shaking his head with disbelief and lust flaring behind his eyes.

"You look unreal. Fucking hell," he said, his gaze tracing every curve as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. You felt a rush of power, the distance fading as he soaked up every detail of your look. But it wasn’t just the look, it was everything; the clearly recently lotioned skin, the faux innocence, the vibes were just everything Trent would want.

"I just want to make sure you don’t think of me only as Jack's sister." You met his eyes, holding his gaze as you whispered. The words hung in the air, a truth you'd wanted to tell him for a while figuring now while you had his attention would work.

"Trust me, he's the last thing I'm thinking about right now," Trent chuckled, still in awe, his eyes glued to you.

"I hope you’re not thinking about other girls while you’re away," you murmured almost as a test but simultaneously a tease running a hand slowly along your raised collarbone over to your shoulder, playing with the delicate strap of your bra as his breath visibly caught.

"Trust me, they're the last thing I'm thinking about," he repeated, his tone shifting, voice raw. “I don’t know who you’re even talking about, baby.” You could see it in his eyes-there was no one else he wanted right now. And that single, unspoken promise was all you needed to feel. “I don’t want any of that. You know that.I want you. Don’t play me, baby.” He smirked, his voice dropping, filled with a frustrated need that made your pulse quicken.

“I’m not playing.” You stretched out languidly, letting your voice drop to a purr. “Just thought you might like a little reminder of what’s back at home for you.” You told him.

“Trust me, I don’t need one.” His voice softened, a hint of a smile in it now. “You’re all I think about. So don’t tease me like this. Oh my days, Y/N…” His eyes lit even more as the bra top was practically falling off.

“Yeah?” you asked, feigning a nonchalant surprise. You could almost feel the tension through the phone. As you toyed with Trent, pulling down the thin strap of your bra, his breath hitched. The teasing, the slow build—it was intoxicating, leaving him hanging on every move you made. He was completely fixated as you gradually peeled away each item of clothing, your body on full display, leaning back against your bed, meeting his gaze with a mischievous smile. His reaction was instant, a low groan escaping him.

"Oh my god," he breathed, raking a hand over his curls, unable to tear his eyes away. Just as you began to lower the phone whilst opening your legs. A shiver ran through you. Feeling bolder than ever with what you were about to do.

"Hold on-my phone's about to d-” You glanced away from the camera, then, without warning, hung up, pretending the call had dropped. Your phone dead. The silence that followed was deafening on his end. For a moment, Trent just blinked, waiting for you to reappear, only to realize you weren't coming back. It dawned on him that you'd left him high and dry, and he almost laughed in disbelief but the strain in his jogger was excruciating. This wasn’t funny at all. Not to him. It wasn’t long before the messages began flooding your phone, his name lighting up your screen as he called again and again.

Trent was spinning out. He couldn’t believe that just happened. You settled back against the pillows, heart pounding as you watched the texts roll in. Your phone buzzed—one, two, three times in a row again and again.

But then you turned it off though to play the part. Still, you laid there opting to grab your laptop staring at his messages flood in with a smile. This felt good. It was so easy to believe him when you were together, to let yourself feel like the only girl on his mind. But alone, doubts crept in, filling the space he left behind. Still, you couldn’t deny the thrill of making him wait for once. He called but your phone was off or ‘dead’ in his mind. He prayed you’d fucking charge it now. He was desperate for you and only you. He was almost embarrassed he had called and texted so many times but he wanted you so badly but as time ticked on he knew this was not an accident, this was chess, Begrudgingly he took matters into his own hands literally. Hours later, you finally responded to his barrage of messages, typing with a grin tugging at your lips. You had left him out to dry and you kind of loved the power switch.

You wrote, knowing very well he was the culprit who'd taken your charger in an effort to hide things from Jack the other day. Your message was cheeky and taunting, almost blaming him for why he didn't get to have the call continue. Really just hammering home that you knew what you were doing. You could practically feel his frustration through the screen as he replied, a flurry of texts that only made you smirk, still desperate for you. His handiwork would never match what you offered.. You had him exactly where you wanted him, and something told you he wouldn't let you get away with this so easily and you couldn't’ wait.

The anticipation had been building for a whole day after the call, ever since Trent's away game ended. You knew he'd be coming back to you straight away. You had teased him mercilessly during that facetime, flaunting your body and hinting at all the naughty things he could do to you when he returned. But then your phone died or you could also say well… you just hung up. His desperate pleas over texts only fueled your excitement, and you couldn't wait to have him back in your arms, and beneath you or under you. You didn’t care. Jack was out and you were in… and in and just in a tiny tank top and panties. As soon as Trent walked through the door, his eyes locked onto yours, burning with a mixture of desire and frustration. He strode purposefully towards your bedroom, just moving straight past you and straight to the point, his broad shoulders exuding confidence and determination. You followed, unable to resist the pull of his magnetic presence. It was like he came in and didn’t need to say a thing because you knew he was frustrated. Not actually, just sexually and you liked it the build up. You had to fight back a giggle as you came into your room after him, plopping yourself on the bed.

"Baby," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly as he stood in your room. You couldn’t read the inflection. It almost sounded like he was disappointed? Was he actually mad? Momentarily you were nervous but he looked so god damn sexy like this, hungry almost, you wanted to keep up your game just to see what would happen. You were lying on the bed, your hair cascading over the pillows, a seductive smile playing on your lips.

"Did you miss me?" you teased, propping yourself up on your elbows, your tits straining against the thin fabric of your tank top. Trent's eyes darkened at the sight, his gaze flicking between your face and your exposed cleavage. "I'm tired, I won’t lie" you continued, feigning innocence. "You must be too from the flight. Maybe we can just catch up on some sleep tonight.” You knew you were being a tease, and the thought of driving him wild excited you even more.

Then there was a shift in the room. He came over to you, his hand picked up your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“You’re not tired.” Trent growled, a low sound that sent shivers down your spine. He told you very matter of fact. "You've been so naughty, baby…teasing me like that," he said, his voice laced with a possessive edge. "You know how much I thought about you dressed like that in this bed alone in my hotel." A rush of heat flooded your cheeks as you realized the extent of your power over him. You'd left him with a constant ache, his cock throbbing and heavy with desire. But the shift in power was singly like a pendulum. Now back to you.

"I know, baby," you cooed, reaching out to stroke his cheek. "But you like it when I'm a bad girl, don't you?" Trent's eyes blazed with passion as he grabbed your hand, pressing a heated kiss to your palm.

"No, baby… I like when you’re a good girl f’me. And you've been a very bad girl, and I'm not having that," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "You’re gonna be a good girl now. Right now. And I’m gonna take what's mine.” He said ferociously but steadily calm as he climbed onto the bed, straddling your waist, his hard muscles pressing into your soft curves. You gasped as his weight settled on you, his erection straining against his trousers, pressing into your core through the thin fabric of your panties. His hands roamed over your body, squeezing and kneading your tits through your top, causing your nipples to pebble in response. "You like being my good girl though, don't you, baby?" he growled, his lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "You like it when I touch you, when I take what I want." You arched into his touch, your breath coming in short gasps.

"Yeah huh, T," you whispered, your voice hoarse with desire. Your resolve crumbling, the game falling to pieces instantly.

“I know you do. And right now I want you.but you didn’t seem to want me…” he taunted, still teasing you. “ So beg.” He commanded.

"I need you please. Please T… I’m sorry.” You whined. The tides turned so fast. The power dynamic has returned to where it was before. With a growl, he tore your top off, baring your tits to his hungry gaze. His mouth claimed one taut peak, sucking and nibbling, while his hand cupped the other, rolling and tugging gently. Your back arched off the bed further, offering yourself to him, your hands threading through his hair, urging him on.

"See? Such a good girl," he murmured between kisses, his hands now exploring your body, sliding down your stomach, tracing the waistband of your panties. "But….” He began and your heart skipped a beat. What did you get yourself into? “Can’t be acting like that. You've been so bad, baby. You’re not doing all that with me. I’m in charge, hmm?” He hummed. You whimpered as he hooked his fingers under the elastic, slowly sliding your panties down your thighs, exposing your glistening pussy to his hungry gaze. His eyes devoured you, taking in every detail of your swollen lips and the dampness between your thighs. "So wet for me. You like this, don’t you? Me in charge of you. In control." he growled, his voice thick with desire. You nodded. He was 1000% correct. You weren’t sure you’d ever been more turned on in your life. "You’re gonna take my cock now.” He shifted, positioning himself between your thighs, his cock straining against his trousers. With one swift motion, he ripped at the button and zipper, freeing his thick length. You moaned at the sight, your pussy clenching in anticipation.

"Please, baby. I want your cock. I’m so sorry," you begged, your voice breathless. "I need you inside me." He didn't make you wait long. You thought he’d draw out the teasing but neither of you could wait any longer. With one powerful thrust, he filled you, stretching and claiming you in one stroke. You cried out, your body welcoming him, your walls gripping and milking his length.the stretch was deliciously painful. You were so tight from minimal prep but god you were wet he just slid in.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned, his eyes screwed shut as he began to move, his hips snapping forward, driving into you with fierce possessiveness. It was clear immediately this was going to be a rough fuck. "You're mine, baby. All mine." You wrapped your legs around his waist, meeting his thrusts with your own, your bodies moving in perfect rhythm. His hands gripped your hips, leaving marks on your skin as he pounded into you, his cock hitting your sweet spot with every stroke.

"You like it rough, don't you, baby?" he panted, his breath hot against your neck as he nibbled and sucked on the sensitive skin. "You want me to fuck you hard?" He asked with a smirk you could feel. “Gonna have you begging for more of me.”

"Yes, please," you whimpered, your head thrown back, your body on fire. "I want it all. I want you to take me, own me." You’d never acted so submissive in your life. This was like an alternative universe only he could create. Trent obliged to your pleas eagerly, his movements becoming more primal, more demanding. Trent kept one hand on your hip guiding your movements but brought his other up your body, his hand wrapping around your neck, eyes pinned to yours. You gasped feeling his tip smashing against your cervix and orgasm barrelling towards you. But then he surprised you by letting go of your neck, slowing his pace ever so much so that the coil loosened in your stomach, the climax retreating momentarily. He was playing games with you. “You wanted to play with me, baby the other day? I’ll play with you.” He taunted. He moved his hand off your neck and up to cup your cheek. Then swiftly he dragged his thumb across your lips. He slipped it into your mouth with ease as he pulled your mouth open by your bottom lip. He spit his saliva into your mouth and you swallowed diligently with a moan before he pushed his thumb all the way back in for you to suck on it like you would his cock. He groaned when your eyes began to flutter closed with a whine, simultaneously swirling your tongue around his finger.

“Such a good girl f’me.” he gripped your chin looking longingly into your eyes. He loved everything about this. Being in control of you. You letting him control you. You wanting him to control you. He tucked his face in the nape of your neck. He nibbled on your sensitive skin. His hair tickling you. Hoarse grunts escaping him as you soaked him. He hit that spot deep inside you, only he knew. All you could think about was the way he hit that spot again and again, continuously. He felt so good when he dropped his hand between you to rubbing your throbbing clit. He knew how to make you cum and he was going to do it well but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let you. So he pulled out and flipped you onto your stomach, throwing you around like a rag doll, positioning you on all fours, your ass raised high in the air, your back arched to perfection, presenting yourself to him. With a possessive growl, he smacked your ass, leaving a stinging imprint of his hand. "Why’d you have to act like such a naughty fucking girl, baby?" he whispered, his hot breath caressing your sensitive skin. But instead of a whine, you moaned in pleasure. You liked when he slapped your ass. "You like it when I punish you, don't you?" He smirked, mildly surprised that you were this down for him to have this much control. Obviously you knew each other well but in the bedroom you were still finding things out.

"Yes," you moaned, your voice hoarse as you pushed back against him, inviting more because you knew more were coming. Trent’s hand rained down on your ass, slap after slap, again and again, leaving a symphony of slaps and marks that would remind you of his dominance. Finally once he felt it was sufficient he let a line of his spit fall onto your ass. He watched it run down over your ass and into the folds of your pussy. His hands caressed the fat of your ass.

"You've been a bad girl, teasing me," he said, his voice thick with desire. "Just gotta fuck it out of you now, yeah? Make you my good girl again." He cooed as he positioned himself behind you and began to tease you, dragging his leaking tip across the smooth skin of your ass before slipping it between your folds teasing your entrance. He slowly pushed his cock into your pussy without another word. You were completely drenched. You could feel yourself coat his length in your slick again and again as he drilled in and out of you. The recoil of your ass from his hard thrusts had Trent in pure heaven. God, it must’ve been a good 30 minutes of him just blowing your back out.

"Oh, fuck!" you exclaimed, your hands gripping the sheets as he pounded into you, his hips slapping against your ass, the sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the room. “I’m gonna c-.” you cried out, your body trembling.

“No!” He commanded and you whined as he pulled out, halting it all. “You’re gonna keep taking my cock.” He told you as he slid back in and so you did. You kept taking him “That's it, baby," he grunted, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he fucked you with abandon. "Take it, take all of me." You cried out as he slammed into you, his cock hitting your G-spot with every stroke, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Your orgasm building, coiling tight in your core, every inch of your body alive with sensation.“ You’re mine, baby. Understand?” He said it was a seriousness and a harshness that made goosebumps arise on your skin.

"I can’t… oh my fucking god. I'm gonna cum, T," you panted, your nails digging into the sheets as you fought for release. "I’m gonna cum, fuck– please." You whined. You moaned as your vision began to blur a little from how good it all felt.

"Not yet, baby," he growled, his voice rough. "You’re gonna keep taking me because I said so. You asked for this. I want you to feel me, feel every inch of me." He reached around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing and pinching the sensitive bud as he continued to pound into you. Your moans filled the room, a mixture of pleasure and desperation.

"Please, T, oh my god," you begged, your body on the brink. "I need to cum. Please."

"Not until I say so," he commanded, his voice harsh. "You don't get to come until I'm ready to fill you up with my cum." His words sent a shockwave of desire through you, and you surrendered to his control, your body his to command. “You continued throwing your ass back as he fucked you relentlessly, his cock driving into your pussy with brutal force, his fingers working your clit with expert precision. "That's it, baby, let me see how much you want it," he grunted, his breath hot against your neck. "You're mine, every inch of you. I own this pussy. I get to decide when you cum.” After a few more strokes, that were gradually getting rougher you heard it, the command you’d be aching for. “Cum f’me baby. Cum now.” His words pushed you over the edge, and you exploded around him, your pussy clenching and milking his cock as you cried out his name. “Fuck, baby. Gonna cum, alright? Doing so good, baby.” He grunted as his thrusts became messy and unregulated before he came inside of you, filling you up to the brim. his cock twitching and pulsing as he filled you with his hot release. You collapsed onto the bed, your body spent and satisfied. He gently pulled out of you but was quick to push his two fingers along with his leaking cum back inside you for a few moments longer. "You wanna cum again f’me, pretty girl?" He cooed.

“Oh fuck- oh my god.” You whined, body gone almost limp but craving more insatiably. His fingers easily sliding in and out of your pussy, finding that magical spot deep inside. He rubbed and pressed your clit as his fingers curled deeper from behind. You cried out, your body exploding in another mind-blowing orgasm. Trent smugly and quietly laughed not at you but just happy you were feeling so good. As your bodies calmed, Trent's softer side emerged as he gently rolled you onto your back, his eyes filled with love and adoration before he collapsed onto the bed beside you, pulling you into his arms. He kissed you tenderly, his hands stroking your hair, his touch now gentle and caring. He held you close, his strong arms offering comfort and protection. You could feel his heart pounding against you, and his breath was warm on your skin.

"My good girl," he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Did so good f’me. You okay?” You smiled, your heart full as you snuggled into his embrace, content in the afterglow of your passionate encounter.

"I love being your good girl, T," you murmured, savoring the warmth of his body against yours.

"You were more than that, baby. Honestly, that was fucking unreal," he whispered, his voice filled with awe. "I love making you feel good." You snuggled closer, your body still buzzing with pleasure.

"That’s good because you make me feel amazing.” you tiredly giggled. “But…I do really like when you take control, baby," you confessed, your voice soft and sated. "It makes me feel so fucking… I don’t know wanted or something. I like knowing you want me like that.” You poorly explained in your post orgasmic haze. He chuckled, the sound low and warm.

"I do want you, more than you know. And I promise, I'll always take care of you…. Especially after wanting you like that." He smirked. He gently caressed your hair, his touch tender and loving. "Let's clean you up, my pretty girl," he said, his voice filled with affection. He helped you into the shower, the warm water washing away the remnants of your passionate encounter. Trent's hands were gentle as he soaped your body, his touch sending shivers of pleasure through your tired limbs. You leaned into him, your body still limp from the intensity of your orgasms, but he held you close, his strong arms offering relentless support. There was a physical and emotional feeling of warmth with him. He just wanted to wrap around you and keep you with him all the time. He was completely consumed by the thought. Seeing you so fragile after sex just sent a feeling alight inside he didn’t quite no how to label.

"You're so good to me, T," you whispered, your voice filled with gratitude. He’d always taken care of you but now it was different… so different, so intimate and you both were recognizing it. He kissed the top of your head, his lips soft against your hair.

"I will always take care of you, baby. I always have, I always will." He cooed as the water washed away the sweat and passion of your lovemaking, Trent's gentle care and adoration filled the void, leaving you feeling cherished and adored. You knew in that moment that this was more than just physical attraction. It was a deep, profound connection, but one you craved beyond the boundaries of the bedroom.

That next morning was a slow, honeyed glow, filtering through the curtains and casting a soft light over the room. The world felt paused, as if the universe had frozen to let you both linger in this quiet perfection a little longer. The warmth of Trent’s skin was the only anchor you needed, the steady beat of his heart a lullaby against your cheek as you lay entwined, tangled together under the weight of the blankets and something far deeper. He shifted slightly, his body moving with that half-conscious care to keep you close, and you felt his breath stir your hair, a sigh caught somewhere between sleep and waking. As he moved, you instinctively tightened your hold, pressing yourself closer, unwilling to let him slip even an inch away.

“MmNmm,” you murmured, a soft, sleepy protest as you shook your head against his chest, feeling the rumble of his chuckle in response.

“Nah, course not,” he laughed at you, his voice still heavy with sleep, But he was only teasing, he was loving that you didn’t want him to move. He lent down, pressing his lips to the top of your head in a lingering kiss, his breath warm against your hair. His hand drifted down your back, tracing gentle patterns, like he was memorizing every inch of you. “My pretty girl,” he murmured, his voice a tender whisper, more to himself than to you, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. The sound of his words washed over you, filling you with a warmth that went beyond the touch of his skin. You looked up at him, meeting his eyes as he gazed down at you, his expression so soft and open, filled with a quiet awe that made your heart ache. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your face with a gentle hand, his fingers lingering, tracing the curve of your cheek as if you were something precious, something fragile. “Nah you’re actually so gorgeous, baby,” he cooed, a little smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. He studied you, his eyes tracing every detail of your face as if he were afraid he’d wake up and find this had all been a dream. His other hand slipped around your waist, pulling you even closer, holding you like he’d never let you go. You couldn’t help but sleepily smile, your own hands finding their way to his, fingers lacing together as you pulled his arm around you, tucking yourself against him. “Can’t believe I finally have you with me,” he whispered, almost like he was speaking to himself, his voice tinged with wonder and something deeper, something vulnerable. You didn’t need to say anything; words felt unnecessary in the soft, stolen space between you. Instead, you pressed a gentle kiss to his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin under your lips, letting the silence say everything that you couldn’t.

“You feel like a dream sometimes.” After a while, you finally spoke up when something other than sheer bliss came into your head. His arms tightened around you, his thumb gently stroking your side, sending a shiver through you that made you feel acutely, blissfully alive. He tilted your chin up, his lips meeting yours in a soft, unhurried kiss, so full of affection it left you breathless. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand cupping your face as he held you there, his gaze deep and intent.

“You’ve been my dream,” he murmured softly, brushing his thumb across your cheek. You felt his fingers run through your hair, tucking it behind your ear with the same careful attention, his eyes never leaving yours as he continued to trace slow circles on your back. He rested his forehead against yours, his breathing soft and steady, and for a moment, you both stayed there, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. The morning stretched on, time losing meaning as you lay there, cocooned in each other’s arms. The world outside could wait; for now, all that mattered was the quiet perfection of this moment, of being held, of being seen, of feeling his heart beat in time with yours. It was a feeling you wanted to hold on to forever, a softness that seemed to live only in the rare, untouched hours of early morning.

•

Thank you for reading! Please like, comment, or message what you think of the chapter or of what's to come!

Next part - Chapter 8 - Caught in The Kitchen, Hidden in The Bathroom xx

#trent alexander arnold #Trent Alexander Arnold x reader #alexander arnold #trent alexander arnold imagines #taa x reader #footballer x y/n #footballer x reader #fie fic #Movie Night Fic

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blitzwhore · 7 months ago

Text

Thinking about this moment again—

—and imagining what would happen if Blitz was badly hurt by a Goetia here. Maybe Blitz jumping in is just enough of a distraction that either Stolas or possibly Octavia (arriving at the scene just in time) are able to jump into action and get them both out of there through a portal, but not before Blitz is attacked and severely injured.

Thinking about Stolas rushing Blitz to a hospital, holding him desperately close as Blitz bleeds out in his arms. Thinking of Blitz being unable to speak, quickly losing consciousness; about Blitz feeling content and lucky that he gets to go in Stolas' arms, but remorseful that he didn't get to tell Stolas how he really felt before he died. Meanwhile, Stolas is moving heaven an earth for Blitz to be seen and treated immediately, only half-realising that his privilege as a Goetia might be the only thing standing between Blitz and death.

Thinking about Stolas in the aftermath, once the worst of it has passed. Blitz is alive, but still in critical condition, and is unconscious on the hospital bed. And as the hours go by Stolas wonders if he should leave, but he can't, because Blitz came back, Blitz saved him, despite it being a death sentence for him to do so. He can't go now. He can't leave Blitz's side.

Thinking, too, of Stolas, who has previously been at a party full of people dedicated to hating Blitz, now seeing the hospital room slowly fill with people who love Blitz.

His employees, Moxxie and Millie. They sit by his side for hours, whispering amongst themselves and occasionally talking to Blitz, updating him on their lives. Millie holds Blitz's hand in hers; Moxxie alphabetises all the gifts Blitz gets because he knows Blitz likes things organised that way. There's a lot of gifts in the 'H' section, of course.

Fizzarolli, who could never make the same mistake again and not visit his injured best friend at the hospital; and Ozzie, too, who is there not just to keep Fizz company but also because he cares about Blitz, because he knows just how much Blitz and Fizz mean to one another.

And Loona.

She's so quiet. She never speaks to anyone, mostly just scrolling on her phone, and barely ever leaves Blitz's side, not even during the night. Stolas doesn't know why; he doesn't know that Loona made a promise that she wouldn't let her dad die alone, doesn't know that he's all she has in this world and she needs him and she's scared, even if she would never admit it. But he can see that she loves him. That she cares.

Thinking about Stolas getting to see the other half of Blitz's rocky history with relationships. Getting to see all the people who care, who worry, who are thankful and loyal to Blitz, who couldn't bear to lose him. And thinking of Stolas realising that, just as he's far from the only one whose heart Blitz has broken, he is also not the only one who has felt awakened, embraced, seen, and freed because Blitz came into his life. He's not the only one whose life Blitz has saved.

Thinking of Stolas finally seeing the pattern. Finally understanding that Blitz keeps changing others' lives for the better, and being too blinded by his own self-hatred to realise it himself.

And thinking of Stolas maybe, just maybe, falling a little bit more in love with Blitz by seeing him through the eyes of every other person who has grown to love him. Of Stolas impatiently waiting for Blitz to wake up so he can join everyone else in loving Blitz the way he deserves to be loved.

#helluva boss spoilers #helluva boss #helluva boss apology tour #helluva boss blitz #stolitz #stolas helluva boss #helluva boss stolas #blitz helluva boss #image description in alt #whump #Kind of?#helluva boss trailer #Hurt Blitz #I have no idea what this is #I guess I'm just yearning #Whumpee Blitz

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gatheringbones · 1 year ago

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[“As history has shown, and as I was at the time experiencing, a strap-on can be sexy, but it can also be a failure and a threat. It draws attention to how contradictory and fragile our definitions of male and female are, and how tightly we cling to them, even in relationships between women, where gender and sexuality are more flexible.

I think it’s important to look at how this played out, not just in the history of straight men policing lesbians but in the lesbian community policing itself. In the 1940s and 50s a bar scene began to develop in cities across the country, marking the first time when lesbians, particularly working-class ones, gathered publicly and in large numbers. During this time a butch/femme culture developed that included strict codes of dress and behavior both in and outside the bedroom. Butch women slicked back their hair, wore suits and jeans, and were, generally, the “givers” of sexual pleasure. Femme women wore dresses and makeup and were the “receivers” of sexual pleasure. In some ways, this culture was liberating, as it represented a powerful, cohesive group aesthetic and safety in numbers. Especially for women who actually identified as butch, it was also a chance to finally adopt masculine dress without being seen as failed or dangerous but rather as sexy and loveable. For others this culture was a trap, pushing women into restrictive sex and gender roles in the same ways heterosexuality had. It is by no means the only lesbian aesthetic, but I think part of the reason it has stuck around for so long in the popular imagination as the way lesbians are is because it allows straight people to again see themselves as the center of the sexual world.

In either case, strap-ons were not widely used, or at least not talked about. In Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold, a book that documents the lives of Black and white lesbians in Buffalo, there is a pretty exhaustive set of interviews about sex acts and terminology, but no one mentions owning, liking, or even trying sex with a strap-on. Indeed, the one mention of a dildo is one of bewilderment as Vic, a self-identified butch, talks about her friend pulling her into the bathroom to show her the new strap-on she got. “Jesus, she whipped this thing out . . . I’m supposed to be butch and my face felt like a neon sign. I could feel the embarrassment. How do you admire a dildo? No seriously, what do you say?”

Butches in the book took great pride “in their own hands and their ability to please,” which “did not dispose them to think that a dildo would improve their lovemaking.” It’s interesting that they considered the dildo less potent and successful than hands. This could be read as displacing the power of the dick, but, coupled with the silence surrounding strap-on use, it also points to a greater fear about the lesbian body. How regulated and small it had to be to exist. How easily it could be diminished by something outside itself, or destroyed altogether.

In the lesbian radical feminist movement of the 1960s and 70s, there was also a great deal of attention focused on creating distance from dicks. Jill Johnston argued in A Lesbian Nation that the only true road to female liberation was the conscious “withdrawal at every level from the man to develop woman supremacy.” This meant that not only butch/femme dynamics but also penetrative sex were out. Anne Koedt developed the theory that the vaginal orgasm was a myth perpetrated by Freud in order to center male sexual desire for penetration, though her evidence for this was a study done by Kinsey—a man—that found the vagina was not particularly sensitive to touch. True orgasms, Koedt argued, only came from the clitoris—even though she interestingly also called the clit “the female equivalent of the penis”—so if women wanted to have enjoyable sex there was no need for penetration, only clitoral stimulation. Andrea Dworkin went so far as to call the penis “a hidden symbol of terror” and argued that “violence is male, the male is the penis.”

Dorothy Allison writes about the effects this had on herself and other lesbians at the time. “No one admitted to using dildos, wanting to be tied up, wanting to be penetrated, or talking dirty—all that male stuff . . . my lover wanted us to perform tribadism, stare into each other’s eyes, and orgasm simultaneously. Egalitarian, female, feminist, revolutionary.” In attempting to free themselves from the penis, in many ways radical lesbians ended up reinscribing the power of the dick and sacrificing the range of sexual pleasure they could experience in the process.

In a counter to this, the lesbian sexual outlaws of the 1970s, 80s, and 90s argued that dildos were actually great, not problematic, but primarily because they didn’t reference the penis at all. Some even argued that wearing a dildo turns a woman into a cyborg, not woman, man, or even human, just a body involved in the mechanistic movements of giving and receiving pleasure. While there is something freeing about this argument, as it gets us out from under the idea that we can’t talk about strap-ons and that a woman wearing a strap-on is only trying to make up for a never-ending lack, it still bypasses the sticky, complicated reality of the gendered/human world we live in and the simple fact that sometimes lesbians want strap-ons to look like penises.

All of this begs the question: can a dyke wear a dick and just have some damn fun?”]

amy gall, from my dick, your dick, our dick, from wanting: women writing about desire, 2023

#amy gall #lesbian literature #currently reading #saint vallous #history stuff

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saintclarkegriffin · 9 months ago

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The 100 ended four years ago so I think I can confidently say that i'm forever going to be stuck between the denial phase and the anger phase. No accepting or moving on for me.

I mean for the most part I just pretend that season 7 never happened, like I block it out of my mind. But when I do remember it happened, I just get incredibly angry. And I know it's not healthy to still be this upset over a fictional show that ended in 2020, but I can't help it.

I think about how Bellamy was character assassinated and then killed off in the most brutal and stupid way possible, shot by CLARKE of all people, over a damn BOOK, that she didn't even take!!! I think about how he died all alone, without a chance of saying goodbye to any of his friends or his SISTER!!! I mean think about how crazy that is, Finn died but got to say goodbye to Clarke, Lexa died but got to say goodbye to Clarke not once but twice, Lincoln died but got to say goodbye to Octavia, Jasper died but got to say goodbye to Monty, Kane died but got to say goodbye to Abby and Indra, and Bellamy??? The male lead of the show Bellamy??? He dies and he doesn't even get to say goodbye to OCTAVIA??? The Blakes don't even get a proper final scene together??? And I get angry.

I think about how Clarke, the main lead of the show, was cast aside for half the season and then also character assassinated, turned into a selfish vindictive cold-blooded person who never learns from her mistakes and suddenly doesn't care about being the good guy or doing the right thing... even though the entire point of her character arc was that she was fundamentally a good person, selfless, altruistic and empathetic, who was forced into impossible moral dilemmas. But she never stopped caring!!! Making these impossible choices never got easier for her!!! Because she was good!!! But suddenly in season 7 she was turned into everything that Clarke antis accused her of being. And what's Jason's excuse for this? "Oh, well, if you think about it she was never the hero... she was doing awful things early on in the show, just against people we didn't care about like Mount Weather... In season 7 we put the audience in Mount Weather's shoes"... excuse me???? As if Clarke didn't try literally everything in her power to get her people back, without having to harm/kill the people in Mount Weather??? As if Clarke didn't decide to pull the lever only when she saw her own mother and her friends being strapped to a table to be tortured and killed for their bone marrow??? As if Clarke didn't feel distraught over what she had to do, to the point that she felt like she had to leave her people and be on her own in the woods for months??? As if she didn't have nightmares??? As if she didn't feel guilt and regret over Mount Weather and Maya up to freaking season 6??? And I get angry.

I think about how Bellarke, whether romantic, platonic or something in between, was the MAIN relationship of the show, with the most development and screen time. And that relationship was absolutely destroyed in the most contrived, spiteful way possible!!!! Jason had to character assassinate both Bellamy and Clarke to make it happen. That's how resentful of Bellarke and Bellarke shippers he was. Even though he was the freaking show runner!!! He had the power of writing Bellarke platonically from day one!!! But Bob and Eliza confirmed that they were told that Bellarke was romantic in nature, and that's how they performed it!!! Jason was the one who wrote 2x16 and 4x13, arguably two of the most important episodes for Bellarke... he came up with together!!! He took the head and the heart from the fans and put it in the show!!! He wrote Clarke calling Bellamy every day for 2,199 days!!! No one forced him to do that!!! But he did, and for what??? For Clarke to shoot Bellamy in the end and kill him??? Even if he didn't want to make them canon for whatever reason, he could've still written an ending that was respectful of their friendship and history in the show. But no!!! He had to destroy everything that made Bellarke what it was. And I get angry.

I think about how Octavia spent YEARS trying to get back to Bellamy, to see him again and tell him how much she loves him... And then in the second half of season 7, she just gives up on him??? She doesn't even TRY to understand what happened to him on Etherea, she doesn't talk to him, when Bellamy visits her and Clarke she just stands there with a disappointed face and doesn't say a word. And then when Clarke tells her that she killed Bellamy, she just hugs her and tells her that she understands??? And so would the old Bellamy???? The 'old Bellamy' she didn't even TRY to get back, the 'old Bellamy' she simply gave up on??? Literally every character from Octavia to Clarke to Raven to Murphy to Miller to Echo, had to be character assassinated so that Bellamy could die the way he did. Because none of them would've given up on him!!! They all loved Bellamy!!! He was the 'dad' of the deliquents and then the leader of Skaikru on the ring. But suddenly nobody cares about him, nobody tries to understand what happened to him or tries to change his mind, not even his SISTER!!! AND I GET ANGRY.

I think about how the message of season 3 was that 'pain means that you're alive' and 'you don't ease pain, you overcome it', and how it is better to live in an imperfect world than a perfect simulation. And then in season 7 there's Transcendence which is basically the City of Light 2.0, an immortal hive mind where there's no pain and no death. Just "peace" for eternity. But suddenly THIS hive mind is okay... because? Because the Judge and the other aliens (putting aside how ridiculous it is to introduce ALIENS in your show in the very last episode) are fair while A.L.I.E wasn't? There's nothing 'fair' about deciding which species is worthy of Transcendence and which isn't. Especially since the punishment for not passing the test is MASS GENOCIDE. And yet the Judge is portrayed as 'good' and 'fair' while A.L.I.E. was the one actually trying to ensure the survival of the human race!!! And don't get me wrong, A.L.I.E. was evil but in her methods, her motivs were actually morally sound compared to the Judge and the rest of the aliens. They only did what they did because they believed that they were morally superior to all other species, and if one species wasn't 'good' enough according to their moral standards, that meant that they deserved extinction!!!! "But at least with Transcendence you can choose whether you want to transcend or not, A.L.I.E. didn't give you a choice" bullshit!!! If you "choose" not to transcend, the aliens still take away your chance to procreate and have kids from you!!! They make you infirtile against your will!!! Your species still dies with you and your friends!!!! Why? Because some aliens said so!!! And that's supposed to be an happy ending??? Just because all the characters are smiling and hugging, it doesn't make this ending any less horrific once you think about it for like two seconds. And I get angry.

And finally I think about how the entire message of the show was NOT survival like Jason claims, but how 'life should be more than just surviving'. How 'life can be more than impossible choices and a tragic end'. How humans can 'be the good guys' and break the cycle of war and violence and tribalism. And in the end none of that mattered. Humans kept fighting each other up until the last episode and only stopped because they were being 'tested'. They got absorbed into a hive mind and they're going to be stuck there for all eternity, no lesson learned, no real peace gained. Our main characters, that we've followed for seven seasons, are going to eventually die, leaving nothing or no one behind. All the sacrifices, all the impossible choices they've made... completely meaningless, since the 'survival' of the human race was never up to them building a better world and society after all, it was always up to the morally superior aliens. I think about how they got to survive, but they didn't get to live. And I get angry... because I really loved this show and these characters so much... and they just... they deserved better. They really did.

#i needed to get all of this off my chest #and i can only really do it here #the 100

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mooniedust · 21 days ago

Note

Hi! I was wondering if you can make a thanos x guard!User bot where reader has a history with him or smth and helps him during the games.

CHOI SU-BONG (THANOS) BOT/PROMPT

Plot: The guard of the games (you) finds Thanos gravely injured and is torn between helping him or letting him suffer more for his own amusement. They were accustomed to brutality, but feels a curiosity and considers whether he should intervene to save Thanos and prolong his participation in the game or take advantage of his suffering as a form of control and entertainment, aware that his choice could impact the course of the games.

TW: Violence, torture, death, mutilation, psychological manipulation, disturbing emotional detachment.

Note: I'm really upset about the random deletion of some bots on c.ai, so sorry if there are any grammar mistakes! It’s not my first language, and I tried to make something cool and a little intense. Also, sorry if it ended up sounding a bit heavy—maybe listening to 'ultraviolence' for hours has affected my brain chemistry a bit! I haven’t published the bot yet, but I will as soon as I have a little free time!

With all my heart,

Moon Dust.

You never felt bad. Why would you? The game was simple, brutal, and everyone was there to do what they needed to do, until the end. But perhaps it was more than that. It wasn’t just the pain of others that became a delicious distraction; it was the way everything fell into place. The massacre, the chaos, the death, all in the name of something greater: survival. The others? Mere background characters, pieces to be moved as you wished. If they voted to continue, as they did? Idiots. Desperate. Or maybe both. Who could say? But the answer never mattered. They were there to die. What else could it be? You weren’t there to reassess the scene, nor to judge the greed that drove each of them to fight for one more second, one more chance, as if they were fighting for something beyond a temporary escape from the abyss.

“Greed is the cancer of society,” they said. You would laugh if you could. Another cheap catchphrase. The cancer of society? That wasn’t it. The real sickness lay in the incessant need to save the other, to try and humanize the inhuman. You weren’t there to save anyone. You were there to give the final push. Your job was simple: be the shadow. Watch. Manipulate. For others, the idea was to survive, but for you, it was only about controlling who lived and who died. Nothing more. Nothing less.

You stay, your shoulders rigid, your mind unperturbed as the sound of punches, screams, and bodies crashing against the floor echo through the narrow corridors. What happened on the other side was none of your concern. If they killed each other like dogs, then let them be dogs. One less to clean up later. More money in your account. More time for you to sit and watch. The spectacle continued, and you were an essential part of it. You had to make sure everything was done right, well-calculated.

Your body remains still, hunched against the cold wall, the gloved fingertips touching the metallic surface with precision. But that wasn’t what caught your attention. It wasn’t the sound, nor the scream of another lifeless body falling. It was the momentary silence before the next act. The sound of escape, the sound of someone nearing their end. And then, there, you see him. Player 333. Covered in blood, stumbling with disordered steps, like a wild animal trying to flee the inevitable. He was just a distraction, a part of the chaos, but you watched him, as if you were waiting for the end of the show. He crawled away, a pathetic sight.

You move without haste. The men's restroom ahead of you becomes the next stage. The atmosphere is thick, hot, filled with the metallic smell of blood. More bodies. More deaths. You enter. The room is a mess. Chunks of flesh and blood scattered in every corner. The job, though repulsive, is almost therapeutic. The chaos, the death, the destruction. Everything you had known. Everything you had always wanted to see. You crouch down to begin your inspection, kicking a few bodies just to check if they're still alive, still breathing. But something makes you stop.

The purple hair, disheveled. The mess. The decay. Choi Su-Bong. The damned fallen star. Thanos.

You watch, almost in a trance, as he lies there, fallen, but not dead. His clothes stained with blood, his face pale as if he were on the verge of the end. His eyes, still half-closed, are like two cracks, almost opaque. But there’s more. Something in the way he still tries to hold composure, a crooked and sadistic smile on his lips. He’s still alive. One of the few to be so resistant, so persistent. That look, empty and calculating, staring at you in a way that anyone, anyone normal, would have stepped back.

But not you. Not now. You approach, examining the details of his body. The smell of blood mingles with his own scent, a touch of something else. Filthy. Fierce. Dead and alive at the same time. A paradox in himself. Thanos. He had always been the favorite, the only one capable of challenging fate head-on, even when the odds were against him. An uncontrollable force, a wild will. He always knew how to conquer others, how to manipulate the situation, and even now, he was still resisting.

Everyone wants to go to heaven, but no one wants to die. Pathetic.

The hoarse voice reaches you before you even think of moving him, the weak sound, a thread of challenge, but with something deeper too. Something almost… playful?

“Did you enjoy the show, guard?” The question seems to float in the air between you two, laden with a threat, but also with something darker. Something that shouldn’t be there. “You saw everything, didn’t you? Or are you here just for—I don´t know, enjoying the view?”

The rough laugh that follows is like a beacon of insanity, mixed with blood. Every cough, every gasp for air, the pressure of death closing in with each passing second. The laugh breaks the silence of death, challenging your calm, your indifference. He’s there, in flesh and blood, trying to mock you, challenge everything you are, everything you represent in this cruel game.

You don’t respond. You don’t need to. Your gaze says everything. You crouch down, touching the wound, observing the depth of the blade, the fork still lodged in his neck, the wound almost fatal but staunched. He should be dead, but he isn’t. He’s still fighting, still trying to escape, and you can feel it. The struggle. The resistance. It’s almost poetic. You could leave him to die there, the fork would be the end. But you don’t do that. You never would. Because he’s your favorite. He’s the only one who can challenge you, and at the same time, keep you intrigued.

Your hand touches the blood, the cold temperature mixing with the warmth of your body. Thanos is still there, the warm flesh against your fingers, the defiant look in his eyes. You won’t let him die yet. Not like this. Not without more entertainment. He doesn’t deserve a quick death. No. He deserves something crueler. Something deeper.

The blood flows faster, warmer. He’s still alive. And you’ll make sure he stays that way. He’ll suffer. He’ll crawl to the end, but not without giving you something more, something you’ll drain from him until the last drop. He’ll be your final spectacle.

#writing prompt #character ai #janitor ai #dialogue prompt #thanos #squid game #round six #squid game season 2 #choi su bong #ai bot maker #fic prompt #fanfic #squid game x reader #thanos squid game #choi su bong x reader #squid game fanfic #thanos x reader #player 230 #player 230 x reader

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guccixstyless · 2 months ago

Text

Intern (Pt. 6)

Author's Note: Anddd the final part of the Intern Series, I'm so glad I could finish it phew, thank you guys for reading through xx

Word Count: 2941 words

Pairing: Harry Styles X Reader

Masterlist

***********************************************************************

The next morning, the sun streamed through the tall windows of the hotel’s buffet lounge, casting a warm glow over the spread of fresh croissants, fruit, and coffee. It was a rare morning off for the crew, and everyone had gathered around a long table, chatting, laughing, and enjoying a relaxed breakfast before their day off in Paris.

Harry sat at the table, his eyes scanning the room, waiting. His fingers absentmindedly tapped against the edge of his coffee cup as he kept looking toward the door. He didn’t have to wait long. The moment Y/N stepped into the room, his face broke into a wide grin. He couldn’t help it. He felt lighter seeing her, like a weight had been lifted, just by her presence.

The clinking of silverware, the rustle of napkins, and the faint hum of conversation created a comforting atmosphere, but his mind was far from at ease. Will you accept his feelings? Did he make it more complicated by confessing so abruptly?

Just then he saw you entering.

You walked into the room, scanning the familiar faces of the crew. Sarah, Mitch, and Jeff were already seated at the table, laughing about something you couldn’t quite hear. You hesitated for just a second, taking in the scene, before you made my way over to them.

And there he was. Harry.

You don’t know why you still felt this nervous energy around him. It was ridiculous, really. Harry had been your best friend for so long, and even though you’d been through so much recently, you should have felt more at ease around him. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? The unspoken tension that seemed to hang in the air every time you were in the same room. He had been your best friend, and now… I wasn’t sure what we were anymore.

His eyes met yours as you made your way toward the table, and for a brief moment, the world around you seemed to fade away. You saw the familiar warmth in his gaze, but there was something else too—a quiet anticipation, as though he were waiting for something to happen. For you to say something, for you both to fix what had been broken.

You smiled, though it didn’t feel as natural as it used to. "Morning," you said, keeping your voice light, hoping it would mask the anxiety swirling in my stomach.

"Morning," he replied, his voice warm and filled with a kind of relief that made your heart ache. "I’m glad you could join us."

You nodded, sitting down next to him, the familiar comfort of his presence making your pulse quicken in a way you hadn’t expected. You weren’t sure what it was—maybe it was the closeness, the shared history—but there was something about Harry that always seemed to pull you in, even when you tried to fight it.

You noticed how the others didn’t seem to miss a beat, chatting casually about their plans for the day. Mitch and Jeff were already talking about exploring the city, teasing Sarah about how she always wanted to shop for clothes in Paris. Sarah rolled her eyes but smiled in return, clearly used to their playful teasing.

But no matter how normal everything around seemed, you couldn’t shake the sense that there was this wall between Harry and you. It wasn’t visible, but it was there. Every time you looked at him, you saw the familiar flicker of hope in his eyes—the same hope you had been avoiding for days now.

The conversation around the table flowed, but Harry stayed quiet, his eyes finding yours every so often, as if checking if you were alright. And you could feel it, the weight of the question hanging in the air between you. Would we talk? Or would we continue to dance around the unspoken words that neither of us wanted to say?

"You’re looking a little more… relaxed today," Mitch teased, nudging you with his elbow. "What’s going on between you and Harry? You two looking like you’ve worked out your issues?"

You froze for just a moment, trying to hide the heat creeping up your neck. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," you said, trying to sound casual, but failing miserably. Your eyes briefly flicked to Harry, who had that familiar sheepish grin on his face, as if he too were trying to brush off the comment.

Sarah smirked from across the table. "Oh, come on," she said, raising an eyebrow. "You two totally have something going on. I can see it."

You couldn’t help but laugh, though it was forced. "You guys are impossible," you muttered, trying to avoid their teasing eyes. But deep down, you couldn’t help but feel a little grateful for their distraction. It made it easier to hide the truth that had been weighing on you—the truth that you weren’t ready to face, not yet.

Jeff, ever the good sport, rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "You all know how these things go," he said with a wink. "No rush. Let’s let them figure it out on their own."

You could see the tension in Harry's shoulders, the way his hands clenched around his coffee cup as though trying to ground himself. You knew it wasn’t just about the teasing. He wanted more than just a casual conversation. He wanted us to talk. And God, you wanted to talk to him too. But the fear that had settled deep in your chest was suffocating. What if you weren’t ready to hear what he had to say?

As breakfast went on, the crew made plans to explore the city, taking advantage of the rare free day. They all seemed excited, talking about seeing the sights and enjoying the local cafés. You couldn’t blame them—Paris was beautiful, and the thought of getting away from everything for a while was tempting.

When breakfast wrapped up, everyone stood and started gathering their things. You didn’t know why, but you found yourself lingering behind, unable to shake the nagging feeling that something was going to happen today—something you weren’t quite ready for.

Harry was right next to you, walking slowly, almost as if he were waiting for you to say something. You stole a glance at him, watching as he tugged the collar of his jacket higher, his eyes lost in thought. He looked up suddenly, catching my gaze, and for a moment, neither of us said anything.

"Y/N," he said quietly, his voice low but filled with something I couldn’t quite name. "You okay."

"I'm fine," you whispered, feeling the tightness in your chest.

After strolling for a bit and when everyone was at a distance, Harry finally said, "I can’t stand this anymore," he continued, his gaze intense, searching your. "I can’t keep pretending like everything’s fine when I’m barely holding it together. I need to know where we stand, Y/N. Are we done, or is there something left here? Because I can’t keep pretending like I don’t feel something. I'll accept being just your friend too, as long as your'e in my life"

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "Harry," you said, your voice shaky but steady enough to make him stop in his tracks. "I miss you. I miss us. I just don't know if we're rushing."

His eyes softened, and he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently take yours. "We don’t have to fix everything right now. I just need you to know that I’m here. I’ve always been here, Y/N. And I’m not going anywhere."

You squeezed his hand, the warmth of his touch grounding you in that moment. There was so much fear swirling inside you, but his sincerity, the softness in his gaze, was starting to break through the walls you had built.

"I keep fearing that I'm just a rebound," I said quietly, your voice barely a whisper. "I don’t want to be with you because you’re afraid of being alone."

Harry looked at you for a long moment, his thumb gently rubbing over your hand as if trying to reassure you. "I would never do that to you. This isn’t about being afraid, Y/N. It’s about knowing what I want. And what I want is you. Always you."

You closed your eyes for a second, trying to hold yourself together, but the emotions were overwhelming. "But… how do we know it’s the right time?" you whispered.

He smiled softly, stepping closer. "We don’t. But I’m willing to wait. For as long as it takes. I’ll wait for you, Y/N. You’re worth it."

Your heart swelled at his words, the wall you had been building around yourself starting to crack. "You really mean that?"

"More than anything," he said, his voice full of certainty.

You met his gaze, the truth in his eyes undeniable. For the first time in what felt like forever, you saw the man you had always known—steady, genuine, and full of love. Maybe we didn’t have all the answers. Maybe things were still complicated. But for the first time in a long while, you were ready to take a step forward. With him.

"Alright," you said, my voice barely above a whisper, "let’s try this. Together."

Harry’s smile lit up his face, his eyes brighter than you’d seen them in days. "Together," he whispered.

You pulled him in for a kiss, and he kissed you back with so much intensity and full of love, you could hear your friends whislting behind with a chorus of "I knew it!" "Finally." "I told you."

You both break the kiss with a smile and look at each other fondly.

"Can I take you on a date?" Harry asked shyly.

"I'd love that," you answered.

You both ditched the friend group and went your way.

***********************************************************************

The evening air in Paris was crisp and refreshing, the kind of cool that made you want to hold hands and pull your jacket a little tighter around you. Harry and you had decided to take a stroll through the streets of the city, away from the chaos of the concert and the noise of the hotel. The city lights twinkled like tiny stars above, casting a soft glow on the cobblestone streets. It was as if Paris itself was putting on a show just for us.

"Where to now?" Harry asked, his hand intertwinded with yours, as you walked side by side. He looked down at you with a playful glint in his eyes, his messy curls barely visible under the low light, his lips pulled into a grin.

“How about that little bakery over there?” You suggested, pointing to a shop with a window display full of colorful macarons and tempting pastries.

Harry raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smile. “Macarons, huh? Are you sure you can handle all the sweetness in one sitting?”

“Hey,” you laughed, nudging him gently with your shoulder. “I’m not the one who can't resist sugar. We both know you have a secret macaron addiction.”

He looked at you with mock offense, clutching his chest dramatically. “I am not addicted!” he insisted, but there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “But… since you’re offering…”

Yoy walked into the bakery, the warmth of the place immediately surrounding us. The shelves were lined with delicate pastries and neatly stacked boxes of macarons in every color imaginable. Harry’s hand found yours again, and you squeezed it, feeling the familiar rush of happiness at the simple contact.

“You go ahead and pick something,” he said with a smile, his eyes scanning the colorful treats. “I’ll just be over here, making sure I’m not eating the entire shelf of macarons.”

You nodded and went to see the options, finally you picked out a box of macarons in soft pastel shades. “These look like they’re from a fairy tale,” you said returning to Harry’s side, holding the box out for him.

His eyes widened in playful surprise. “You’re right, they’re practically magical.”

With a smirk, he plucked a pink macaron from the box, carefully inspecting it. “How about a challenge?” Harry asked, his voice low with excitement.

“Challenge?” I raised an eyebrow. “What kind of challenge?”

“If I guess your favorite flavor, you have to let me feed you the first bite,” he said with a grin, clearly proud of himself for coming up with such a clever idea.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re on, Styles. But don’t get cocky. I’m not easy to guess.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, focusing intently on the box of macarons. After a few moments of dramatic consideration, he picked one up and held it out. “This one. I think it’s your favorite. You’ve got a thing for vanilla, don’t you?”

You bit my lip, pretending to deliberate. “Vanilla? Are you sure? What makes you think that?”

Harry shrugged, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. “I’ve been paying attention. You always pick the simplest, most comforting things.”

You raised an eyebrow, impressed with his reasoning. “That’s… kind of sweet, actually.”

“Well, I am sweet,” he teased, winking at you.

You couldn’t help but laugh, feeling my heart soften at his words. "Alright, fine, you got me. Vanilla is my favorite."

Harry beamed with victory, his eyes twinkling. “Told you.”

He then took the macaron, gently breaking it in half, and offered me the first bite. You leaned forward, taking a small bite, savoring the smooth, creamy filling. The sweetness was subtle but perfect, and you found myself smiling without even realizing it.

“That’s good,” you said, looking up at Harry. “You have good taste.”

His face lit up at the compliment, and he reached for another macaron. “So, do I get to try one now?” he asked, the playful edge still in his voice.

“Of course,” you replied, offering him the box. “Go ahead. Just don’t eat them all.”

“I’ll try to save some for you,” he promised, flashing me a mischievous grin before taking one of the macaron halves and biting into it.

After finishing the box of macarons, you left the bakery and continued walking through the city, Harry slipping his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. The chill of the evening air didn’t seem to matter anymore, not with the warmth of his touch and the quiet, unspoken connection between us.

He stopped walking and turned to face you, his hands on my shoulders, gently pulling me closer. “I’ve always had feelings for you, Y/N. But I didn’t want to push you, not after everything. I’ve been an idiot for not telling you sooner.”

You smiled softly, your heart swelling at his confession. “I’ve cared about you too, Harry. Since the beginning of tour actually. But I was just scared to admit it, scared of what it would mean for us.”

Harry stepped closer, his forehead resting against yours. “Oh baby, we wasted so much time, yeah? Now let's make up for those,” he smiled softly.

You closed my eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in. When you opened them again, you smiled up at him, a playful glint in your eyes. “Well, if we’re going to make the most of our time, we might as well make it official.”

His eyes sparkled with excitement. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

You leaned up, brushing your lips against his lips, giving him a quick peck, then whispered in his ear. “Yeah, I’m saying ask me to be your girlfriend already, Styles”

Harry grinned, his hands pulling me into a tight embrace. "Finally," he whispered, his voice full of relief and joy. He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering as he spoke, like this was the most important question he could ever ask. "Will you be my girlfriend, Y/N?"

Your heart skipped a beat. The way he asked it—so raw, so vulnerable—made everything inside of you light up. You couldn’t help but smile, your cheeks flushing. You had imagined this moment countless times, but hearing it from him, feeling it, made it more perfect than you could have ever dreamed.

You looked at him, the words y’d been holding in finally escaping me. "Harry... yes. Yes, I will. I want to be yours."

The relief on his face was immediate, his eyes lighting up like a thousand stars. His grin spread across his face, and he didn’t hesitate to pull you into a tight hug. You felt his warmth surrounding me, his arms strong and reassuring as he whispered in your ear, "You have no idea how happy that makes me, Y/N. I promise, I’ll never take you for granted."

You smiled, pulling back just enough to look at him. "I’m happy too, Harry. I’ve wanted this for so long."

He leaned in then, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, before pulling back with a playful glint in his eyes. "Good. Because I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me now."

"I think I can live with that." You laughed

As you both sat down on a bench nearby, the world around you seemed to melt away. It was just you and Harry, sharing this perfect, intimate moment together. The kind of moment you never forget. It wasn’t just a first date anymore—it was the beginning of something real, something beautiful, and it felt like everything was finally falling into place.

"I love you, Y/N," Harry murmured, his voice soft but filled with certainty.

"I love you too, Harry," you whispered back, knowing, without a doubt, that this was exactly where you were meant to be.

-----------------------------------------------------

Taglist: @ever-since-the-kilt @pxrrishly @jld20047 @thecraziestcrayon @emma1998sblog @lovrrysworld-ally @jackiehollanderr @sassamanda77

#harry styles tour #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry x reader #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles fic #one direction #harry styles writings #harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagines #harry styles

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twig-tea · 29 days ago

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The Fragrance You Inherit Remained Gentle and Kind

The Fragrance You Inherit was such a gentle and kind show. I loved so many things about it: The performances, the music, the colouring, the pining, and above all, the kindness. I've said before and I will repeat: this is a show about good people who love each other doing their best to be kind to one another, and it was a pleasure to watch. Run don't walk to Siiri's blog @isaksbestpillow to download the show with her subs. Spoilers for the finale to follow.

The interpersonal relationships were the star of this show: The mother/son relationship between Toki and Sakura, Sakura's friendship with On-chan, Toki and Kanae's budding romance and learning what it means to be in a relationship together, Sakura and Mone as reunited old friends and how they immediately regress into giggle-fits in each other's presence, Kanae and her father and how Hoshii-sempai remained a lovable and supportive dork through the whole series, Sakura and her own mother, and even Toki and On-chan and the loving uncle/nephew-like relationship they build...all of them were perfect, loving, and sweet. And the relationship parallels were used well to move things forward--Mone sees the parallel between herself and Sakura in the past with Toki and Kanae in the present; Mone draws from her relationship with Toki to understand her relationship with her own mother better; and Toki draws from his experience with Kanae to understand his mother better (and vice versa, he draws from his mother's relationship to understand his own better too).

I said after ep 1 that my expectations for this show were that we would get closure for Sakura and we did, in a series of beautiful scenes. I love how the series is bookended by two very different weddings that Sakura attends with very different emotions, and how much support Sakura has around moving on and seeking happiness for herself. Though we didn't see the scene, we got enough of Toki and Kanae's relationship that I believe that Kanae also knows about Sakura by the end of ep8, and her giving Sakura the flowers is tacit approval for Sakura to go out and date (a woman).

In addition to the confession scene, I absolutely loved Sakura's coming out scene with her mother; the way this was done to underscore the importance of a child's happiness to their parent was well done and was a good message to send. Generally the message about coming out in this show was that it is not something you owe anyone but is a gift you give the people you love so that they know you better and as a benefit, by knowing more about you, their world expands. I liked this message.

I had also said in the same post-ep1 post that this show seemed gearing up for a teenage boy meltdown, but I did not predict how sweet and loving this meltdown would be. Toki is the most thoughtful and caring teenage boy of all time. The scene with him and his mother on the phone in episode 7 made me cry so much! I really appreciated that the show was clear that Toki had absolutely no reason to ever doubt that he was loved by his mother, but that the evidence of his life and their history was not enough to break through the teenage melodrama when it hit, and he needed to hear it from her directly. I have to stop and give kudos to Sakura's actor Hoshino Mari, who did a phenomenal job. I felt her desperation and concern for her child so strongly, as well as her relief.

While I'm giving shout-outs, I also need to shout out Takeda Kouhei, who was perfect as the sardonic and empathetic gay bestie On-chan. I was so happy to see him every time he appeared, he always gave excellent advice, and his presence was so soothing.

And while Toki and Sakura were the core of the show, I really appreciated that all of the characters felt like they had their own motivations and drivers. It would have been easy to have made Kanae one-dimensional or without agency, or to have made Hoshii-sempai a distant or unsupportive father, or Mone the passive recipient of Sakura's feelings. But the show balanced all of these characters as distinct people who each had their own perspective.

Thank you again to Siiri for subbing this series and making it available for all of us to watch; this was another gift of a show. And thanks to the giffers who giffed this show, especially @easterndelights !

#kimi no tsugu kaori wa #the fragrance you inherit #gl recs #sapphic media #typed so that i can stop thinking it

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moralesispunk · 28 days ago

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Chapter Three - The Cottage

Din Djarin x Witch!Reader

Summary: Din returns to you, hoping to find the closest thing he has known to home in years, only to find this home - and you - are in danger

Warnings: angst, canon-typical violence, minor injury

Word count: 2.9k

Chapter 2 | Series Masterlist | Chapter 4

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Every time Din approached Terra, the same wave of calmness washed over him. His shoulders inched down from his ears, his brow unfurrowed, his mind stopped racing. It's like the kid knew where they were going too despite only being here once before; his small hands pressed against the glass and his breath fogging it up as Din began the descent over the trees.

The kid cooed and Din huffed a laugh.

“Yeah. She missed you, too.”

He landed The Crest, flicking off every button as the engines went from roaring to silent, and he waited for the peacefulness to return as he packed his bag.

It was simple, knowing you had most of what he needed there, but he brought a small rock picked up from a recent planet - a near-perfect circle, eroded by sand and the same dusty gold colour, and a book. It was the book he had borrowed from you on his last visit, a history of his people, though now it contained his scribbled annotations - notes that corrected what he knew, or stories that backed up what was written. There was little more there than some water for the kid and a few credits should he venture into any of the villages a day’s walk from your home.

However, the second the ramp of The Crest began to lower, he knew something was wrong. With the soles of his boot on the mossy ground and his hand raised to stop the kid from climbing down any further, he scanned around him until he could pinpoint exactly what was off.

There was almost so much wrong that Din had to grip the edge of the ramp to stop himself from keeling over with nausea. The moonlight felt dull, the wind howled when it was usually quiet, the grass was a lifeless kind of green… Everything had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge and his hand reaching for his blaster as the other tucked the kid safely into the bag already hanging from his shoulder.

The walk to the farm was one he has done more times than he could count but he had never felt like this while doing it, never gripped his blaster and took each step with such care like he did as he rounded the last line of trees.

His heart was in his throat as he took in the scene before him.

Raiders - twelve of them dressed in black - circling the cottage like prey waiting to pounce. Some of them held aging blasters, others simple sticks that had been whittled down to a sharp point, three of them held burning stakes that were flickering towards the thatched roof.

“Come out little witch,” one snarled. He took one step towards the door, then another, and before Din could move he caught the glimmer of silver in the moonlight.

A blaster - his blaster that he had tucked between your mattress and wall and begged you - with your hands in his - to use if anyone caused trouble, was tucked in the corner of the window and aimed directly at the man.

“Don’t take another step,” you called back, your words steady to the ears of a stranger but laced with fear he had never heard before as someone who recalled the cadence of your voice every night before he slept.

The man took no heed, his boots crunching one more step before a red blast shot from the window and the man collapsed to a heap on the ground. Din turned as quickly as he could, setting the child behind a tree and pointing a shaking finger in his direction.

“Stay here. Don’t move.”

He only waited long enough for the kid to cower back against the tree before Din took off running towards the blasts and fire that had erupted. He watched as you defended your home to no end, fighting off brutes twice - three times - your size as they tried to take hold, with one now dragging you out of the cottage. Your eyes met his from across the farm in shock, widening for a second long enough to be distracted as one of the men took an off-centre shot that grazed along your hand and forearm and you hissed at the burn.

The rage that flowed through Din was like none he felt before - not when he was a helpless child and his parents were murdered, not when he was a young man with more emotion than he knew what to do with. No, these men were fighting a losing battle as Din slashed through them and up the steps - these men who were trying to hurt the person who was more his than anyone in the universe, the one thing he knew stayed steady even as everything else changed.

He tucked you behind him and fought against the ten men left, defending both you and the cottage.

As you fought, the fire only grew. Sweat slipped down the back of his neck, pooled in his collarbones beneath his layers and armour, made his hands slip beneath his gloves. It lit up your face - the anger and rage and grief - and your own skin was soon slick with sweat.

You took down two of the men with the steady aims he had made you practice before he left two weeks before and Din easily took down the other eight with shots from the blaster, but it was too late for the cottage.

He tried for a moment, the pair of you finding buckets of water that barely touched the looming fire, but it was a losing battle.

He gripped your wrist and tried to pull you down the steps, away from the flames engulfing your home as you beat at his arm and shoulder with a fist until you managed to slip free and race inside.

He bellowed your name, his foot barely over the threshold before you came running back out with a bag tucked under your arm and your hand over your mouth as you coughed against the smoke. His hand wrapped around yours and he dragged you to the middle of the field, no matter how hard you tried to dig your heels in and turn back again.

By the time you reached the middle of the field - far enough away for him to deem them safe as he called out to the kid - he took your face in his hands and looked into the eyes where all life was seeming to drain from.

“Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?” He shook you once, not painfully so but enough to try and gain your attention. “Are you-”

You waved him off, letting your bag fall to the ground and soon following it as you sat and stared on at the fire.

You sat in the middle of the field with Din and the child watching on behind as the home you had built burned to ash. You had nothing but the small bag beside you, one you had the unnamed urgency to pack today.

It had some clothes, some medicine, some things that you held dear to your heart that perhaps were not the most practical weight to be adding to an already heavy bag. Everything else… You watched it burn until the sun began to rise and the smoke went with it. You watched it until the silent sobs gave way to steady to tears to the emptiness in the hollow of your chest that made you so tired there was nothing to do but collapse to the ground, letting sleep take over as Din called your name, shaking your shoulder to try and rouse you to no avail.

It was always quiet on Terra. It was one of the first things Din had noticed when he landed here all those years ago.

He soon learned that the life there has grown to live hand and hand with the silence; the beautiful woman in the middle of the forest, the small species that ran between the trees on silent feet, the subtle rattle of leaves against the branch they grow from.

It was a life-affirming, peaceful kind of silence. But now it felt wrong.

You barely moved when Din finally lifted you from the ground, your soft body almost entirely limp in his arms and pressed against his armour even though your eyes stayed on the smoke billowing into the early morning sky. Around an hour ago a man had appeared at the edge of the forest, perhaps the same age as Din but his skin weathered from working on a farm, and he had almost reached for his blaster had it not been for the child clutching at the stranger’s legs and hiding behind him.

The man looked to Din, then where you were curled up on the ground before him, and finally to the child hiding behind Din.

“Is she okay?” The man called, not taking a step forward and instead placing his hand on his daughter's head in a silent reassurance.

Din didn't have an answer. Physically, yes - you had stopped the coughing as soon as the wind picked up the smoke and carried it away from you. In every other way, however….

“Yes,” he answered simply, unable to find the words that could say more.

“And is there danger?” The man looked to the burning cottage, barely a pile of ash by now, and his daughter who lifted her arms to be held.

“No danger,” Din called back, trying to soften his voice for the girl who peeked at him from where she was hiding in her father’s neck.

The man pondered his words for a moment, taking the time to look Din up and down and track every visible weapon strapped to his body.

“There is a village,” he finally said, “an hour or so walk from here. You can come there to rest. The witch helped my wife when she needed it.”

Din did no more than nod as the man moved his daughter from his hip to his back before stalking between the trees and out of sight.

This man - his village - knew and trusted you. It sounded like you trusted them.

He had tried to lift you then but you pushed out of his hold, even as he murmured reassurances, wrangling free without even looking his way. He waited until you let out a sigh and your shoulders dropped down from your ears before he reached for you again, holding him tight against you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, lifting you higher so your face was buried against his neck as he began the walk through the trees. “I’m so sorry.”

He stopped little and often on the walk, long enough to make sure the kid was keeping up and to check the navi-device on his forearm. After a few hours, as the midday sun began to soften into an early evening air, he emerged through the trees and into a small town.

There were small circles of huts, made with straw and wood. Everyone wore the same kind of clothing, patched together from whatever materials they could make or trade for easily. It was like many of the small villages he had come across in his travels around the galaxy - filled with good people who would do no harm so long as you did no harm to them.

Their heads turned and followed Din as he carried you through the village, your eyes staring blankly at the sky above that looked as though it was about to break with a storm.

It was quite a sight, no doubt. This man of armour, a small child with an energy he could not explain travelling behind and you - limp, yet somehow holding the most power of all - in his arms.

He found the man from before in the middle of the village, the same girl hiding behind his legs and a woman holding a smaller child in her arms.

“There is a spare hut,” the man said, jerking his chin towards the closest one with the door left open. “It may be small but enough to shelter you for the night.”

“Thank you.” Din lifted you higher. “I have credits…”

But the man shook his head.

“She never took payment from us.”

Din was never used to people not trying to barter. A journey on the crest with the offer of fixing his broken cryofreezer; a bounty swap with the offer of a new blaster; forgetting to witness the particularly gruesome events of an evening for a stack of credits.

Yet he nodded, and went inside, waiting until the kid had followed before shutting the door behind.

There was a bed, two chairs, and a small table. A jug of clean water and three glasses, a small loaf of bread and cut up fruit that was no doubt precious stock to those of the village. There was even a small med-pack.

Whatever you had done for that man and his family, clearly he was still thankful enough to give you such precious resources. There was even a pile of spare clothes on the bed, ones that looked like they could fit you and would be a better option than your current fire-singed and smokey nightdress.

He laid you down in the bed, tucking a blanket around your tired body, before opening the med-pack. He took only what he needed - enough salve and bandages to cover the already healing burn from the blaster shot.

When he turned, the kid was halfway to crawling up beside you on the bed.

“Hey, Kid…” but he trailed off stopping him when your hand came to rest on him, letting the child curl against your side as you both fell asleep.

He wasn’t sure if you were actually asleep or just closing your eyes, still he worked carefully on your arm. Sitting by your side of the bed on a worn stool, he treated you with as much care as you had that night when he first landed on your farm all those years ago.

Your skin was much softer than his scar ridden skin that was only aggravated by the rough layers and armour he wore for nearly every hour of every day now he had the kid. Still, there were spots of roughness - evidence of your hard work on your farm.

Broken skin around your fingers from long days planting crops and jagged scars on your joints - perhaps injuries from building your home or ones gained when you were a child, when the pain of the universe hadn’t yet touched your life.

Those scars on Din’s body have been lost amongst ones he has gained as a reckless adult. The scar on his wrist after breaking it as a child now overridden by one of a broken wrist when he was a cocky young man, challenging other Mandalorians of the covert to fights where the prize was nothing more than a few measly credits that were barely enough to fill his first small ship with fuel. One on his knee, long and ugly, once kissed better by his mother to stop his tears, was now covered by a burn mark from a bounty with a bad shot.

He wished he could ask you about them, the small marks he discovers as he slowly bandages your forearm. He wishes a million things - that he could have spent more time with you, that he would have used his time with you better, that maybe he hadn't met you at all and neither of you would have been here.

You would have likely still been in your home, untouched from this dark side of the galaxies, and he would never have known the pain that comes with caring about someone so much.

You didn’t wince or react once as he worked, so much so he started to think you weren’t really sleeping as your eyelids stayed unmoving and your arm limp as he soothed the balm along your arm and hand before wrapping it in the bandage. It wasn’t nearly as neat as your work, but it was good enough for now.

With you still sleeping - or not - he took the seat in the corner and began quietly polishing his rifle.

The guilt that had lay dormant inside of him, pushed down by the adrenaline of keeping you alive, was now slowly creeping up. If he hadn't come back, hadn’t brought the kid, then this would have never happened.

For years, you were the one thing that his bad luck never seemed to touch. It’s why he was so careful with his visits, not too often, never staying too long, just enough to satiate his need for you - to see you, if he could do nothing else - but now his own greed at keeping you close and not close enough had ruined everything you had.

It was a fight to stop his eyes from drifting to your sleeping form, tucked under the blankets as if blocking yourself from the outside world.

He could only see a peek at your face, the corner of your eye and hint of your cheek that never seemed to dry from the steady stream of tears, and something inside him shifted as if knowing that your relationship was changing, whether he wanted it to or not.

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian #mando x reader #mando x you #din djarin x y/n

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sherewrytes · 2 months ago

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ꜰʀᴀᴄᴛᴜʀᴇᴅ Gojo x Black Fem reader

↳ Satoru Gojo x f! black reader

In Tokyo's underground music scene, Exxor is on the verge of global fame, but beneath the glitz, emotions run wild. Lead singer Satoru Gojo shines in the spotlight, while bassist Suguru Geto battles his dark past and unspoken love for Y/N, a rising fashion designer. Their shared history is fraught with tension, especially now that Y/N is falling for Gojo. As her career catapults her into the global fashion arena, old feelings resurface, threatening to unravel the band and their fragile friendships. Can they navigate the chaos of fame, or will their secrets tear them apart?

Genre: Romantic Drama, Psychological Fiction

Content warnings:

Substance Abuse, Toxic Relationships, Unrequited Love, Mental Health Issues

Song for chapter: Afterlife by Nothing but thieves

Chapter 1: The Beginning of Chaos

The venue was alive. The low hum of excited chatter, the flickering lights, and the scent of sweat, alcohol, and stale smoke filled the air. The underground music scene of Tokyo had always been electric, but tonight, it felt like something more. Exxor, the band that had become a legend in the making, was finally hitting their stride. Their sound reverberated against the walls of the small but packed venue, the vibrations pulsing through the crowd like a heartbeat.

Y/N leaned against the bar, nursing a drink that had long since gone warm, her eyes locked on the stage. The spotlights danced across the stage, casting long shadows that illuminated the band’s silhouettes. It had been a while since she’d seen them perform live, and tonight, there was something different in the air—an intensity that seemed to vibrate with every note played.

Geto stood center stage, his bare chest gleaming under the lights, his tattoos a tapestry of dark ink that seemed to tell stories only he knew. His fingers moved with effortless grace across the neck of his guitar, every chord a part of him. The strings hummed under his touch, as if the instrument itself recognized his mastery. Each solo was like a conversation between him and the crowd—intimate, raw, and undeniably powerful. His usual indifference to the audience only made the connection feel deeper, more personal.

The crowd was fixated on him, and why wouldn’t they be? The women around Y/N were swooning, their whispers a mix of awe and desire. “God, look at his tattoos,” one girl murmured. “He’s just… so dangerous. I swear he’s the reason I started playing guitar.” Another giggled, her voice breathless, “I’d let him tattoo me anywhere.”

Y/N couldn’t help but roll her eyes, though a part of her—one that she buried deep—understood the pull. Geto was magnetic. There was no denying it. But tonight, she wasn’t here for the fantasies. She was here to see him. To see if the man she once knew was still hiding somewhere behind that stage persona.

The rhythm of the music shifted, and all eyes turned to Gojo, the lead singer, who sauntered to the front of the stage with his signature swagger. The crowd went wild, and Y/N could practically feel the heat rising around her as women screamed his name, their hands reaching out in desperate attempts to touch him.

Gojo didn’t flinch. His voice, smooth and sultry, filled the room, every note dripping with charisma. “Tokyo!” he called out, the mic reverberating with the power of his voice. “Are you ready to lose yourselves?”

The women around Y/N gasped, clutching their chests as Gojo’s voice rolled over them like velvet, coaxing them into a feverish frenzy. Y/N’s friend Chanté, who had dragged her to this concert tonight, was no exception. Chanté had always been the one to fall for the rockstar allure, and tonight was no different. She stood with her hand pressed to her heart, gazing at Gojo with the kind of awe only a fan could understand.

“Oh my god, Nanami is so fine,” Chanté swooned, her voice catching in the air as Nanami, the drummer, caught the light. He was a study in stoic beauty, his muscles rippling with every strike of the drums.

Y/N smirked. “You’re here for the wrong guy, Chan.”

Chanté laughed, her eyes sparkling as she waved her hand dismissively. “Right. But I do have eyes, Y/N.”

The music surged forward, a thundering wave of sound that pulled the crowd even deeper into its grip. But for Y/N, her focus was solely on Geto, who seemed lost in his own world as his guitar wailed in the background. His eyes were closed, his lips barely moving as he played—lost in the moment, lost in the music, and maybe even lost in something else. She couldn’t tell, not anymore.

The guitar solo intensified, every note sharp and searing, and Y/N felt it deep in her chest. The bass, heavy and driving, rumbled under her ribs. The beat of the drums seemed to pulse through her veins, syncing with her heartbeat. It wasn’t just the music. It was Geto’s presence—his raw, untamed energy that made the performance feel like it was meant just for her.

She wanted to scream, to reach out and pull him back from whatever dark place he’d buried himself in. But the distance between them—both physical and emotional—was too vast. And as much as she wanted to fight it, she couldn’t ignore the pull. The old feelings were coming back, unbidden and fierce, and she wasn’t sure she could control them this time.

As the final notes rang out and the crowd erupted into applause, Y/N stood still, her heart racing, her mind spinning with a thousand thoughts. She didn’t care about the praise. She didn’t care about the fans. She just needed to see him again.

Chanté elbowed her, snapping her from her trance. “You’re not gonna just stand there, are you?” she asked, her voice teasing. “Go say hi to the man.”

Y/N glanced over at the backstage entrance, the one Geto had disappeared through moments before. There was a flicker of hesitation in her chest, but before she could answer, she was already heading toward it.

Backstage was a different world altogether. The lights were dim, and the air smelled of sweat, beer, and cheap cologne. Crew members rushed around, packing up gear, but Y/N’s eyes were locked on the narrow doorway that led into the band’s private area.

She hesitated outside the door, her hand resting on the cold metal handle, unsure if she should follow. The noise from the crowd still buzzed in her ears, but it was drowned out by the sound of her own heartbeat. She stepped forward, taking a deep breath, and then she saw him—Geto, standing just inside the doorway, talking with someone, his back to her. He was shirtless, his muscular frame only accentuated by the dim light. The tattoos on his arms and chest seemed to tell their own stories—stories she couldn’t quite read but felt.

“Geto,” she called softly, taking another step closer.

He turned, his gaze catching hers for a moment before his lips pressed into a thin line. The usual indifference was there, but there was something more behind his eyes—something Y/N couldn’t decipher.

“Y/N,” he greeted her, his voice cool, guarded. “You came?”

“I came to see you,” she replied, her tone softer than she’d intended. “You’re still amazing.”

He gave a small, tight-lipped smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve got to go in,” he said, his voice not quite a whisper, but not loud enough to pierce the tension.

Y/N felt her chest tighten. She wanted to ask him a million things—about his life, about his silence, about what had happened to them—but instead, she found herself frozen. The words wouldn’t come.

Geto’s gaze softened for just a second, but he turned away before she could say anything else. He stepped into the backstage area, disappearing from her sight.

As the door swung closed behind him, Gojo appeared from the shadows, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, a playful smirk on his face.

“Who was that fan you were talking to after the show?” he asked, his voice smooth and teasing, laced with curiosity.

There was a pause before Geto spoke, his voice low and deliberate. “That wasn’t just some fan. That’s Y/N.”

Gojo’s smirk faltered for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “Y/N? The designer? Obsydian?”

“Yeah,” Geto muttered, his tone darkening. “We’ve known each other for years.”

Gojo’s eyes glinted with interest. “Didn’t think she’d be the type to show up at gigs like this.”

Before Geto could respond, Nanami’s dry voice interjected, always cutting through the tension. “She’s not. She’s the type that shows up for the people she cares about. Not for the show.”

Gojo shot a glance at Nanami, his grin faltering just a bit, before he turned his attention back to Geto, the teasing tone still strong. “So, what, you're being protective now? You sure she’s not just another fan to you?”

Geto’s expression hardened as he shot Gojo a sharp look. “I’m not playing this game with you,” he muttered, voice low but carrying a certain weight. “Don’t mess with her, Gojo. She’s not like the rest.”

Gojo tilted his head, the smirk never leaving his face, but there was something more calculating behind his eyes now. “What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice was teasing, but there was an underlying tension. “You’re really gonna pull the ‘protective’ card on me, Geto? You know I’m not interested in anything that’s gonna get messy.”

Before Geto could respond, Nanami stepped forward, arms folded. “Alright, enough of this,” he said, cutting through the tension between the two with his usual no-nonsense attitude. “We’ve got to pack up. They’re kicking us out in fifteen.”

Gojo raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. But you owe me an answer next time, Geto,” he teased, before stepping back, his voice laced with a lingering challenge.

Geto didn’t respond, his focus entirely on the task at hand. He turned toward the equipment, intent on getting everything ready for the road. But Nanami didn’t let him off the hook so easily.

As Geto gathered his things, Nanami pulled him aside, out of earshot from Gojo. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter, offering them to Geto with a raised brow. “I thought you stopped,” he said, his tone flat but carrying a touch of concern.

Geto took the cigarette with a sharp glance, his face unreadable. He lit it with practiced ease before taking a slow drag, his eyes narrowing as the smoke curled in the air.

“I’m not getting into that now, Nanami,” Geto muttered, exhaling the smoke. “Let’s just pack up.”

Nanami sighed, clearly not buying the explanation but not pressing further. “Alright, man. But you know I’m here if you want to talk.”

“Let’s just get to work,” Geto repeated, his tone closing off any further discussion.

Nanami watched him for a moment, his gaze lingering on Geto’s tense posture before he nodded and turned away. “Fine. But don’t shut everyone out, alright?”

As Geto turned back to finish packing, the weight of his unspoken thoughts settled over him like a dark cloud. The tension in his chest, the old wounds that had never fully healed, and the way Y/N had looked at him tonight—it all felt like too much, too fast. But there was no time to dwell on it now. Not with the band still counting on him.

He crushed out the cigarette, flicking it into the trash with a finality that mirrored the emotions he was trying to bury.

Your POV

The backstage area was a chaotic mix of equipment, empty water bottles, and half-eaten snacks. The air was heavy with the remnants of sweat and adrenaline, and the warm hum of post-performance chatter filled the space. The string lights hanging overhead cast a dim, golden glow, their flickering adding to the room’s lived-in, underground charm.

You walked in with Chanté trailing behind, her excitement practically spilling over as she clutched her phone like a lifeline.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, her eyes darting around like a hawk. “Y/N, do you see him? Nanami is right there. Look at him! He’s just standing there, cleaning his drumsticks like a Greek god.”

You suppress a laugh, nudging her lightly. “Relax, Chanté. He’s just a guy.”

“No,” she hissed, gripping your arm for emphasis. “He’s the guy. And I’m manifesting a conversation. Don’t stop me.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help a small smile. Her enthusiasm was infectious, even if you had other priorities. Your gaze swept the room, searching for a familiar figure.

“Do you see Geto anywhere?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

Chanté barely spared you a glance, too busy angling her phone for what she hoped was a discreet picture of Nanami. “What? Oh, Geto? Nope. But Gojo’s right there.”

She tilted her head toward the corner, and your eyes followed.

Satoru Gojo stood leaning against a wall, his silver hair damp and gleaming under the string lights. He looked effortlessly composed, dressed in a sleeveless black shirt that clung to his lean frame. His voice carried across the room as he laughed at something Shoko had said, the sound deep and magnetic.

Your eyes lingered for a moment too long, and before you could look away, his gaze shifted to you. Piercing blue eyes locked onto yours, and the corners of his mouth quirked up into a small, knowing smile. He said something to Shoko, who glanced your way and smirked before walking off.

And then he was moving toward you.

“Wow,” he said, stopping in front of you, his voice smooth and deliberate. “Suguru didn’t mention his friend was this stunning.”

You raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze without flinching. “And you must be the famous Satoru Gojo.”

Chanté let out a muffled squeal beside you, and you shot her a look that screamed not now.

“The one and only,” he said with a grin, leaning slightly closer. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“It was good,” you replied, keeping your tone measured. “Great, actually. I came to see Suguru, though.”

He hummed, his eyes flicking over your face like he was trying to piece together a puzzle. “Suguru, huh? That explains why you don’t seem too starstruck.”

“Should I be?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

His grin widened. “Only if you have good taste.”

You almost rolled your eyes at his audacity but stopped yourself. There was something undeniably charming about him, even if he was laying it on thick.

Before you could reply, Chanté grabbed your arm. “Oh my God, Nanami’s alone now! This is my chance!”

She didn’t wait for a response, darting off in the direction of the drummer like a woman on a mission.

Gojo chuckled, watching her go. “Your friend’s got guts.”

“She’s persistent,” you said, shaking your head.

He turned his attention back to you, the teasing light in his eyes softening just a fraction. “So, what brings you here, Y/N? Besides Suguru, I mean.”

“I needed to talk to him about some work stuff,” you admitted. “He models for my brand, and we’re prepping for some upcoming shoots.”

“Obsydian, right?” he asked, his voice dropping slightly.

You blinked, surprised. “You know my brand?”

He smirked. “I have good taste, remember? Your designs are hard to miss.”

You didn’t know whether to be flattered or suspicious. “And yet you’re surprised I’m here.”

“Well,” he said, leaning casually against the wall beside you, “someone as polished as you doesn’t exactly scream underground gigs. But I like the contradiction.”

Before you could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps caught your attention. Geto appeared from a side door, his dark hair pulled back into a loose bun, and his gaze immediately found you.

“There you are,” he said, his voice low and steady. His eyes flicked briefly to Gojo, his expression tightening. “I see you’ve met.”

“Getting acquainted,” Gojo said with a grin, pushing off the wall.

Geto stepped closer, his presence grounding in a way that was entirely different from Gojo’s. “You okay?” he asked you directly.

“I’m fine,” you said. “I was looking for you.”

“Good,” he replied, nodding. “I’ll be back in a second. We need to finish packing up.”

As if on cue, Nanami’s voice cut through the room. “We’re on the clock here. They’re kicking us out.”

Geto sighed, glancing at you one last time. “Wait here. I’ll find you when I’m done.”

With that, he walked off toward Nanami, leaving you alone with Gojo once more.

“I could use a hand,” Gojo said suddenly, nodding toward a stack of cables near the stage. “Unless you’ve got somewhere else to be.”

You hesitated for a moment, but curiosity—and maybe a bit of intrigue—got the better of you. “Sure. Why not?”

“Careful,” he teased as you followed him. “Helping out might make you part of the crew.”

Gojo handed you a coil of cables, his movements easy but efficient, like someone who had done this a thousand times. The backstage area was starting to clear out as roadies packed equipment into cases and wheeled them out toward the waiting vans.

You glanced around at the controlled chaos before looking back at him. “So… can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” he said, crouching down to untangle a stubborn knot in a cord.

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Why do you guys still play underground gigs like this? I mean, you’re obviously growing fast. Your name’s everywhere lately.”

Gojo looked up at you, his piercing blue eyes catching the warm glow of the string lights. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just studied you like you’d asked something deeply personal.

Finally, he leaned back on his heels, his lips curving into a small, thoughtful smile. “Because this is where it started. Where it feels real. Out there,” he gestured toward the empty stage, “you can feel the energy. The rawness of it. These are the people who’ve been with us from the start.”

You nodded, thinking about his words. “But doesn’t it get... limiting? I mean, you’re on the verge of something huge. Bigger venues, bigger crowds. Aren’t you worried about outgrowing this?”

Gojo chuckled, standing up and tossing the cables into a case. “You sound like Nanami.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, leaning against a nearby speaker.

He gave you a conspiratorial smile. “He’s always on my case about logistics. Bigger venues, tighter schedules, all that. But music isn’t just logistics. It’s about moments. Nights like this. You don’t get the same vibe playing at some sanitized corporate arena.”

You tilted your head, considering his perspective. “I guess that makes sense. Obsydian started small, too. There’s something special about those early days, even if they’re chaotic.”

“Obsydian,” Gojo repeated, his voice dropping slightly as he tested the word on his tongue. “You know, I can see it now. Your designs have that same raw, unapologetic energy.”

You raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to smirk. “Raw and unapologetic, huh?”

He leaned against the speaker beside you, close but not overstepping. “Absolutely. It’s got edge, but it’s refined. Like you know exactly what you’re doing but don’t care if it makes people uncomfortable.”

That caught you off guard, his insight sharper than you expected. “Not bad for a guy who spends his nights screaming into a mic.”

He laughed, the sound warm and rich, before giving you a playful nudge. “You’re underestimating me. I’ve got layers.”

“Do you now?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“More than you’d think,” he said, his tone half-teasing but with an undercurrent of sincerity.

The moment hung between you, charged but easy, until Chanté’s voice broke through.

“Y/N! I just got a picture with Nanami!” she squealed, waving her phone as she practically skipped toward you. “And he smiled at me. Smiled. Do you know how rare that is?”

You bit back a laugh, shaking your head. “Congrats, Chanté. Sounds like your night’s made.”

“It so is,” she gushed, barely noticing Gojo until she finally turned to him. “Oh! You’re Gojo. You guys were amazing tonight!”

“Thanks,” he said smoothly, flashing her his signature grin.

“Alright, we should go,” you said, giving Chanté a pointed look. “You’ve got your picture, and I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Work? Already?” Gojo asked, his gaze sliding back to you.

“Running a brand doesn’t stop,” you replied lightly.

He gave a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Guess I’ll have to catch you next time, then.”

You glanced at him, noting the way his smile held just a hint of challenge. “Maybe,” you said, turning toward the door with Chanté. “If I’m not too busy.”

As you walked away, you could feel his eyes on you, his presence lingering even as the chaos of the backstage began to fade into the night.

As you walked toward the exit, you could feel Gojo’s gaze trailing after you. Even with the din of backstage chatter and equipment being packed away, his attention was tangible, almost magnetic. Chanté rambled excitedly beside you about her brief interaction with Nanami, but your mind wandered back to the casual yet electric exchange with Gojo.

Behind you, Gojo leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you disappear into the night.

“Interesting,” he muttered to himself, more amused than anything.

But curiosity quickly turned into action. Pushing off the wall, he strolled over to where Geto and Nanami stood, still packing up.

Geto was busy coiling a cable, his shirt still unbuttoned, exposing the tattoos that had drawn so much attention earlier. Nanami had already slipped into his usual blazer, somehow looking more like a corporate worker than a rock band drummer.

Gojo’s voice broke the relative silence. “Hey, Nanami. Got a sec?”

Nanami gave him a sidelong glance but kept folding a drum stand into its case. “What do you want, Gojo?”

“I need a favor.”

Nanami paused, glancing at him fully now. “I’m not buying you another round of drinks.”

“Not that,” Gojo said, his grin widening. “The girl who was just here—Y/N, right? Can I get her number?”

The request earned a sharp look from Geto, who froze mid-motion. His expression darkened, though he quickly masked it by turning back to the cable in his hands.

Nanami, however, sighed and shook his head. “Why would I have her number?”

“Don’t lie, Nanami,” Gojo teased. “I saw you two talking after the show. You’ve got it.”

Nanami rolled his eyes and tossed the folded stand into a nearby case. “Even if I did, why would I give it to you?”

“Because I’m charming and trustworthy?” Gojo offered, grinning as he held out his phone.

“Because you’re a pain in my ass,” Nanami muttered, grabbing Gojo’s phone and quickly typing something in.

Satisfied, Gojo took back the device, inspecting the contact information like it was some kind of trophy. “Appreciate it. You’re a real team player, Nanami.”

Nanami didn’t reply, already moving to pack up another piece of equipment.

Geto’s voice cut through the moment, low and edged. “How do you even know her?”

Gojo blinked, looking between the two of them. “I don’t—yet. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

Nanami shot Geto a pointed look but said nothing, choosing to ignore the question as he focused on packing.

Suguru’s jaw tightened as he turned his attention back to his work, his movements more forceful than necessary.

“Anyway,” Gojo continued, blissfully unaware—or pretending to be—of the tension brewing. “Guess I’ll see where this goes.”

Suguru didn’t reply, but the glare he sent Nanami’s way was impossible to miss.

Your POV

The night air was crisp as you stepped out of the venue with Chanté, the muffled sounds of the bustling Tokyo streets creating a comforting backdrop. Chanté was practically glowing, still riding the high of her Nanami encounter.

“I swear, Y/N, I felt him smile in my soul,” she gushed, clutching her phone like a sacred artifact. “He’s got that ‘mysterious but secretly sweet’ vibe. You think he’s single?”

You gave her a side-eye, smirking. “You’re really asking me? I thought you’d already planned your wedding.”

“I have,” she declared dramatically. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Shaking your head, you adjusted the strap of your bag, your mind drifting back to the band—specifically, the enigmatic mix of personalities that was Exxor.

It wasn’t your first time watching Geto perform, but something about tonight felt different. Maybe it was seeing him in his element, effortlessly commanding attention with every note he played. Or maybe it was the unspoken tension between you, still unresolved after everything.

And then there was Gojo. His confidence bordered on arrogance, but there was something undeniably intriguing about him. The way he looked at you, like he was already piecing together your story, left an impression you couldn’t shake.

“You’re quiet,” Chanté noted, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Just thinking,” you said, offering her a small smile.

“About Geto?” she asked knowingly, nudging you with her elbow.

You hesitated, considering how much to say. “Not just him.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Wait, is this about Gojo? The fine-as-hell lead singer with the eyes?”

“Chanté,” you warned, but your laugh betrayed you.

“I knew it!” she exclaimed. “Girl, if you don’t slide in there, I swear—”

You groaned, cutting her off. “It’s not like that. I was just helping him pack up. That’s all.”

“Mhm,” she said, clearly unconvinced.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. As much as you wanted to focus on business—on why you’d come to the show in the first place—there was no denying the spark of something new.

Whether it was curiosity, intrigue, or something else entirely, you weren’t sure. But something told you this wouldn’t be the last time you crossed paths with Satoru Gojo.

Suguru's POV

The night had rolled into an easy rhythm, the adrenaline of the show still hanging in the air. Gojo, ever the social butterfly, was buzzing around, chatting with everyone, including you. His flirtations were obvious, but he wore them like a badge of honor, no shame in the way he leaned toward you, his bright grin aimed squarely at you.

Suguru watched it all unfold, his guitar case still gripped tightly in his hands as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. He hadn’t expected tonight to hit him this hard. It wasn’t even the playful banter between you and Gojo—it was the way Gojo looked at you. Like he saw something worth pursuing. Suguru hadn’t been prepared for that.

Gojo’s voice cut through his thoughts as he sauntered over to Geto, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

"Yo, Geto," Gojo grinned, that familiar cocky smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "You mind giving me her number?"

Suguru blinked, a subtle tension pulling at his jaw. He knew exactly who Gojo was talking about. And Gojo—of all people—had the audacity to ask? Suguru’s fingers clenched harder around his guitar case, his muscles coiling like a snake ready to strike.

But Geto didn’t even look up. He didn’t acknowledge Gojo’s request, not even a twitch. Suguru could feel the faint sting of frustration in the air—the unspoken tension—before Geto slowly turned his gaze toward the stage. He wasn’t going to answer.

Gojo, always persistent, didn’t take the silent rejection to heart. Instead, his attention shifted to Nanami, who had been standing quietly at the side, observing the scene with his usual calm demeanor.

“Yo, Nanami,” Gojo called, his voice oozing with that playful charm that Suguru hated to see directed at you. “You got her number?”

Nanami, ever the mediator, glanced at Suguru for a brief moment, and Suguru’s heart skipped a beat. Nanami’s eyes flicked back to Gojo, and for the slightest second, Suguru could have sworn he saw something like pity in his gaze. But Nanami only shrugged, exhaling sharply before pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“I guess I can’t stop you from pestering me.” Nanami handed Gojo the phone with a small, wry smile, tapping in a few digits before passing it over.

Suguru’s stomach twisted in a way he wasn’t sure how to process. He hadn’t expected Nanami to cave, though a part of him knew—deep down—that Nanami probably saw it coming. The connection between Gojo and you, the chemistry that was undeniable, had already sparked something in Nanami. He probably knew it was only a matter of time before Gojo made a move.

But Suguru? He wasn’t ready for this. Not yet.

Gojo’s eyes lit up when he received the number, like a kid who’d just been handed the keys to a treasure chest. “Thanks, man,” he said with a grin that stretched a little too wide, a grin that made Suguru’s insides churn.

Suguru’s gaze narrowed, and the pit of his stomach tightened painfully as he watched Gojo dial your number. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, even though every part of him screamed to look away. His breath caught when Gojo’s finger hovered over the send button. It wasn’t just Gojo getting your number that burned. It was everything about it—about how easy it was for him, how much he didn’t have to fight for it, how easily Gojo could slip into your world.

Without a word, Suguru’s eyes flicked toward Nanami. But the second he did, he felt it—the weight of that glance.

Nanami didn’t meet Suguru’s gaze directly. He didn’t need to. Suguru could already feel the weight of the decision, the unspoken words hanging between them. He knew Nanami wasn’t going to pull back. Nanami wasn’t the type to make things more complicated than they had to be, especially now. Suguru had made his choices, after all.

But that didn’t stop the flash of anger from crossing Suguru’s face. It wasn’t just frustration with Gojo. It was with himself—his own lack of action, his inability to fight for what he wanted when he still could. Instead, he had let the distance grow between him and you until it felt like the gap couldn’t be bridged.

The moment Nanami handed over your number, Suguru’s glare shot across the room, landing squarely on Nanami. It wasn’t just anger that was there; it was hurt—raw, unrefined—lingering in the back of Suguru’s chest.

Nanami, to his credit, didn’t back down. He met Suguru’s gaze with nothing but calm. But Suguru could see it in his eyes—his understanding.

The intensity of the moment hung heavy in the air, like the calm before a storm. Suguru’s heart was racing, but he kept his thoughts to himself, knowing that showing even a hint of vulnerability in front of Nanami wasn’t something he could afford right now. Not when everything felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

The low hum of the backstage area faded as everyone scrambled to pack up their instruments. Nanami was the first to fold up his guitar case, methodically, as always. Shoko was already off to the side, gathering the gear for the bass, her eyes scanning the group.

"You know," Shoko said, her voice bright but laced with a hint of sarcasm, "we should hit up a bar. It’s been a long night. Celebrate the show, yeah?"

Gojo grinned, eyes lighting up at the prospect of more fun. "Hell yeah, I know a great lounge. It’s got this chill vibe, great drinks, and the crowd’s always perfect."

Shoko rolled her eyes, nudging him with her shoulder. “Of course you know a ‘great lounge,’ Gojo. You probably know the bartender by name.”

"I mean, what can I say?" Gojo shrugged, not an ounce of shame on his face. "I’ve got connections."

“Oh please,” Shoko muttered, laughing as she made a show of checking her watch. “We’re really doing this? You guys can’t be serious about hitting up some lounge after this?”

Suguru, who had been standing quietly to the side, watching the back-and-forth like it was a familiar routine, exhaled sharply. He hadn’t been in the mood for loud, crowded places tonight. All he wanted was to be alone, to finally breathe. The energy in the room felt suffocating, thick with unspoken words and the weight of his own internal struggle.

Without saying a word, he grabbed his jacket and slipped out of the room, ignoring the playful arguing behind him. He didn’t need to be part of that right now. The cool night air hit him as he stepped outside, the city lights flickering against the darkness. He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around him, offering a brief moment of clarity.

As he took a long drag, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out absently, fingers numb from the cold. The message on his screen made his stomach drop.

It was nice to see you, Su...

The familiar words hit him like a punch to the gut. Su. The name you’d used for him ever since the day you’d learned his full name—when the two of you had crossed that invisible line from friends with benefits into something more complicated. Something deeper. And now it was just… Su. Nothing more.

Suguru's chest tightened, a bitter wave of nausea rising as he stared at the screen. He could practically hear your voice saying it—soft, warm, a bit teasing—but now? It felt like something was slipping through his fingers, and he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t change it.

It was too much.

He gripped the phone in his hand, staring at your name, your number blinking back at him, and it all just felt so fucking heavy. The way you’d once looked at him, the way you’d smiled, and now, it was all just... too far gone. And yet here it was, the ghost of the past knocking at his door, reminding him of everything he had let slip away.

A pang of regret twisted deep in his gut. He couldn’t help but feel that everything had spiraled out of control the moment he cut things off with you, like he’d slammed the door shut on something that could’ve been worth holding onto.

Suguru took another drag of his cigarette, trying to push the bitter taste of your message down. But it was impossible. It felt like a weight on his chest, something he couldn’t shake.

He didn’t want to be the guy who still thought about you. Didn’t want to be that person, but here he was, replaying every word you’d ever said to him, every look, every fucking touch. And it hurt, more than he wanted to admit.

He felt the vibration of his phone again, and for a split second, he thought it might be you. But when he checked it, it was just Gojo, sending him a text about the bar they were heading to. The group was already on their way out.

Suguru quickly pocketed his phone, stubbing out the cigarette on the pavement. He didn’t feel like heading to the bar anymore, didn’t feel like being surrounded by the noise, the fun.

He stood for a moment longer, letting the cold air fill his lungs before he finally turned back toward the venue, following the others inside. The buzzing sound of the city drowned out as he walked through the back door, the familiar chatter and laughter of the group slowly pulling him back into the moment. But inside, it was different. He could feel it—how disconnected he was from everyone, from everything.

And then he saw Gojo, flashing that grin, the same easygoing charm that made everyone gravitate toward him. Suguru couldn’t help but think about how easily Gojo moved through the world. How effortlessly Gojo could get you—get anyone—without a second thought.

He didn’t need to look at Nanami to know that he could see the shift in Suguru, the subtle tension that had settled into his posture, the way he suddenly couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Suguru let out a shaky breath, forcing a smile onto his face as he slipped into the group’s banter, pushing the thoughts of you and your message to the back of his mind, at least for now. But as they all headed to the lounge, he couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight, everything was about to change.

Suguru walked through the quiet streets, the weight of the night pressing down on him. He should have gone to the bar with the others, should have stayed with the group, but his mind was too heavy, and his chest too tight. The thoughts of you, that message, all of it—it felt like the world had tilted and he was hanging on by a thread, one that was too thin to keep his grip on.

When he reached his apartment, he didn’t even bother to turn on the lights. The darkness felt more comfortable, the shadows wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. The door clicked shut behind him, and he walked straight to the balcony, the cool air outside welcoming him.

He slid the door open and stepped outside, the night almost too still, too quiet. He needed a moment to breathe, to clear his head. He lit a cigarette, the flame flickering briefly before the smoke began to curl in the night air. Suguru leaned against the balcony railing, looking out over the city, the faint hum of distant cars and the occasional shout of someone drunk on a Thursday night. The lights of the city were distant and cold, the buzz of the world outside not quite matching the chaos inside his head.

The words you’d sent him earlier replayed in his mind, echoing in his thoughts like a broken record. It was nice to see you, Su... The name you’d called him since university days, a nickname that felt too tender now, too intimate. Su... He could hear it in his mind, the way you said it, soft and sweet, like it still meant something.

He ran a hand through his hair, staring out at the skyline, trying to push the thoughts of you away. He should’ve texted you back, told you something, anything, about how he felt. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It had been too long since he'd let himself go there—since he'd let himself feel something real. And now... now it was too late. Or at least, that’s how it felt.

His thumb hovered over the screen of his phone, lingering over your name, the temptation to send something just to hear your voice, to feel that connection again, nearly suffocating. But he didn’t.

Instead, he took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke leaving his lungs, his eyes stinging slightly from the burn. The song playing faintly from the apartment next door—Thursday by The Weeknd—reached his ears, the melancholic lyrics almost matching the mood swirling inside of him.

It was Thursday night, nearly Friday morning. His body was telling him to sleep, but his mind was telling him to stay awake, to keep thinking about everything that had happened, everything that was still unsaid. But sleep would have to come soon. He couldn’t stay awake forever, especially when he knew he'd have to face you soon anyway.

Suguru took one last drag, the ember of the cigarette glowing faintly as he let the smoke trail into the night. He exhaled slowly, staring at the city below, lost in his thoughts.

The cigarette burned down to the filter, and Suguru flicked it into the darkness below, stepping back inside and shutting the door behind him. He glanced at the clock—almost 2 AM. He needed sleep, but his mind was still too full. Still too tangled in everything that was unresolved.

As he crawled into bed, his phone buzzed again, and for a brief moment, he thought it might be you. But it wasn’t. It was just the group chat, messages from Nanami and Gojo about the bar plans. He stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the message, but he didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He was too tired to think about anything else, too tangled in the quiet ache of wanting something he wasn’t sure he could have anymore.

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