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pitlanepeach · 2 days ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty-Six

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, Silverstone 2022 accident

Notes — Do I hear wedding bells......? I am aware, btw, that their wedding song was not actually released yet in 2022. I don’t care. It’s perfect.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

June 2022

It was nearly 1am in Monaco, and the apartment was dark except for the soft glow of the TV, which had finished playing the movie they’d put on and was now cycling through the Netflix screensaver. Lando was lying upside down on the couch, legs thrown over the backrest, a blanket over his face. Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a sea of envelopes, glossy samples, test prints, and a very snuggly cat curled around the printer.

They were cat sitting for Max for a few days. Jimmy was hiding somewhere, probably. But Sassy had imprinted on Amelia and wouldn’t leave her side.

The dining table was lost beneath swatches of card stock, wax seal stamps, and an alarming number of silver and papaya gel pens.

Lando peeked out from under the blanket. “Have I died? Is this the afterlife? Is this hell?”

“Shh,” Amelia said, clutching a save-the-date draft in both hands. “This one’s almost perfect.”

“You said that about the last four.”

“This one feels better.”

“I am literally having to be upside down to stay engaged in this conversation.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” she muttered, flipping the card-stock over and running her fingers along the raised print. “Do you think it’s too formal?”

Lando rolled off the couch dramatically and landed on his knees beside her with a quiet oof. “Let me see.” He took the card and read aloud, in an overly posh British accent: “‘Save the date for the wedding of Amelia Brown and Lando Norris. July 5th, 2022. Surrey, England.’” He looked up. “Shouldn’t we also mention that there’ll be a bouncy castle?”

“There is not going to be a bouncy castle.” She told him.

“We don’t know that.”

“We absolutely do.” She glared at him.

Lando grinned, pleased to have poked the right nerve. “Fine. But I want there to be a chocolate fountain at the reception.”

“You’re twelve years old.” She muttered.

“I am your fiancé.” He shot back.

She snorted, and Lando leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose before glancing back down at the card in his hand. “I like this one,” he said sincerely this time. “It’s very you.”

“I designed it to be us.” She sighed.

“I know. That’s why it’s good.” He looked up, tilting his head. “When do you want to get them sent out?”

“Soon.” She paused. “I wanted to be sure. I wanted you to be sure.”

Lando’s smile softened. He reached over and pulled her into his lap. “Baby, I’m so sure. Never been more sure of anything in my entire life.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was gentle, hidden against his shoulder. “Okay,” she murmured. “Let’s send them.”

Lando pulled out his phone and held it up. “I’m going to start a group chat with every driver on the grid. Call it ‘Wedding of the Year.’”

“Lando, do not—”

But it was too late. He was already typing.

And laughing.

And she was completely, undeniably in love with him.

—

The video call connected with a soft ping, and Amelia barely waited for her mother’s face to load before launching into her current crisis.

“—and I just don’t think the eucalyptus runners will work with the shade of green we’ve picked for the table linens, even if we go with silver flatware, which I’m still not convinced about because it feels cold, and I want something warmer, but gold doesn’t work with the papaya theme, and—”

“Hi, darling,” her mother said, voice gentle and amused. “It’s nice to see your face.”

Amelia blinked. “Sorry. Hi.”

“Are you a bit stressed?” Her mum offered, smiling.

Amelia huffed. “According to Lando? Yes.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s wrong.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Amelia’s mum sat at her kitchen table in England, tea in hand. The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows behind her. On Amelia’s end, the walls were covered in colour swatches, seating charts, spreadsheets open on her laptop. A candle burned on the windowsill — scentless, for her sake.

“I made a new schedule,” Amelia said. “I reordered the to-do list based on dependency flow and deadlines. I think we can shave off six days from what the planner estimated.”

Her mum nodded patiently. “That sounds very efficient.”

“And I found a new calligrapher for the place cards, because the first one had spacing inconsistencies and I couldn’t— I just couldn’t look at it.”

“Of course.”

Amelia didn’t notice the concern in her mother’s eyes until she looked up from her notebook. “What?”

Her mum’s smile didn’t fade. “Nothing. Just… making sure you’re taking care of yourself too.”

“I am,” Amelia said quickly, automatically. Then, after a beat, “This is just… how I take care of things. Planning helps. Lists help.”

“I know.” Her mother’s voice was warm. “I remember the schedule you made for your fifth birthday.”

Amelia smiled faintly. “The magician was late.”

“But you handled it. You always do.”

Silence fell again, this one comfortable.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” Amelia said quietly, more to the air than anything.

“I know you’re not. You’re trying to make it perfect. Because you love him. And because this is important to you.”

Amelia’s eyes prickled a little. “It is. I don’t want anything to go wrong.”

“And even if something does,” her mum said softly, “you’ll be married to a man who adores you. That’s the part that matters.”

Amelia nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the table. “I don’t mean to be… hard work.”

“You’re not hard work,” her mum said. “You’re you. You’re focused, and you’re thoughtful, and sometimes you hyper-fixate and forget to eat breakfast.”

“I ate lunch.”

“Was it a coffee?”

“...Yes.”

Her mum laughed. “That doesn’t count, honey.”

Amelia leaned back in her chair, a little calmer. “I know.”

“And if you need help, ask.”

“I am asking.”

“I know.” Her mum’s eyes softened. “Now, let’s talk about flatware, shall we?”

—

The boutique in Monaco was a study in elegance. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and white tea, filtered through softly humming vents above. Soft jazz played through the walls. Everything gleamed — mirrored walls, crystal chandeliers, gold accents on ivory hangers.

Amelia and Pietra looked wildly out of place.

Their matching oversized sweatpants and hoodies, Amelia’s in a washed lavender, Pietra’s in charcoal grey, were rumpled and cozy. Amelia was also wearing a pair of trainers, whereas Pietra had opted for a pair of flip-flops. No makeup, no handbags.

The woman behind the counter clocked them in an instant. Her name tag said Dominique. She was perfectly coiffed, with a tight bun and blood-red lipstick that hadn’t smudged in hours. Her eyes flicked down and back up. Smile professional, but frosty — which only Pietra noticed.

“Bonjour,” she said crisply. “How may I assist you today?”

Amelia stepped forward with a wide smile. “Hi. I called ahead. I’m looking for a wedding dress. I’ve been looking at your website all week, but my magazines say that sizing can be tricky with wedding dresses, so I thought I’d come in and try a few on in person.”

Dominique blinked. “Yes, of course,” she replied.. “We do recommend a fitting with one of our stylists to ensure your silhouette is… appropriately showcased.” Her voice, just barely, trailed off into doubt.

Pietra’s gaze sharpened instantly. She crossed her arms and took a step closer to Amelia, her protective instincts flaring like a sixth sense. “She likes princess cuts. Sleeveless. Soft fabrics only—anything itchy is a no. Think comfort and sparkle, not scratchy couture.”

Dominique offered a tight-lipped smile and gestured vaguely toward a collection toward the left. “We just received the latest gowns from Milan. I’ll begin pulling some pieces.”

But Amelia was already halfway into the racks. The world of high-end bridal fashion had completely absorbed her. The rich fabrics, the layers, the delicate embroidery—it was a sensory feast.

Until it wasn’t.

Her fingers brushed over a pale blue chiffon and her entire body jolted. She let out a high-pitched, unhappy squeak and yanked her hand back like she'd been burned. “Awful,” she muttered, stepping well away from the offending texture. “Like sandpaper.”

Pietra snorted and shot Dominique a glance that said, ‘Do not laugh, bitch. Don’t even try it.’

Dominique’s lips parted, perhaps to comment, but then closed again. Wisely.

Amelia drifted across the boutique, her gaze landing on a soft ivory gown with delicate pearl beading along the neckline. “Oh. I like this one.”

She pulled it from the rack, fingers brushing the satin bodice, examining the full skirt with genuine curiosity and care.

Pietra followed her across the floor, glancing at the gown. “It’s beautiful. I—” She reached out and felt the hem between two fingers. Her brows drew together slightly. “Maybe not this one, ‘Melia. Feel here.”

Amelia frowned and mirrored her, pressing the lining between her fingertips. “Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “That’s a bit... sticky.”

Dominique hovered nearby, clearly itching to say something. Eventually, she broke. “That gown is more of a display piece. Very few clients choose to actually wear it for their ceremony.” Her emphasis was subtle but pointed.

Pietra opened her mouth, but Amelia beat her to it. “Oh, that makes sense,” she said cheerfully, still carefully inspecting the neckline. “It’s really beautiful to look at, though. I like how the beadwork isn’t symmetrical. Feels a little bit like a constellation. Not literal, just... deliberate chaos.”

Dominique blinked. She stared. And something shifted. Her fingers twitched slightly as if resisting the urge to take notes. “Would you be interested in our ‘Altair’ line?” she asked, voice softer, less clipped. “We have a few dresses from that collection still in stock. More tactile-friendly, very unique silhouettes.”

Amelia lit up. “Yes, please!”

Pietra raised a brow but said nothing. She was still watching Dominique carefully. Measuring.

Within minutes, Dominique returned with a handful of dresses draped over her arms, the fabrics a softer mix of silk and organza, more fluid, less rigid. She handed the first gown over with a tentative sort of reverence.

In the dressing room, Amelia giggled, her voice floating through the velvet curtain. “This one feels like clouds. Actual clouds.”

Dominique even smiled. “That one was worn by a princess in Monaco—though we never reveal which.”

Pietra rolled her eyes but grinned. “Of course.”

The next hour passed in a blur of dresses and giggles. Amelia asked a million questions about seam placements, lining, and how much modification they allowed for — she was short, and she’d want to have some kind of double-lining gin certain areas.

Dominique became quieter and more attentive with each passing minute, her posture loosening, her voice softening.

Amelia, for all her blunt honesty, was unfailingly kind. She wasn’t fussy or entitled. She didn’t throw her wealth around, didn’t boast about her fiancé, didn’t flinch when told something didn’t quite work on her figure. But she was also specific. Clear. Confident in her own language.

Eventually, Dominique excused herself for a moment. When she returned, she offered them champagne and almond biscuits—“here, we will need some energy.”

Pietra side-eyed her, amused. “Changed your mind about us, have you?”

Dominique gave a small, slightly embarrassed smile. “She’s a very discerning bride. We don’t get many who actually know what they want, much less why. It’s… refreshing.”

Amelia stepped out of the dressing room in the sixth dress, barefoot, the satin scarf trailing behind her like a whisper. It had a delicate, modern silhouette with embroidered thread-work along the spine. Strapless. Soft, pleasant fabric that she could brush her hands back and forth over without any kind of unpleasantness.

Pietra exhaled. “That’s the one.”

Amelia looked at herself in the mirror, tilting her head. “It feels like me,” she said softly. “It’s perfect.”

—

It was nearly midnight, but the windows were still open to the balmy night air and the pleasant smell of the sea. Their living room was a comforting mess—seating charts spread out on the coffee table, empty mugs of tea on coasters, a crumpled note with “NO GRAVEL TRAPS ON THE AISLE” scribbled in Amelia’s handwriting.

Lando sat cross-legged on the rug, wearing grey sweatpants and a hoodie that might’ve once been Fewtrell’s. Amelia was curled up on the sofa in an old oversized Red Bull factory t-shirt with a hole at the collar, laptop on her knees.

“So,” she said, tapping the screen, “we’ve got your family on the left side, mine on the right, McLaren crew grouped here so they can escape to the bar easily, and I put the drivers who don’t get on in opposite corners. Mostly for fun.”

Lando leaned forward to peer at the digital seating chart. “You put Fernando next to Toto.”

“Yeah.” She giggled.

He reached for the paper menu mock-up next to him. “So… food. Thoughts?”

Amelia stretched her legs out and yawned. “I still think barbecue. Like a proper British summer day. Chicken skewers, burgers, hotdogs, ribs, corn, chips, beers in ice buckets. Strawberry shortcake for dessert. Simple. Good.”

Lando tapped the page thoughtfully. “No little towers of food with sauce painted like abstract art?”

“No. We are not having foamed asparagus or edible air. I’m going to be stressed enough, I need safe foods.”

He laughed. “Alright, baby. Barbecue it is.”

“Good. And it makes sense since it’s an outdoor reception. And I’ve sorted out the fairy lights, where I want the paper lanterns. I want long wooden tables with runners and candles and the candles are all going to be lemon scented to help the people who drink or eat too much.” She bit her lip. “I’ll carry some nose plugs in-case all of the smells get overwhelming.”

“My future wife. So specific.”

“Your future wife. Incredibly autistic,” she returned flatly, flipping a tab on her browser.

Lando crawled off the rug and onto the sofa beside her. She adjusted her laptop without looking and let him tuck himself under her arm. His curls smelled faintly like his shampoo. It was a mild scent. She liked it.

“So,” he murmured against her shoulder. “It’s all going to be a bit crazy, isn’t it? Getting married two days after Silverstone?”

Amelia nodded. “Yeah. But it gives you one full day to recover, which I’m sure you’re going to need since you tend to drive like your life depends on it there.”

He gave her a gentle nudge. “You okay with that timing?”

Amelia shrugged. “I think it’s fine. It’ll feel like a season high, no matter what your finishing position says. So, you’ll make it through without crashing, and then two days later, we get married.”

Lando was quiet for a moment, fingers tracing patterns over the blanket. “You make everything sound so easy.”

“That’s because I overthink everything to the point of perfection.”

He laughed into her shoulder, wrapping an arm around her waist. “And you’re sure about the marquee?”

“Yes. Big white tent, strung with lights. It’s British summer. It’ll rain at some point, and I want everyone dry and happy. Also I want it to smell like cut grass and sunscreen and citronella candles.”

Lando exhaled slowly, his voice low. “It’s going to be good, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, her tone certain, her thumb stroking the corner of his hand.

He leaned in and kissed her jaw. “I love you.”

“I know,” she said, grinning as she reached to close her laptop. “Now go and brush your teeth. And remember to floss. You’ve got a dentist appointment tomorrow morning.”

—

July 2022

The Red Bull garage buzzed with activity, a constant undercurrent of shouting, laughter, and hydraulic whines. Engineers wove around each other like ants, methodical and focused. The air smelled like hot metal, tire rubber, and gentle anticipation — it was only Thursday.

Amelia’s clipboard rested loosely against her hip, dog-eared pages bristling with colour-coded sticky tabs and annotated margins. She was reading something intently when Max appeared beside her, a water bottle dangling from his hand.

“You look tan,” he said without preamble, eyes fixed on the front wing being slotted into place across the garage.

Amelia blinked, not looking up. “I had a spray tan. Hated it. Washed it off after an hour, so the colour didn’t develop as much as it should have.”

Max gave a small nod, considering. “It’s subtle, but noticeable. Looks nice.”

She looked up at him. “Thanks, Max.”

He shrugged. They both watched as a mechanic began fitting a sensor onto the nose cone. Behind them, someone called for torque settings.

“You nervous?” Max asked.

“For the race?” She scrunched her nose slightly. “No, Max.”

He cracked a grin. “I meant the wedding.”

Amelia blinked, then her expression softened immediately. Her entire face changed—lighter, brighter. “We’re finalising the reception seating chart tonight. It’s so much fun. It makes me feel so powerful.”

Max chuckled, low and warm. “I’ve never heard someone say that about a seating chart.”

“It’s like a puzzle.” She told him. “It’s strategic warfare. There’s certain people who can’t share a table, and then other people who’d be upset if they weren’t sharing. It’s like herding Jimmy and Sassy around when they just want to sleep.”

“Awful, then,” Max said dryly. “Celeste bought a new dress,” he offered after a beat, half-distracted as he watched an engineer lift one of the rear suspension arms.

“Oh. Cool. Me too,” Amelia said brightly.

Max turned his head to look at her, deadpan. “…You’re the bride.”

Amelia blinked. “So?”

“So of course you bought a dress. You’re not going to show up in a hoodie and pretend it’s avant-garde.” His tone was flat, but he couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I did try on a satin jumpsuit with a cape,” she said, unfazed.

Max stared at her like she was deranged. “Of course you did.”

“It was incredibly itchy,” she admitted, pulling a face. “I couldn’t move my arms properly either. I looked like a Bram Stocker vampire.”

“Sounds like a missed opportunity.” He teased.

She glanced at him. “I don’t want to look like a vampire at my wedding, Max. That’s why I got a spray tan. Lando offered to take me to St. Tropez for a few days to get some natural colour, but we’ve just been too busy to find the time.” She sighed sadly.

Max made a soft noise of amusement, shaking his head. “Celeste’s worried about the weather. She said if it rains, her hair’s going to be ruined and it’ll be flat in every photo.”

“Oh. That’s fine,” Amelia said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “There’s going to be a marquee. One with fairy lights and wood panel flooring. It’s weatherproofed and temperature controlled.”

“She’ll be glad to hear that,” Max said with a little smile. “I think she’s more very excited.”

Someone across the bay swore in Dutch. A helmet clinked onto a workbench behind them. Amelia glanced at her clipboard again and made a quick note, then looked back up at Max.

“What did you think of the save-the-dates?”

“Very classy,” he said without hesitation. “Celeste put it up on the fridge.”

Amelia lit up. “She did?”

Max nodded. “Yep. Right next to a magnet shaped like a cat. She made me RSVP twice just to be sure.”

Amelia laughed, soft and full-bodied. “That’s good. I was a bit worried that she might not be impressed by the food options. She’s much fancier than me.”

“Nah,” Max waved it off. “She gets it. Barbecue food is safe. Comforting. No truffle foam bullshit.”

Amelia leaned in conspiratorially. “I hired Lando a bouncy castle. Don’t tell him. It’s a surprise.”

Max arched an eyebrow. “He’s going to cry.”

“Happy tears only,” she agreed.

Max finished his water and tossed the empty bottle into the bin. Then he looked at her with something a little softer in his eyes. “You’re going to be a very cool wife.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Max shrugged. “You hired him a bouncy castle, meisje.”

She made a face. “He wanted one. I said no, and he got this sad look on his face.”

“Like I said — good wife.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then smiled, just a little. “Thanks, Max.”

He gave her a casual bump with his shoulder. “Anytime, smarty pants.”

—

Amelia stood just outside the engineers' station, back to the wall, tapping notes onto her tablet with her thumb while sipping from a bottle of water that had long since lost its chill — she wished Lando was around. He would’ve already switched it out for fresh, iced.

Her headset was slung around her neck. She was overstimulated but functioning — hyper-focused in that Amelia-way, where adrenaline and structure outweighed the noise.

Zak found her during a set-up lull, and approached with something oddly hesitant in his step. He wasn’t in CEO mode — not in the crisp way he carried himself during sponsor walks or team debriefs. He just looked like her dad.

“Got a minute?” He asked, voice quieter than usual.

She blinked up, adjusted her grip on the tablet, and nodded. “Sure. I’m just waiting on the new diff adjustment numbers.”

Zak nodded once and leaned against the wall beside her. For a second, they just watched. Engines turned over. Radios crackled.

Then, “So, your mom tells me you’re about done with all the planning?”

“More or less,” she replied, flipping the tablet shut. “The reception layout’s finalised, catering’s booked. Lando hired a live band — it’s that one he likes from TikTok.”

“Right,” Zak said. He knew the one. “And… it’s still two days after Silverstone?”

“Yes. Lando is driving us up the morning after the race.” She paused. “We hired private transportation for the guests flying into Heathrow.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. She glanced at him sideways. He was fidgeting with the rim of his paper coffee cup, lips pressed together in a line of restrained emotion. Finally, he said, “I was wondering… if you wanted me to walk you down the aisle.”

She blinked. Her brain flicked through five reactions before her mouth caught up. “Oh.”

“You don’t have to say yes,” he added quickly. “Or at all. I know that might feel… too performative for you. And if that’s not what you want—”

“I do want it,” she interrupted, then paused. “But I hadn’t even thought about that. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “There’s a lot to think about.”

She looked down, scuffed the toe of her trainer against the concrete. “I haven’t even decided if I want music for the aisle walk yet. It might be too much. Too loud.”

Zak’s voice dropped low. “Have you made other provisions?”

“What type?”

“Quiet room? Down time? Emergency hoodie and sweatpants?”

She gave a surprised little laugh. “I’m working on that, yeah. Pietra helped me put together a little survival kit. And I’ve already warned the florist; no strong smells. I gave them a list.”

He smiled, but there was still something cautious in his eyes. “Amelia… I want you to really love your wedding day.”

She tilted her head at him curiously.

“You’re brilliant at putting your head down and getting through hard things,” he said. “But this isn’t something to get through. You’re supposed to enjoy it. So just…. Remember that you’re allowed to take breaks. You’re allowed to need silence, or space. It’s your day, nobody else’s. The only person you should be thinking about is yourself, yeah?”

A long pause. Then her voice, quieter, “I want everyone to have a good time.”

Zak exhaled, moved so he was fully facing her. “Bug,” he said — an old nickname, rarely ever used beyond her pre-teen years. “You’re not a burden. You’re my daughter. And you’re marrying someone who knows exactly what you need and loves you for it. This wedding doesn’t have to look like everyone else’s. It just has to feel like you.”

She nodded, once. Then twice more, just to be sure.

“I’d really like it,” she said at last, “if you walked me down the aisle.”

Zak’s smile turned warm and wide. “Then that’s settled.”

There was a call for radio checks across the paddock. Amelia checked her watch.

“I have to get back to Max,” she said, already reaching for her headset. “We’re trialling a new steering calibration.”

Zak stepped back, letting her pass. “Save me a dance,” he called after her.

She turned just long enough to shoot him a look over her shoulder. “Only if they play ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine.’”

He laughed because he knew that she wasn’t joking. “Okay, sweetheart.”

—

Two Weeks Earlier

The floor of the living room was a minefield of tote bags and half-open Amazon parcels.

Amelia sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, surrounded by boxes of earplugs, tinted glasses, noise-cancelling headphones, a fan shaped like a rabbit, and what appeared to be five different brands of lavender-scented balm. She was in a hoodie four sizes too big, sleeves tucked over her hands, brow furrowed with precise concentration.

Pietra lay sprawled on the sofa above her, holding up a checklist written in Amelia’s neatly printed block capitals.

“Okay,” Pietra said, tapping her pen against her lips. “We’ve got the fidget ring, compression vest, emergency gum, chewing straws, and a travel-size tinted moisturiser because we don’t want you to have stress rashes in the photos because you’re overwhelmed.”

Amelia nodded without looking up, stuffing the vest and a weighted scarf into a small ivory backpack. It had her initials embroidered discreetly on the strap, next to the cursive letting of the word bride. Her mom had given it to her as an early wedding-present.

“We still need your sunglasses,” Pietra said. “And your mint-spray. Where is the mint-spray?”

“Bathroom cabinet,” Amelia replied. “Behind the cough syrup.”

Pietra hopped up to fetch it.

The evening light poured in warm and golden through the windows. The sea sparkled in the distance. There was an open bottle of wine on the coffee table, Pietra’s glass mostly empty. Amelia’s glass was full — untouched.

From the bathroom, “Do you want to add tissues to the bag or keep those in your purse?”

“Both,” Amelia called. “In case I cry and then get a nosebleed. You know, logically.”

“Obviously.” Pietra reappeared with the mint-spray and handed it over. She sat back down on the couch, legs curled beneath her, watching as Amelia began methodically tucking things into place — familiar, practiced movements. Like muscle memory. “You doing okay?” Pietra asked, not pushing, not heavy.

Amelia didn’t answer right away. She zipped the backpack closed, patted it once for certainty, and then leaned back against the sofa with a sigh. “I just want to be prepared for all eventualities,” she said quietly.

“You are.”

“But what if it’s too much? All those people. The photos. The weather. What if I need to leave and I can’t, because it’s my wedding?” Her eyes were comically wide.

Pietra slid off the couch to sit next to her, shoulder to shoulder on the floor.

“I’ll be there,” she said. “And I’ll try my best to notice before anyone else does. And I’ll say I need help with my lipstick or something and we’ll sneak away to the quiet room for five minutes and whenever you’re ready we can reappear like nothing even happened.”

Amelia swallowed. “You’re really good at this.”

“I love you,” Pietra replied simply. “And I know you quite well. That helps.”

There was a long pause. Then, “Lando tried to convince me to let him DJ our own wedding.”

Pietra rolled her eyes. “Of course he did.” Then she nudged her. “Although, you have hired him a surprise bouncy castle.”

Amelia made a face. “You weren’t supposed to know about the bouncy castle.”

“I didn’t,” Pietra said cheerfully. “Until now.”

Amelia let herself laugh, quiet and real.

The survival kit sat neatly between them.

“So,” Pietra said. “You want to rehearse putting the kit together again tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Amelia said instantly. “At the time we’d expect to do it on the day. Just in case.”

Pietra smiled. “Perfect.”

—

Back To Present

Amelia stood just beside the Red Bull hospitality unit, half in the shade, a bottle of electrolyte water in her hand. She had a new colour system for this weekend — blue for weather conditions, red for setup adjustments, green for wedding reminders.

She was scanning a new data report on her iPad when someone stepped into her periphery.

“Amelia,” came a familiar voice, bright but deliberate.

She looked up, blinking against the glare of the sun. “Hi, Susie.”

Susie Wolff was dressed as sharply as always, white blouse tucked into navy trousers, sunglasses perched on her head. “I’ve been meaning to find you this weekend,” She said. “You’ve been impossible to pin down.”

Amelia tilted her head slightly. “Sorry. I’ve been... everywhere.”

Susie laughed. “That’s the word around here.” There was a brief pause before Susie tucked her hands into her pockets. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something — unofficially, for now.”

Amelia adjusted her grip on the iPad, curious. “Go on.”

“You’ve heard about the new series I’m launching next year? The F1 Academy?” Susie asked. “All-women, junior feeder series. The aim is to give young female drivers the platform.”

Amelia nodded slowly. “I read about it. Five teams, three drivers each.”

Susie smiled. “That’s right. We’re doing it properly. Structured development, real brand support. Not just a PR stunt.”

“Is there a technical side you’re looking to build out?” Amelia asked, already moving into that headspace. “Because if it’s a full series, they’ll need engineering support, performance strategists, aero consultants…”

“Exactly,” Susie replied. “And I want the best people. People who actually understand development from the ground up — and people who want to make the system better, not just replicate it.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed, not in suspicion but focus. “Will the cars be spec-built or adjustable? Because if there’s room for development, I’d want to know the homologation structure. And the tyre compounds—”

Susie held up a hand, laughing lightly. “This is why I wanted to talk to you.”

Amelia flushed slightly. “Sorry. I just… like the details.”

“I know. That’s why you’re good at what you do,” Susie said. “You’re not just talented. You care about doing things the right way.” A quiet pause followed. “I’d like you to consider being part of the technical advisory group. Or even coming onboard in a more embedded role later down the line,” Susie said. “It doesn’t have to happen right away. But when the wedding’s over, and things settle a bit — I’d love to sit down and have a proper conversation with you.”

Amelia blinked. “Okay. Yes. I’d be interested in learning more. A lot more. I’ll want to know about track selection, vehicle specs, budget caps if there are any, team operations, logistics—”

“Send me a list,” Susie grinned. “I’ll send you mine.”

Amelia looked almost shy for a second, then nodded. “It’s nice. Being asked.”

Susie softened. “You’re more than worthy of the ask.”

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching a flock of engineers move a tyre rack across the tarmac.

“You’re getting married… next week, right?” Susie added, glancing over.

Amelia perked up instantly. “Yes. Two days after the race. Marquee. Barbecue. Fairy lights.” She sighed. “Bouncy castle.”

Susie laughed. “Sounds like heaven.”

“It will be,” Amelia said simply, and Susie believed her.

—

The energy in the air was unmistakable — British flags, cheers echoing through the grandstands, the buzz of engines winding up to full roar. Amelia stood at the back of the Red Bull pit wall, headphones snug over her ears, clipboard clutched loosely to her chest.

The engines screamed through the first straight. Amelia's fingers clenched tight around her golf ball as the pack charged through the opening corners.

And then it happened.

A thundering impact. A wall of smoke. Screeching. Carbon shattering. Zhou’s Alfa flipped violently, spinning out of control and vanishing between the barriers.

From the pit wall, Amelia couldn’t see the full crash — just flashes of sparks and a puff of sand and tyre smoke. But she heard it. Felt it in her chest. The noise had weight to it. Finality. Silence followed, sharp and sudden, broken only by panicked radio static.

“Red flag, red flag, red flag—”

No immediate updates. Nothing from Zhou’s radio. They couldn’t replay the footage yet: the roll, the fence, the skid on the halo. No camera showed the car afterward.

It was silent. Then it was loud.

Amelia stood frozen. Then she turned. Walked quickly through the back of Max’s garage, slipping past confused engineers, down the narrow hallway of the Red Bull motorhome. The lights were bright and wrong. Someone tried to talk to her — she didn’t process what they said.

She found a utility room, small and quiet, and closed the door.

She sat on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, breathing shallow. Her fingers twitched. Her chest buzzed. She could still hear the sound of the car skidding, see the halo dragging against the ground. It was all replaying on a loop behind her eyes. She couldn’t stop picturing it — the impossible physics of a car upside down, skidding toward a fence at that speed.

Minutes passed.

And passed.

Nobody came for her. No updates on Zhou’s condition came through her headset.

Nothing.

She pressed her forehead to her knees and tried to focus on the floor. On the cold concrete through her trousers. On anything that was now. But her body wouldn’t settle. Her brain was flying, looping through “what if?” in sharp, screaming bursts.

She didn’t hear the first knock. Or the second.

The third came with a gentle push of the door.

Max.

He stepped inside quietly, closed the door behind him, and crouched. His hands stayed visible. His voice was calm.

“I thought you might be here.”

She didn’t lift her head.

“No news yet,” he said. “But they’ve got people with him.”

Still nothing.

Max sat down slowly, cross-legged on the floor, a few feet away. He didn't touch her. He knew better. He just waited.

A few more minutes passed in silence.

Then the door opened again.

Lando.

He looked rumpled and pale, still in his race suit, balaclava pushed down around his neck. His eyes locked onto her immediately. He crossed the room in three long strides and dropped to his knees in front of her.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She flinched when he touched her arm, but didn’t pull away.

“Can I…?” he asked, and when she gave the barest nod, he wrapped an arm carefully around her shoulders, pulling her close against his chest.

She finally exhaled. A shaky, exhausted sound.

“He hasn’t said anything on the radio,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“I keep seeing it. Over and over.”

“I know, baby.”

Max leaned forward slightly, phone in his hand. “He’s conscious.”

Amelia looked up sharply. “He is?”

Lando glanced at Max’s phone, reading. “Still in the car, but awake. They’re trying to work out how to get him out safely.”

Her eyes flooded. Relief hit her like a brick. “I thought—”

“I know,” Lando said again, holding her tighter. “Me too.”

Her voice cracked. “I didn’t know where to go. I couldn’t—everything was too much.”

“You found a safe space,” Max said. “That’s all that matters.”

The tension finally broke, like a string pulled too tight. She rested her head against Lando’s shoulder and let her breathing slow, her body uncoiling one inch at a time.

“We’re okay,” he said. “He’s okay. And you’re okay.”

“I hate this part,” she murmured.

“I know,” Max said. “We do too.”

They stayed there until her hands stopped shaking. Until the paddock noise calmed. Until the update came through confirming Zhou was being extracted carefully and would be taken to the medical centre — alert, responsive, talking.

Only then did Amelia allow herself to uncurl and nod.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I can go back now.”

Lando helped her up gently. Max didn’t say anything — just stood and offered her her clipboard, which he must’ve carried with him.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Lando kissed her temple.

—

The light had shifted by the time Amelia saw him again — Zhou, stepping carefully down the short steps outside the medical centre, surrounded by Alfa staff. His suit had been peeled off hours ago, replaced with team-issue soft-wear, and his gait was still cautious. The bruises were already starting to visibly bloom on his skin.

She didn’t rush to him. Didn’t want to overwhelm him — but she stood nearby, waiting until his eyes found hers. When they did, she offered a small, respectful wave.

He blinked in brief surprise, then shifted course to meet her.

“Hey,” he said first, voice hoarse but clear. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I wanted to,” she said, holding her clipboard tight to her chest. “I just—I was worried.”

He gave her a small, tired smile. “I’m okay. Bit sore. Bit rattled.”

“I’m really glad. That was…” She paused, adjusting her weight from one foot to the other. “That was a bad one.”

He nodded. “Yeah. It felt worse from inside.”

She let out a breath. “I couldn’t find a video feed that showed you after,” she said. “Just the flip, and the gravel. Then nothing. It was…” She trailed off. “Too quiet. Too long. Sorry. I needed to see you for myself, you know?”

Zhou’s expression softened.

“I hid in a storage room,” she added.

Zhou raised an eyebrow. “You okay now?”

“I’m fine,” she said. Then corrected, “Better. Now that I have seen you.” There was a pause. “You don’t need to say anything,” she told him. “I just wanted you to know I’m glad you’re still here.”

His smile this time reached his eyes. “Me too.”

Amelia gave a small nod, then looked away. “I won’t keep you. You should go and rest.”

Zhou turned to go, then hesitated. “Hey—Amelia?”

She looked back at him.

“Thanks,” he said, quiet and honest.

She didn’t answer — just nodded once, firmly, and walked back toward the Red Bull garage.

—

The windows were down, letting in the warm July air that smelled faintly of dry grass and dust. Amelia had kicked off her shoes hours ago, legs tucked up on the passenger seat, sunglasses slipping down her nose. Lando drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on her thigh — not possessive, not even really conscious, just there. Like it always was. Like he didn’t need to think about it anymore.

Their wedding playlist played softly through the speakers — a curated collection of songs they’d agonised over for weeks, now serving as the soundtrack to this quiet little interlude between race day chaos and wedding week magic.

“Skip,” Amelia murmured as a twangy country ballad came on. “Too sad.”

Lando tapped the skip button without looking. “Agreed. Save that for the divorce.”

She frowned. “Not funny.”

He smirked, glancing at her. “Kidding.”

“Good.” She said, rolling her eyes.

He hummed, switching lanes smoothly. A new song started — bright, summery, with the kind of beat you could slow dance to barefoot on the lawn.

Amelia smiled. “This one’s nice.”

Lando glanced sideways. “Reception dance?”

She nodded. “Fairy lights. Warm night. People a little drunk.”

“And us,” he said, squeezing her thigh gently, “a little married.”

She turned to look at him, and he was already smiling.

“I love you,” she said. No preamble, no big swell of emotion. Just a quiet, concrete fact.

He rubbed his thumb against her skin, eyes back on the road but voice soft. “I know, baby. I love you too.”

They drove in silence for a while, letting the song fill the space between them. Outside, the British countryside passed in soft blurs of green and gold.

Amelia reached forward and added a little star emoji to the song title in the playlist. “For the record,” she said. “I think this one’s my favourite.”

“Better than the one we picked for our first dance?” Lando asked, mock scandalised.

“Oh, no. That one’s sacred,” she said quickly. “But this one’s… sunshine.”

He nodded once, firm. “Good. We always need more sunshine.”

They were still holding hands when the song changed again.

—

The gravel crunched under the tires as Lando pulled the car onto the driveway. Amelia reached for the car door, her fingers slow from the comfortable stillness of the journey, and then turned back to look at him.

“This is real,” she said softly.

Lando just smiled, the tired kind that came after a long weekend. “Yeah. We’re here.”

The cottage wasn’t grand. That was the point. It was warm and tucked into the countryside like it had always been there — white roses climbing the gate, ivy twisting up the stone walls, windows that looked out across soft hills.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of lavender and old wood. Amelia wandered through slowly, running her fingers along the edges of the kitchen table, the old fireplace, the soft cushions stacked high on the window seat. Lando dropped their bags by the door, kicked off his shoes, and followed after her.

“This okay?” He asked, quietly.

She nodded. “It’s perfect. It’s exactly what I wanted.”

He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his chin gently to the top of her head. She leaned back into him, eyes closed, breathing in the quiet.

“We’re getting married,” she said, softly.

“In less than forty-eight hours,” he replied. “I’m going to be your husband.”

She hummed. “You’re going to cry.”

“No, you’re going to cry.”

“I don’t cry,” she whispered, turning in his arms. “Not very often. But I might. When you say ‘I do’.”

He laughed, forehead against hers. “Yeah. Me too.”

The kettle clicked on in the background. A sheep bleated somewhere in the distance.

They sat out on the back porch with mugs of tea, wrapped in jumpers and blankets, watching the last bit of sun disappear behind the trees.

Tomorrow, family would start arriving. The cottage would be full of voices and laughter and questions. But for tonight, it was just them.

“I don’t want to forget this part,” Amelia said, her voice quiet. “The before.”

“You won’t,” Lando promised, turning toward her. “This is the part we’ll tell people about one day.”

She leaned into his shoulder. “Yeah. I hope so.”

—

The morning drifted in soft and slow.

Amelia lay in bed with the window open. The countryside smelled of warm grass and honeysuckle, the faint sound of birdsong filtering in. Somewhere downstairs, the kettle clicked on, and she could hear someone, probably her mom, padding softly across the kitchen tiles.

They hadn’t unpacked much. They hadn’t needed to. Just slipped off their clothes, curled up under the covers, and slept dreamlessly until sunlight nudged them awake.

Now, she pressed her cheek to his shoulder, warm and freckled under her palm.“You awake?” she whispered.

He hummed. “Not yet.”

She grinned. “Well, we’re getting married in tomorrow.”

That earned her a low groan and an arm wrapped lazily around her waist. “Good. Don’t wanna to live another day without being your husband.”

Downstairs, their parents were getting acquainted over mugs of Earl Grey and slices of toast. Lando’s mum had brought fresh jam. Amelia’s dad was already halfway through a crossword. It was quiet and easy—no wedding talk yet, no to-do lists. Just two families sharing a calm summer morning in a little stone cottage tucked into a sleepy field.

By mid-morning, everyone had wandered outside. The sun was gentle, filtered through clouds, and the garden was filled with the scent of wildflowers and just-cut grass. Folding chairs were scattered across the lawn, and lemonade clinked in glasses. Pietra and Max hadn’t arrived yet, but they soon would.

Best man.

Maid of honour.

Amelia and Lando sat together under an old pear tree, her bare feet in his lap, his thumb tracing absentminded circles along her ankle. They were listening to Lando’s dad’s playlist. The music washed over them gently, familiar and warm.

“Still happy with our first dance song?” Lando asked, eyes closed, tipping his head back to the breeze.

“Of course,” she murmured. “Listened to it almost fifty times to make sure.”

He smiled. “And the reception playlist?”

She nodded, then paused. “Actually… maybe we bump that Arctic Monkeys song to earlier in the night. People will be drunker later, and I don’t want anyone butchering the lyrics.”

Lando laughed, light and free. “Good thinking, baby.”

They spent the early afternoon touring the venue with their parents, pointing out where the fairy lights would go, where the marquee would sit. Amelia’s dad was already asking where the power cables were going to run, and Lando’s mum wanted to know if it might be chilly enough in the evening to need shawls.

“There’ll be blankets,” Amelia promised, thoughtful. “Soft ones. I’ve already washed them with lavender laundry detergent.”

Later, they sprawled in the shade, Amelia with her head in Lando’s lap, her fingers skimming the grass. The light filtered through the trees like dappled gold, and everything smelled like home. Her mum brought out a plate of biscuits. Her dad had made a weak attempt at swatting a bee away from his lemonade and muttered something about never having a day off.

“Do you think it’ll stay like this?” Amelia asked quietly.

Lando looked down at her. “The weather?”

“The feeling.”

He stroked her hair gently, smiling with something steady and private. “Yeah,” he said. “I think it might.”

She let herself close her eyes.

Almost married.

—

The world was just beginning to wake-up.

So was Amelia.

She stirred slowly, wrapped in a cocoon of linen and warmth, blinking into the blur of morning. Lando’s hand was already curled over her hip, grounding. She turned her head. His eyes were closed, lashes fanned across his cheek, breath even and deep.

“Lando,” she whispered, not wanting to say it too loud. “It’s today.”

He didn’t open his eyes, just smiled, the kind that made her stomach flip like it was 2018 all over again. “Mmm,” he hummed. “I know. I dreamt it.”

She inhaled softly. “Was it good?”

“Yeah baby,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “Except when Max interrupted the ceremony to ask you about his DRS strategy.”

She hummed. “Sounds like Max.”

Lando tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his thumb tracing gently along her cheekbone.

Amelia considered the question carefully. She could feel the usual thrum of her thoughts beneath the surface — a thousand logistical notes, backup plans, sensory considerations. But none of it felt too heavy. Not today.

“I feel ready,” she said. “Really ready.”

Lando kissed her forehead. “Me too.”

They lay there a little longer, curled into each other as the light grew warmer. Eventually, someone knocked gently at the bedroom door.

“Amelia?” Pietra’s voice, soft but excited. “Time to start glam time, babe.”

Lando groaned dramatically. “Oh no. I’m losing you.”

Amelia smiled and kissed him once, brief and sure, before slipping out from under the duvet. “You’ll get me back in a few hours,” she promised, already halfway to the ensuite.

“I should hope so,” he called after her. “Don’t ghost me at the altar, wifey.”

—

Two hours later, Pietra was kneeling on the floor beside Amelia, gently fastening a thin silver anklet around her left ankle. Amelia sat in a chair by the window, her robe tied in a precise knot, the lace sleeves brushing her wrists. Her hair was half done—soft waves pinned back with little pearlescent clips—and the morning light painted everything a warm yellow.

“You’re very quiet,” Pietra said gently, adjusting the clasp.

“I’m concentrating,” Amelia murmured. “And I’m… regulating. A lot of people are going to be looking at me soon.”

“You’re doing really well,” Pietra said, sitting back on her heels to look up at her best friend. “And you look… holy shit, Amelia.”

Amelia blinked. “Do I look okay? I haven’t seen it yet.”

“You look like the exact midpoint between goddess and fairy queen,” Pietra said, voice thick. “Honestly.”

That made Amelia smile; a little bashfully, her eyes dropping to her hands in her lap. “I think I thought I’d be scared today,” she admitted softly. “Or overwhelmed. But it’s just… calm.”

Pietra nodded. “Because it’s meant to be.”

Amelia exhaled. “Yeah. Maybe.”

They sat like that for a few more minutes, sunlight warming their skin, the soft sound of distant birds and shuffling feet below. Then Pietra stood and held out her hand.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get the dress on. We need to leave in twenty minutes — Max texted me, said everything at the venue is perfect.”

Amelia took her hand without hesitation.

“I’m getting married,” she whispered, almost like she needed to hear it aloud again.

“You really are,” Pietra grinned.

—

Zak was pacing in front of the reception marquee, holding the tie he hadn’t yet figured out how to knot. When he saw Amelia approaching, dress flowing, expression soft, he stopped mid-step.

“Hi, Dad.”

Zak stared at her for a second too long. “You look beautiful,” he said thickly.

She smiled, coming to stand in front of him. “Thank you. Do you need help with that?”

He handed her the tie wordlessly. She stepped close and began looping the fabric around his collar. Her fingers were steady. He swallowed once.

“You sure about all this?” he asked, gently. “Really sure?”

Amelia paused. “You mean the wedding?”

“I mean everything,” Zak clarified. “You’re so good at looking after other people. I just want to be sure someone’s making sure you’re okay.”

“I am okay,” she said simply. “I’m in love. And I’m safe.”

He nodded slowly, eyes shining. “I’m really proud of you.”

“I know,” she said.

He blinked hard. “You want me to walk you down there now?”

She made a face at him. “I want to walk beside you. I’ll hold onto your arm.” She lifted her dress to show him her shoes. Flat, no heels, comfortable. “I’m not a trip hazard.”

Zak pursed his lips to hide a smile at her deadpan words before he offered his arm. “Then let’s go do this, honey.”

—

Mitski’s ‘My Love Mine All Mine’ was the song that was playing, echoing and ethereal.

The guests were sat beneath the fairy lights and butter yellow bunting. Matching yellow satin drapes sat on every chair, lined the aisle, and decorated Lando’s pocket and neck.

A yellow tie. A yellow handkerchief.

When Amelia stepped onto the grass, everything fell silent.

Her dress shimmered faintly with movement, the delicate beading catching the light. The neck train draped behind her. Pietra was waiting at the right of the alter with Max Fewtrell standing opposite her, both beaming.

And at the far end, in front of the white wooden arch draped in green and yellow florals, Lando was already crying.

Not loud, not messy—just tears slipping down his cheeks in silent, reverent awe. Like she was something holy. Like he couldn’t believe she was real.

Amelia didn’t look away from him. Her fingers tightened gently on her dads arm, and then loosened again.

When she reached him, Lando let out a laugh that broke into a breathless, teary smile. “You came,” he whispered, almost stunned.

“Of course I came,” Amelia whispered back, brushing a tear from his cheek. “You cried.” She smiled.

“I love you,” he leaned in, forehead against hers.

She got up on her tiptoes, brushed her lips against his in a teasing brush. “I know. Prove it by marrying me.”

—

Their guests, family and a few friends, most of the drivers who’s been available, were hushed, reverent. Somewhere in the background, a bee buzzed near a flower. Lando’s hands were shaking.

Pietra handed Amelia her bouquet. Her fingers brushed Amelia’s for a moment, grounding her. Max gave Lando a nod from his place at his side, full of quiet reassurance.

The celebrant, a family friend with a calm, steady voice, began to speak, but Amelia barely heard her. Her eyes were fixed on Lando, his on her. Everything else dulled to a blur.

When the moment for vows came, the officiant stepped back slightly.

“Lando?” She prompted.

He took a breath, folded the note he’d brought, and looked at Amelia instead.

“I wrote something down,” he admitted, “but it doesn’t cover it. So I’m just going to say it.”

Amelia’s hands were steady, clasped around her bouquet. Her eyes never left his.

“You are the most brilliant person I’ve ever met,” Lando said. “You make me laugh even when I’m miserable. You know every single version of me, even the ones I don’t like, and you stay. You stay and you care and you see me.” He smiled, a little watery. “I thought that love had to be complicated. Dramatic. Loud. But loving you isn’t like that. It’s quiet and constant and safe. And it makes sense all the time.”

A few sniffles rippled from the front row.

“I promise to make space for you,” Lando continued, his voice cracking just slightly. “I promise to honour what you need, even when it’s different from what I need. I promise to soundproof every room if I have to—”

Amelia laughed through her tears.

“—and I promise to never stop choosing you. Not for a day. Not for a second.”

The officiant turned to Amelia. “And you, Amelia?”

She nodded, cleared her throat once, and began. Her voice was quiet, but sure.

“I love you, Lando Norris. You see me in a way that nobody else ever has,” she said. “You never try to fix me, and you always know when to listen. You let me be exactly who I am, even when it’s hard.”

Lando was crying again.

“You love me in a way I didn’t know was possible,” Amelia said. “Not despite the parts of me that are different—but because of them. You’ve never made me feel like I had to be smaller, or easier, or quieter.” She smiled, her hands tight around the bouquet. “I promise to always tell you the truth, even when it’s inconvenient. I promise to make spreadsheets for our holidays and set reminders for the laundry. I promise to protect your peace as fiercely as you protect mine. And I promise to be your home. Always.”

Lando made a small, helpless noise. Max gave his shoulder a hard pat.

The rings were passed forward by Max and Pietra, both watery eyed and sniffly. The metal was matte gold—simple, unflashy, chosen after hours of quiet discussion and Amelia’s very specific pros and cons list.

They slid the bands onto each other’s fingers with shaking hands.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant said warmly. “You may kiss—”

But Lando didn’t wait.

He leaned in and kissed Amelia like it was the only thing in the world that made sense. She kissed him back, anchoring him, grounding him. Their hands remained linked between them.

Applause rose up around them, soft and full of joy.

But Amelia didn’t really hear it.

All of her attention was on him.

Her Lando.

Her husband.

NEXT CHAPTER

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alwaysmaybank · 3 days ago

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soft rafe hours

soft!bf!rafe x reader

warnings: barely proofread, use of y/n once, really soft and mushy!

this is my first time actually writing anything fan fic related so idk if this is good or not.. sorry in advance for the people that follow me because of jj or "right in front of you" but when I made this blog I was in my jj phase and now I'm in my rafe one, so sorry! hope you like it !!

the title is so cringy help me

summary: nobody ever saw rafe like this—so soft. well, except for you, especially during soft rafe hours: at night after a long day, when you’re asleep, when he first wakes up, when you’re sick or hurt, after an argument, on rainy days, and even sometimes in bed. you loved this side of him, even if he only showed it to you. people see him as the confident, smug rafe cameron, but one phone call reveals just how different he truly is.

more under the cut!

after tossing and turning the entire night, slumber is finally taking over your eyelids. just as they start to close… ping! you could've sworn you left your phone on silent? after groaning about it and wondering who it could be, it clicks.

ping! it's rafe. this has become a familiar trend now, him not being able to sleep so he texts and texts until you reply.

ping! until you two call.

ping! you consider just ignoring it, ping! but how could you? it's rafe. plus, if you even tried to ignore him, he would come over and break the door down if he had to.

ping! you eventually open your phone, your eyes closing instinctively at the blinding brightness, six texts from rafe.

rafey:

2:14am

hey baby you up? i miss you

rafey:

2:32am

baby? are u up? y/n?

you saw him yesterday. you’re not sure what’s going on, but you suspect it has something to do with ward, given his clingy behavior.

2:35am

hey rafey

rafey:

did i wake you? sorry baby

you lie. you don't want to make him feel bad.

no no dw baby i was watching something

rafey:

oh okay can we call? couldnt sleep without you i miss you

five seconds later, you call him. “hey baby,” you hear his quiet, soft, yet raspy sleepy voice first.

“hi,” you reply tiredly.

“i missed you,” he says, and you can practically hear the radiant smile in his voice.

“how was your day?” you just had a blissfully lazy day today, some shopping on the side.

“good, i went shopping and saw that whiskey you like on the shelf, reminded me of you,” you grin over the phone.

“mm, good,” you hear him mumble out. “just missed your voice,” he continues. “couldn’t sleep without hearing you first, baby.” that’s cute.

“awh, i love you, baby,” you reply, your tired but don’t want to stay silent; you know he needs this.

“i missed you today,” rafe murmured after a beat, his voice rougher now, more raw. “whole day just felt wrong without you in it.” your chest tightened slightly, in the best way as a blush crept onto your cheeks. he said stuff like this all the time; you don’t think you would ever get over it.

“you make everything better, without even trying,” he pauses, taking in a soft breath. “like… just existing.” you didn’t know what to say, so you settled for a soft, “i missed you too, rafey.”

rafe hummed on the other side of the line, clearly content with that answer. the call goes silent for a minute, the only sound both of your soft breaths that blended together.

“don’t hang up,” he mumbled, his voice hard to get the point across but softened immensely. “jus’… stay, okay?” he whispered, and you agreed with a soft hum.

there was another long pause, and then, so quiet you could’ve thought you imagined it, a little, “love you so much, baby,” slipped past rafe’s lips. you held a chuckle in before responding, “i love you too, rafey, goodnight.” but by the time you said that, rafe was fast asleep, his breath slowing down as the gentle trance of sleep pulled him in.

as you lay there, wrapped in the warmth of his soothing voice, you felt your own eyelids grow heavy, surrendering to a peaceful slumber where everything felt right.

this is wayyyy too short stop

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #drew starkey #alwaysmaybank #outer banks #phone #fanfic #outerbanks rafe #rafe obx #rafe x reader #rafe fanfiction #rafe outer banks #fluff #soft!rafe x reader #soft!rafe cameron

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sailorsoons · 2 days ago

Text

Dark Gospel (c.hs)

PAIRING: Vernon x afab reader

SUMMARY: After experiencing what you’re sure is a possession, you try to help Vernon get his old self back. Except - Vernon doesn’t want his old self back and you’re not sure you hate the new Vernon either.

WC: 12,779

AU: Supernatural, Thriller, It’s Complicated to Lovers

GENRE: Smut, A Little Angst

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Light discussions of morality - Vernon has killed people and reader struggles with the fact that she doesn’t care more than she struggles with him having done that, a handful of silly rituals, lots of talk about spiritual possession, mentions of death, brief but nondescript mentions of violence, some philosophizing, me making a Protestant minister an asshole - sorry, this is not a read on Protestants, it just made sense for the plot, Vernon being a lil scary at times and pretty unsettling, Vernon is a little obsessive but specifically in a I Will Do Whatever You Want I’m A Scary Puppy way, explicit language, sexually explicit content including vaginal fingering, nipple play, a lot of spit and biting, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, cum eating, multiple orgasms, light breath play/choking. Tbh these two are just… kind of obsessed with one another probably in what would eventually be co-dependant but is not represented here. Also, parts of this are definitely blasphemous like - during the smut scene there’s a lot of religious terms used for description etc. etc so if that bothers you, that’s there. I would classify both of these characters as morally grey, in the grand scheme of things.

A/N: This is the second half of Hello, Darling, despite me swearing I would not write a part II. It is Vernon and the new SVT teaser’s fault. I highly recommend reading the first part of this - I wouldn’t say it can’t be read as a standalone, but it makes more sense with the context of the first fic.

A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta-reading and calling Vernon Spooky Puppy approximately 15 times.

MASTERLIST | ASK | ▷NOW PLAYING: ASCENSIONISM BY SLEEP TOKEN | READ PREQUEL

WHO MADE YOU LIKE THIS? WHO ENCRYPTED YOUR DARK GOSPEL IN BODY LANGUAGE? SYNAPSES SNAP BACK IN BLISSFUL ANGUISH TELL ME YOU MET ME IN PAST LIVES, PAST LIE PAST WHAT MIGHT BE EATING ME FROM THE INSIDE, DARLING

SALT BURNS YOUR NOSE. You grimace, realizing you’ve knocked over a candle, the grains of salt charring as the flame nearly goes out. You fix the candle, thankful that salt isn’t flammable. Had it been, the entire circle of salt would have gone up in flames, taking the dilapidated building and everyone inside.

Thankfully, there are only two people inside the building. The term people is a bit generous. You’re certainly human, all flesh and bone, mortal to the very soul. The man occupying the center of the circle, on the other hand, you’re not really sure about.

You glance at Vernon. He’s staring at you the same way he always does, dark eyes like twin flames. He does that a lot now, watching you more intensely than you can ever recall in your years of friendship. You quickly avert your eyes, fighting the shiver that threatens to slither through you.

From the corner of your eye, you see his mouth twitch. Of course he notices the way he affects you. He notices everything about you - swears that he always has, but isn’t afraid to be more obvious now. You’re not sure the validity of that statement, but Vernon seems to enjoy the effect he has on you, and he’s not shy to tell you so.

For now, he keeps it to himself. You’re grateful, standing and walking the circle of salt to make sure it’s intact while you try not to think about all the other times you’ve salted around him. This is your fourth attempt this month, and though you know Vernon can’t cross the salt, it doesn’t seem to do anything else but serve as a messy - and expensive - sort of cage.

Prior to that, your experience with salt and Vernon had been at his apartment that night a few weeks ago when the strange murders in your town had all started to make sense - it had been Vernon eliminating the town of its adulterers. Vernon has agreed to stop that for now, and though most people might not believe the recent college student turned serial killer, you do believe him.

The only thing Vernon seems unequivocally dedicated to these days is you and fulfilling your every demand.

Which is how he ended up in a salt circle now for what must be the eighth ritual you have put him through in a matter of weeks.

Dusting your hands off, you observe your work. You’ve tried salt circles and candles a few times - it had been what you used the night of Vernon’s possession after all - but you’ve tweaked the ritual each time.

Each time is unsuccessful.

Vernon watches you with hungry eyes, leaning back on his palms. His legs are crossed casually, entirely at ease. The only part of him that appears dialed in is his eyes, tracking your every movement, a predator tuned in to its prey.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, turning to your backpack on the floor.

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“Like I want to taste you again?” Your stomach flips and your grip tightens on the notebook you pull from your bag. “Fine, I will try not to look at you like that. Proceed with your little ritual.”

“You agreed to it, you know?”

“Like I said.” He sighs, rolling his head back so that he’s staring at the ceiling. “Your wish is my command. And it’s not going to work - I’m just me. Nothing to get rid of.”

“Well ‘just you’ can’t cross a line of salt, the lights flicker when you get mad, and you make dogs and cats go berzerk. So that can’t be true.”

“It’s my new salt allergy. Maybe it’s you the animals don’t like, hmm?”

“Vernon.”

He’s grinning at you when you look at him, that ravenous gaze just as present on his face. “It’s a joke, Love. Feel free to laugh at your convenience.”

Love. Not Lovecraft, like he used to call you, but something new and with weight to it, something intimate, said with a velvet purr that makes your hands sweat. Not darling like the spirit that had - and still might be - possessing him.

You think he is still possessing him, anway. Vernon insists that it’s just him with a new edge, forever changed by that night on Halloween. You cannot imagine it’s just Vernon and not the spirit of the murderer Thomas inside of him. Why else would Vernon have killed those people? Why else would he not be able to cross salt? Why else would strange things happen around him, like flickering lights and eerie feelings?

The way he looks at you makes you want to implode. He watches you with a new sharpness now, desire written all over his face at all times. He’s looking at you like that now, gaze half-lidded and heady. You ignore him in favor of scanning your scrawled script on the paper, memorizing the words you’re supposed to chant. You nod and toss the journal back onto your bag, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans before standing in front of the circle.

Vernon cocks his head up to gaze at you. He looks beautiful like this, his long, silky lashes framing his dark eyes. His face is flickering in shadow from the candles, equal parts demon and angel. Again, you fight the urge to shiver. Instead, you begin walking clockwise, careful not to break the line of salt.

Voice wavering, you whisper, “By salt of earth and flame of will, I break your hold, I bind, I still.”

A chill seeps into the room. You do shiver this time, not from Vernon watching you, but because of the drop in temperature. The kind that feels like breath on the back of your neck. Goosebumps break out on your arms as you go. Upon a complete rotation, you continue the chant but lean down to extinguish a candle each time you reach it, not daring to look at Vernon each time you bend down to blow on it gently. You swear the shadows stretch just a little longer every time the flame dies, curling like fingers at the edge of your vision.

When you reach the final candle, you risk a glance upward. You’re right in front of him, the orange light reflected in his glassy eyes. He gives you a small smirk, and looks at the candle, as though he’s daring you to blow it out. With a deep breath, you do, bathing the two of you in darkness. For a moment, it’s too quiet.

Moonlight filters through a dirty window on the other side of the room. It turns Vernon into an eerie shadow, nearly blue in the pale light. You hold your breath, watching him as he remains in the center of the salt, unmoving. His outline flickers faintly, like an old film reel catching on something sharp. You can sense he’s still watching you, unnaturally still but just as severe as always. Somewhere behind his eyes, something ancient stares back.

“Well?” You whisper, too afraid to raise your voice. “Are you feeling different?”

“I feel the same as I did early, which means I still want to eat you out. So not really.”

You deflate, sitting down abruptly on the ground.

“Tough crowd. I thought that would excite you.”

“Shut up, Vernon!”

He obeys. As sharp-tongued and wicked of mind this new version of Vernon is, he listens to you.

Usually.

Silence falls on you as you sit with your elbows propped on your knees, heels of your palms pressed into your eyes. The force of it makes colors explode behind squeezed shut lids. It feels like nothing is going to work, despite making your entire academic career into occult studies with the intention of applying it to understanding modern culture and shaping psychological theories and studies on human behavior.

For the last few weeks, you’ve spent it going back through all your lessons thus far to take theory and make it applicable. To pilfer through all of your countless books, exams and papers on rituals, culture, and occult through the ages to find something that would work. To find something to explain why Vernon is both Vernon and Not Vernon - anything to convince you that you can reverse whatever this is.

Do you want to?

The voice comes to you unbidden, a tiny part of you doubting exactly what you’re doing here.

Vernon’s voice is soft when he murmurs, “You’ll find something else to try.”

Your hands drop from your face and you stare at him. He looks like an ancient thing, sitting in the dark, but his face is so soft that you fight the urge to crawl over to him and into his lap. You know he would let you - would love if you gave in and did it. His every moment, every look, every word is borderline begging you to touch him, to close the distance between you, to have him again.

“Do you even want me to keep trying?” You ask, exasperated.

He shrugs. “You want to keep trying.”

“What do you want, though?”

“You.”

Your fists close. Open. Close again. “Vernon.”

“You asked me what I wanted. The answer is the same, no matter how much it annoys you.”

“Don’t you want me to solve this? Don’t you want me to find out what happened to you?”

His voice is low when he says, “I already told you, there’s nothing to solve. But if you want to keep trying, then I will. I don’t really care about the rest.” Silence falls between you once more. He sighs, shifting to stand. “Will you let me out of my cage?”

“I don’t know. Are you going to hurt anyone?”

“I told you I wouldn’t. Have I broken my promise?”

He hasn’t. You know it, he knows it. The memory of his promise comes back to you as easily as if it were yesterday: you in his kitchen, chest heaving when you realized he couldn’t cross the salt line. Vernon, trying to lure you back toward him, voice soft. You, screaming that he had killed people, that he was a murderer and not your Vernon.

Since then, he’s assured you if it bothers you that much, he won’t do it. That had, of course, been after he’d lectured you and vehemently assured you that they deserved it, the vitriol coming out of his mouth and the violence he used in his words enough to make you cower against his living room couch, knees tucked into your chest.

That had made him shut up. He’d approached you carefully, hands out like you were going to run. And maybe you should have, but it was Vernon, and you love him, and you weren’t totally convinced any of it was real. So you let him coax you back to calm levels, his voice soft and sweet as he promised you he wouldn’t do anything without asking you. That he’d do whatever you wanted.

He had promised, and he’s lived up to that so far, even if you can tell it chafes him to do so.

Standing, you kick the line of salt, breaking it. He gives you an appreciative hum, stepping through the gap and stretching his limbs. He’s dressed in his usual jeans and t-shirt, the hem riding up to reveal a small flash of smooth stomach. You avert your eyes, shifting from foot-to-foot.

“Hungry?” He asks.

“I guess.”

“Sal’s?”

You nod and follow him out of the room. You’d picked an abandoned house to do this in, hoping that if anything went wrong or you unleashed something worse, that at least it was just you and no one else for miles.

Gravel crunches beneath your boots. Crickets chirp while a pale moon rises in the sky. Removed from the main town where your college lies, you can see the thousands of stars. You crane your neck upward to look at them, slowing your steps as your eyes trace all the familiar constellations: Orion the Hunter, Canis Major, Draco, Scorpius.

Looking back down, you notice Vernon leaning against his car, watching you over the roof. He’s got that same burning gaze but a hint of a smile, refusing to look away until you’re sliding in the passenger seat and shutting the door. When he gets in, he pauses to look at you again.

“What?” You ask into the silence, staring straight ahead.

“You’re beautiful when you’re not afraid of me.”

You frown. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He hums and starts the car. “I wish that were true, Love.”

Music pulses loud enough to vibrate your ribs. You hate coming to clubs - especially shitty ones in college towns that don’t really have a bottle section but sort of do, with bottle girls who are all in your English classes and who pretend not to know you when they bring another bottle of champagne to your section.

Chan does not need another bottle of champagne. No one does, really. Vernon’s fraternity brothers are falling over themselves, coaxing girls into their laps to secure one to go home with for the night or sinking heavily into the booth, becoming one with the leather.

One of the boys you don’t know crashes down into the seat next to you. You flinch and he flashes you an apologetic smile, his pupils blown and his goofy grin all you need to know that he’s fucked up. You scoot away from him a little, offering a cautious smile that you hope says I’m awkward don’t talk to me.

Even if he could read, he can’t read body language. He leans over and yells, “You know Chan?”

“Yes. Sort of friends.”

“Nice! We go waaaaaaay back.”

“Cool.”

“So, Sort Of friend. Are you sort of single?”

Thankfully, you don’t have to answer. It feels like the temperature plummets. One second, it’s just you and the nameless friend of Chan’s. The next, Vernon is crouching down on his knees in front of the dude, his eyes fathomless as he levels a stare at him.

“She’s not available.”

“Woah dude. Chill.”

The air shifts. Vernon needs to say nothing more. Lights flash behind Vernon, painting him in violent colors of red and blue and pink. The shadows under his eyes are darker than ever and you feel a tingle go up your spine, though you’re not sure it’s explicitly fear.

When Vernon smiles, you’re reminded of something uncanny, like you’re looking into a void you shouldn’t be. That does scare you, but it scares the guy next to you more, who jumps to his feet and tries to bolt from the booth. He trips as he does, toppling over and slamming into the table in the middle, sending buckets of ice and bottles exploding in several directions.

Everyone jumps up, trying to avoid the carnage, screaming at the guy as he flails in his own destruction. Vernon slides into the seat next to you, back to normal. Nothing in his face indicates the malice that was there seconds ago, easing back into his quiet demeanor within seconds.

“What was that?” You hiss, though you don’t exactly mind.

“That,” he emphasizes, giving you a meaningful look, “was me showing restraint like you’ve asked.”

“What, you were going to murder him?”

Vernon blinks and without missing a beat says, “Wanted to and was going to are different. I told you I would do whatever you wanted me to.” His face hardens. “I meant what I said.”

You lean back, entirely unsure what kind of creature you had dedicated to your every whim.

Vernon is pounding on the door. He’s screaming, earth-shattering, heart-stopping screaming. His fists slam against the door with such force that it groans against its frame, hinges shrieking. You scream his name back, bloody fingers scraping against the splintered wood of the door, clawing at it, trying to tear it open, trying to get him out.

The door doesn’t budge. There’s no doorknob. No keyhole. Just a dead piece of wood, locked and unmoving like it was never made to be opened.

Vernon has never screamed like this, never sounded so afraid never-

The door opens with a soft, sickening creak.

Vernon stands there, framed in the dark, unmoving. The shadows cling to him like they’ve grown fond of his shape. You can’t see his face clearly, only the light of his eyes, too still, too glossy. Your chest tightens as you watch him and he watches you, something ancient staring back.

“Vernon?” Your voice shakes.

When he smiles, it’s slow. Too wide. Too many teeth. Rows and rows of them, glistening sharp, stretching too far.

When he leaps, you scream-

You wake up screaming, thrashing your arms as your sheets tangle in your limbs. You finally get them off, falling out of your bed to your hands and knees as you gulp down fresh air. You scramble away from your bed, eager to get away from the claws of your dream, shivering and sweaty and terrified.

In the middle of your room, you sit. You try to catch your breath, staring at the bed where your sheets and pillows have been thrown around during your nightmare. The only source of light in the room is through your window. The moon paints your room silver, the glass open to let in the almost-winter breeze.

On your nightstand, your phone begins to buzz. You stare at it, watching it flash on. You can’t see who's calling, but you don’t move, still frozen in fear. The call goes to voicemail and the phone turns off, dark once more. It’s only a second before it lights up again, a new call coming through.

Gulping, you crawl toward your nightstand, hesitant to come near your bed. Getting up on your knees, you see that it’s Vernon’s name flashing across your screen. You hesitate for a moment, thinking of the rows and rows of teeth from your dream.

He starts calling a third time and you answer it, hand shaking when you bring it up to your ear. “Hello?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I had a weird feeling.”

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know. Are you okay?” You hesitate and you hear him moving on the other side of the phone. “Love?”

“I had a bad dream.”

“I’ll come over.”

“No!” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. You feel his trepidation on the other side of the phone. Your hands squeeze your device, knuckles popping. “I mean - can I come there?”

His surprise is just as palpable as yours. “I mean, yeah. Can I come get you?”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to stay on the phone while I drive?”

“No, it’s okay.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

The line goes dead and you stare at your empty bed. You don’t know why you asked to go there. Don’t know why it was the first thing you thought of. Don’t know why or how Vernon knew anything was wrong. What you do know is that you’ve been having nightmares almost every night in your bed, and trying to coax yourself back into the fluffy sheets feels insurmountable.

Instead, you slowly get up and grab a few things for Vernon’s. You don’t know what you need. You don’t know if you’re staying. All you know is that you don’t want to be in your bed, where the nightmares come, and that the last time you were in his bed, you felt safe.

And then shortly discovered that he was harboring - or had harbored, if you ask him - an entity somewhere inside him.

Still, Vernon’s apartment is where he’d touched you for the first time, where he had pulled you apart and pried his name from your lips like no one ever had. Where he had pressed his mouth on every part of you, promising that you were his, that you were only his, that he would do anything you asked of him, that he was devoted to you.

Light splashes across your face when he texts you that he’s downstairs. You grab your phone and keys, and a single charger as you do.

Downstairs, Vernon is out of the car and around the hood, hands reaching out to you. You slow your steps but you let him take you by the shoulders, ducking his head so his dark eyes can scan your face. You hold your breath as he does, eyes darting from his intense examination to his lips, where you imagine rows and rows of teeth.

“You look tired,” he murmurs.

“I’ve been having a lot of nightmares.”

He hesitates. “Of me?” It sounds like he already knows the answer, but you nod anyway. He tongues the inside of his cheek and for a second, you think he’s annoyed. You start to bristle, but he softens and nods, dropping his hands to your wrist where he gives you a squeeze. “Come on.”

Despite everything, you follow him. You let him open the door to his car and put you inside, closing the door gently behind you. You let him put the car in gear, his hand reaching across the center console, hovering above your thigh. You stare at his hand for a few long moments, watching it waver.

You want him to touch you. You don’t want to acknowledge what it means that you want him to touch you, despite everything.

You give him a tiny, barely-there nod. His hand drops down softly on your thigh, giving you a gentle squeeze. Goosebumps break out across your skin and your eyelashes flutter, immediately at ease. He starts to drive, the sound of the tires against the road and the engine lulling you into a sense of calm.

Settling against the headrest, you let your eyes close. You don’t want to think about anything but the heat of his fingers on your skin, his thumb brushing back and forth, featherlight and loving. Later, you can think about what it means that you’re here with him. Later you can regret what you’re doing.

Vernon’s apartment appears against a black sky. It looks no different than the last time you were here. He stops in the parking lot and holds a hand out to you. His face is soft, but his eyes are sharp as always. Carefully, you slip your hand into his. It’s warm and firm, wrapping around yours and tugging you gently toward the stairs, keeping you moving even when your trepidation grows and your steps get heavier.

His neighbor's doormat catches your eye. Come in, it says. You stare at it long enough that he notices, turning over his shoulder to glance at it and ask, “What? No joke about vampires this time?”

“Last time I didn’t think they were real.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know what’s real.”

He hums noncommittal as he works the lock with his keys.

Inside of Vernon’s apartment smells like him. You feel a sense of relief, breathing in the smell of bergamot and vetiver, unsure if you had expected sulfur and something rotting. It looks normal as ever inside. Vernon’s home looks lived in, tidy but with pairs of shoes by the door, a blanket thrown across the arm of the couch and a few video game controllers on the coffee table.

Vernon toes off his shoes before drifting toward his bedroom. The doorway is a gaping hole of darkness and you feel yourself hesitate before calming yourself and following him, too nervous to linger alone.

He switches on a salt lamp and soft, orange light fills the room. It helps put you at ease. You drop your stuff on his dresser, phone, charger and keys. You don’t know what else to do, turning to look at Vernon as he pulls the blankets back and sits on the bed, swinging his feet in.

“Gonna stand there?” He asks, grabbing pillows and shoving them against the headboard. He leans back on them, draping his arm across the tops. “Come here.”

“I didn’t come here to sleep with you.” He narrows his eyes. “I meant like sex. I didn’t come here to have sex with you.”

“I know. You came here for comfort.”

Well, yes. You feel hot all over, flushed head to toe with embarrassment. For once, he doesn’t prod you about it, watching you patiently as you scramble over to the other side of the bed and climb in. His sheets are soft and warm as ever, mattress sinking as you slide over next to him.

Before you can get too close, you freeze up. You don’t know where you stand, suddenly. A few weeks ago, he was just Vernon, your best friend. Sure you’d been in love with him and he hadn’t known, but now he does know. And circumstances have changed since the admission of feelings. You haven’t been this close in weeks and-

Vernon wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you to him. You make a small sound of surprise and he laughs, low and deep in his throat. The sound scratches something inside of you, making your toes curl as you stiffen for a split second while he melds you to his side.

Then you melt. He’s warm and smells like he always has, his arm tethering you to him. Tentatively, you rest your head on his shoulder. He shuffles a little so that your head fits perfectly in the crook of his neck, comfortable. You’re pressed close to his side, your hands pulling nervously at the strings of your hoodie.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” His question rumbles through you where you’re leaning against him. His voice is deep and soft, a lullaby. Your eyes flutter and you shake your head. “I would never hurt you. Ever. I know you’re afraid of me but… you don’t have to be.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

You chew your bottom lip. “I’m afraid of me.”

“Explain.”

Vernon is patient. Even this new version of him lets you find your words without pushing you to go faster. You think of how to explain, starting with halting sentences. “You’ve killed people.”

“Three, specifically.”

“Does that bother you?”

He doesn’t answer for a second. “They weren’t very good people.”

“Cheating is bad, but killing them?”

“Ah,” Vernon chuckles without humor. “I think I understand now. Would it make you feel better if I told you all of the bad things they did? Would it change anything to know they weren’t just guilty of adultery?” You don’t answer. “You don’t like that I killed people but what you’re having trouble with is the fact that you want to overlook it and you don’t like how that feels.”

As always, Vernon is on the nose with his guess. He’s always been able to pin down how you feel quickly, and it both relieves you and terrifies you to know that hasn’t changed. Killing people is wrong. You know that. But it’s how unbothered you are that sticks with you, this inability to figure out why there’s a desire to rationalize it, to let Vernon convince you his actions were justified.

“You have an excuse,” you mumble. “You’re possessed by some sort of murderer.”

“I am not.

“I’m just… me.”

“People are complex. Wrestling with your own morality is natural. But I advise you not to let it drive you crazy.”

You snort.

“What?”

“Getting advice from someone who is possessed-”

“-Again, it’s just me-”

“Is kind of silly.”

“Then stop listening to my advice and go to bed, Love.”

It’s the final piece you let him give you for the night, nodding and letting your eyes fall closed. The steady rhythm of Vernon’s heart lulls you into a trance until you’re drifting to sleep with the smell of bergamot and vetiver and no nightmares to plague you.

“Why don’t you add salt to your fries, hmmm?”

Veron looks up at you, deadpan. You give him a plasticky grin, grabbing the red pepper to shake over your pizza slices. As he has for the last few weeks, Vernon avoids the salt on his fries. Still likes them just as much as before, but can’t seem to tolerate more than the standard level of seasoned they come.

Cool breeze slithers down your back when someone walks in behind you. Your booth is right by the door, giving you an icy blast everytime a new patron comes in. Vernon already made you give him the side closest to the door, but you’d managed to keep him from demanding the hostess move you somewhere else.

A group of men sit down behind you in the booth. They sit down hard, making the back of your seat lurch forward. You swear, turning to look at them over the shoulder as they spread out like they’re lounging at home all over the table and seat.

Above you, the lights flicker. A low hum rides the air, barely audible, like static through bone. You whip your head around to look at Vernon. His gaze has turned to steel, unblinking and far too still. His fist tightens around his fork until the metal groans, knuckles leached of color. The air feels charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. You whisper his name but the flickering lights continue, drawing the attention of several patrons, all of them craning their neck upwards.

A bulb pops at the table behind you. The men yell in surprise, causing the booth to rock. Your hand shoots out across the table, grabbing Vernon’s hand and squeezing. Immediately, the electrical anomaly stops and his gaze shifts to you, going soft at the edges.

“Are you okay?” You ask, soft.

“Are you?”

“Yes, Vernon. You can’t go all Paranormal Activity every time someone annoys me.”

He frowns at that. “Says who?”

“Says me. Please.”

He sighs and lets his head thunk against the back of the booth. “Fine. I will add it to the list of don’ts, right alongside murder.”

“Ugh.” You let go of his hand and steal a fry. “Enough complaining about the murder rule, Vernon.”

Cracking your neck, you look down at the notes scribbled in front of you. Your writing is scrawled and going off the lines in your notebook, getting messier the further down the page you get. You drop the pen, flexing your fingers to try and get some feeling back into them. You’ve been taking notes for hours, your note-taking starting off neat and with organization before devolving into a messy script you can barely read.

Stacks of books sit in front of you. Most are from your own collection, but there are a handful that come from the basement level of the library in plastic covers to protect the integrity of the book, yellowed at the edges and a little more than grimey.

Leaning back in your seat, your spine cracks. You sigh in relief, stiff from spending hours leaned over the table. You’d commandeered a table bigger than you need, spreading yourself out - much to the annoyance and heavy side-eye of everyone else in the library - taking up as much room as possible so no one else would sit next to you.

Several of the boys behind you have already tried to smooth talk their way into the seat. Normally you might let them, but the last thing you need is for them to look over your shoulder and see you’re researching the history of possession and demonology.

Also, you don’t want to give them your phone number, no matter how many times they ask.

A backpack lands on the table in front of you, making you flinch. You tear off your headphones, ready to bitch out whoever it is when you realize it’s Vernon. You stare at him in surprise, watching him pullout the chair and throw himself into the seat.

“Oh my God,” you gasp. “You cut off your hair.”

“Mhmm.” He runs a hand over his hair. It’s barely longer than a buzz cut, dark and fuzzy and soft. “Like it?”

At first, you don’t say anything. You drag your eyes over him, assessing. Today he’s in a leather jacket over a worn baseball t-shirt, ripped jeans and a beat up pair of converse. It’s a quintessential Vernon outfit, but it looks different now - better, even, with the short hair.

“I do.”

“Good.” He winks at you, making your stomach flip. His eyes drift over your shoulder, spotting something in the library that’s caught his interest. “What did you want to meet about?”

“So, I’ve been doing some research.”

His eyes briefly scan the table, a single brow arching. “You don’t say?”

“Shut up.” You throw a pen at him but there’s no real heat to your words. “I’m wondering if I’m coming at this from the wrong angle.”

His dark eyes are looking over you again, but he says, “Yes. You’re looking at it from the point of view of someone who thinks I’m still possessed. I’m not.”

“No. I’m looking at it like you were possessed by a spirit, but I’m wondering if maybe it was a demon.” He snorts and says nothing. “There are some essays and source materials that believe disgruntled spirits eventually become demonic entities. I’ve been looking up rituals on spiritual banishment and purification, but not demonic - are you listening?”

Vernon’s gaze is burning on something behind you. He doesn’t answer, his eyes narrowed and flickering. You lean forward, throwing the cap of your pen at him. It bounces on the table and joins its body, rolling uselessly to the side.

“Vernon.” His eyes snap back to you. “What is so interesting behind me?”

“Have they been bothering you?” He nods to something behind you.

You twist in your seat, turning to look at the table of boys who had sent over one at a time to try and join you. Only one of them looks in your direction, lifting his head and grinning when he sees you’re looking. Rolling your eyes, you turn back to tell Vernon it’s nothing, but he’s already out of his seat and walking around the table.

Eyes like daggers, he gives them a single annoyed glance before he pulls out the seat next to you and drops into it. He kicks out his foot and hooks the toe of his Converse around the leg, pulling you toward him until your seats clack together and you’re thigh to thigh.

Vetiver and bergamot flood your senses, heavenly and heady.

“What are you-”

“Demonic possession?” He purrs, voice turning to smoke. He leans toward you, laying his arm across the back of your chair. “You were telling me I’m a demon.”

“That’s not - why are you sitting so close?”

“We’ve been closer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I just like sitting next to you.” He taps the page with his free hand, mouth twitching. “Focus, baby. Tell me what you learned.”

You turn molten at the name of endearment. Baby is new. Catches you off guard. You sputter as you try to reach for your notes, suddenly not remembering what books are where, all of the things you just absorbed from them flowing right out of your head.

Vernon makes it even worse. His fingers start to play with the edge of your t-shirt sleeve, fingers occasionally brushing your arm and sending a pool of warmth blooming across your skin. His nearness is intoxicating, thoughts a little foggy.

“Problem?”

“You’re being a little shit,” you shoot back, huffing. He laughs - loudly - making other people flinch. “Stop flustering me. I know you’re doing it on purpose.”

“But you are flustered?”

“Yes, Vernon. Do you want me to tell you what I found or not?”

His voice is warm when he teases, “I’d rather keep making you squirm.”

“Ugh. I am out of pens to throw at you.”

“Sorry. Proceed. You have my undivided attention, I promise.”

Somehow, you manage to get through your messily written notes and your research. It was hard to compile the research, but you feel like maybe you’re on track with your new theory that Thomas, the spirit who had - in Vernon’s opinion briefly possessed him and in your opinion is still there - hadn’t been a spirit at the time of possession, but rather perhaps a demon.

It’s a working theory that because Thomas was bound to his place of death through violent and unresolved emotion, he not only became a disturbed entity, but was warped by his anger and grief, shifting into something darker. Most research on demons was clear cut that they were creatures from another dimension, but spirits aren’t of this dimension either.

Because everything you’ve tried so far for a spiritual dispelling hasn’t worked, you think perhaps Thomas’s spirit had morphed into something more proto-demonic in nature. There isn’t much to go off of, but the structure for your theory is there, even if made from toothpick-weak data and suppositions.

Vernon listens the entire time. His fingers still trace your arm absently, tracing aimless patterns. When you finish and look at him, he seems thoughtful, dark eyes unfocused. When he looks up at you, his smile is small.

“So what do you want to try this time?”

“Maybe a priest-”

He groans and drops his head back.

You quickly continue, “Just to start, okay? I want to test my theory.”

“I’m not a demon.”

“Well, we don’t really know, do we?”

“We already went to a church.”

You pout and he sighs. “When do you want to go?”

White paint peels off the church. It’s an old building with crooked, dry rotted steps outside. It’s a small church with a single steeple. You can see the bells just beyond the window, currently silent as the crickets take up chorus around you.

The sign out front is worn and sunbleached. Trinity Cross Chapel is carved across the front, whatever phrase from the Bible written under it long faded. You’d chosen an old Protestant church to test your hypothesis, partially because it was far on the edge of town where the risk was lower if Vernon turned into a demon, and partially because according to the town registry, it was the oldest church in town.

And well - because Protestants were pretty serious about absolving themselves from sin and that salvation alone could only be reached through Jesus Christ himself. Perhaps if anyone could tell you what was wrong with Vernon, it was Jesus.

“This place is a shithole,” Vernon observes, hands in his pockets.

Alright, perhaps Jesus wouldn’t want to help Vernon. You shoot him a glare and plunge ahead, rocks and dirt crackling beneath your shoes. Vernon follows you at a leisurely place, giving the building a critical eye.

“It’s worse for wear,” you admit, heading to the steps. “But it’s old and largely underfunded because when the college was built, the town moved to be centered around the college and not the church.”

When your foot lands on the first step, it cracks and your foot falls through. You yelp but Vernon’s hands are on your waist immediately, his chest pressed against your back as he steadies you. He’s so close that your heart goes from hammering at the fear of falling to thundering over his proximity.

“Are you okay?” His breath fans your ear where he asks, almost a whisper. You nod, a little out of breath. “Be careful. Let me help.”

Gently, Vernon guides you up the rest of the steps. None of the other ones cave in, though they do creak ominously. You scurry inside of the building, eager to get on more even ground before you plunge through the entryway.

Inside smells like mold and wet carpets. You scrunch up your nose, looking at the faded and stained red shag beneath your shoes. Rows and rows of wooden pews line the church, book-ended with walls of stained glass windows. You peer at the imagery as you walk down the aisle, hands hovering above the pews as you go.

The stained glass is lovely. You imagine during the day it’s stunning, the sun hitting each piece to refract into thousands of colors. You recognize each piece of artwork from your study on Christian religions: The Baptism of Jesus, The Lamb of God, Saint Paul with his sword and book, The Resurrection. Each one is meticulously crafted, dark without the sun to bring them to life.

Each piece makes you think of Vernon. There is a haunted beauty about them that has you looking at him sideways as you walk. He seems unaware, craning his head to look up at the old, cracked rafters of the ceiling.

At the front of the church is the chancel with a lectern front and center. Behind the lectern is a communion table, banners with scriptures fastened to the wall, and some seasonal decor. Vernon walks closely behind you, uncharacteristically silent as you head for a man sitting in the front row, head bowed.

“Minister?”

Your voice brings the man out of his reverie. He’s somewhere in his late forties, hair greying at the edges. He has sharp blue eyes and heavy frown lines, his eyes looking you up and down before drifting to Vernon. His mouth turns down as he stands, adjusting the simple robes he has on.

“This him?”

“Him has a name,” Vernon mutters at the same time you say yes.

“Come with me.”

The minister turns on his heel and marches toward one of the side doors behind the pulpit. You hurry after him, Vernon hot on your heels muttering, “You called ahead?”

“Well yeah… what else was I going to do? Walk in and be like ‘yo is this guy possessed?’”

“Might be possessed.”

“So you admit you might-”

Vernon swears. “Love, that is not what I meant. I can’t give you an inch, huh?”

The back offices of the church are stuffy, full of tepid air and dust. You sneeze and Vernon mutters bless you, his tone sharp. You give him a look and he grins, wicked and sharp. “See?” He whispers. “Bless you.”

“Well don’t stand in the hall,” the minister quips.

“Sorry.”

You rush after him where he holds the door to his office open, Vernon still muttering obscenities under his breath - you’re pretty sure he has called the minister five types of cunt by now. The minister leans away from him when Vernon walks by, partially to be safe and partially because Vernon leers at him. You whisper at him to cut it out, hand shooting out to grab his hand and pull him to sit in the seat next to you.

Rounding the heavy desk, the minister sits down. His desk is full of ledges and books, religious imagery covering the walls. It smells damp and stale, making you scrunch your nose. It distinctly reminds you of your grandma's closet with moth-eaten coats and water stains on the carpet.

“Tell me his ailments.” The minister folds his hands under this chin, watching you with sharp eyes. “Be thorough.”

“I have a name,” Vernon growls.

The look the minister gives him tells you he’s taking mental notes. You clear your throat, leaning forward. You reach your hand over to Vernon, resting it on his knee and squeezing comfortingly. The minister’s eyes don’t miss the motion, narrowing when you leave your hand on Vernon’s leg.

“It started on Halloween,” you explain, recounting the ritual and some of the side effects Vernon has experienced since then. Vernon sits in steely silence, his eyes boring into the minister’s head as you talk. You skip over the murders but imply that Vernon has more violent urges. “I was researching and-”

“Leave the research to the professionals, girl.”

That pulls you up short. “I am a professional, sir. Or - well - I will be. I’m an occult studies major, so this is sort of my expertise but-”

“Occult studies major,” he scoffs. “Nonsense. The only study you need is the word of God. Perhaps you wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place and reeking of sin.” When he says the word sin, he looks at where you’re touching Vernon. “The ritual is nothing. You could not have summoned anything that wasn’t already there. You are possessed by the sin that poisons-”

“I’m sorry,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “The ritual wasn’t exactly formal, but it had all the right materials to summon an entity.”

“You know nothing. You come into a house of God with this nonsense talking about rituals and bells because you read them in a book, as though they’re on par with the Word?”

You open and close your mouth, confused at the turn of events. The minister presses on, “Your paganism is just as much as a sin as drinking in an abandoned house and giving into lust and gluttonous pride and other salacious acts. If you are looking for demons, it is the ones you already carry inside of you and must purge through confession and devotion to Jesus Christ.”

“Wow.” You lean back in the chair. Vernon’s muscles have gone taught in his thigh, his shoulders ridgid and his nails digging into the wooden arms of the chair. “This is not at all what we’re here for. By the way - there is nothing wrong with paganism. I would argue that historically most religions, including branches of Christianity, are full of paganism. You have rituals and-”

The minster sits up straight, slamming a hand on his desk. “The truth of God stands apart from the lies of paganism. What I see here is not a victim of a pagan ritual, but two young adults brimming with sin who should confess their sins to Jesus Christ to absolve-”

“Lies of paganism? You can’t erase where things come from, you know? Religions all borrow from one another- symbols, holidays, whatever. One is not less valid than-”

“Only the Word is valid.”

You bring up a hand, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Look, minister, I came here to help if you could identify demonic energies or symptoms in Vernon. This has turned into a religious lecture, and I’m not arguing with you on the semantics of scripture.”

“I sense deep darkness in both of you. You can’t even speak to me without touching him, full of gluttonous-”

Vernon gets up, interrupting the minister. “We’re going.”

“You should beg for guidance and confess-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Vernon growls, leveling the minister with a stare. He bends down to pull you to your feet, his glare softening slightly when he looks at you. “He’s an idiot. You’re having an academic argument, he’s pissed off because he’s popped a boner under his robe and can’t do anything about it because I’m here.”

“I beg your pardon!”

Vernon crowds you against the side of the chair. He presses in close, ducking his head to press his forehead against yours, nose nudging against you. When he speaks, his voice is velvet-soft and barely a whisper. “And he probably hates that he could never fuck you the way that I do and I know all the little sounds you make.”

It feels like the air has evaporated from the room. Vernon’s eyes are only for you, his pupils dilated, completely trained on your eyes. His breath fans your face, his hands pressing against the small of your back as though he can press you any closer to him.

Dizzy, you try to say his name, acutely aware of the minister yelling at the two of you to get out. Vernon gives you a chaste kiss on the lips before turning to look at the minster, a sneer on his face. He looks more terrifying than you’ve ever seen him, but his grip on you is firm. Warm. Strangely enough, safe.

“She’s ten times the brain that you are. Cunt.”

Vernon’s lip twitches like he’s going to snarl. Instead, he turns and heads toward the door, hand shooting down to yours to tug you along. You stumble after him, unable to find words but wanting to stay close. Your heart hammers, mind spinning from how quickly the situation had spiralled out of control. You’d just wanted the minister to do some sort of demon test and-

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Vernon admonishes, escorting you out of the church. He’s careful with you down the steps, lifting you by the waist to let you skip the last step entirely. He plants you firmly on the ground. “He was a fanatical dick. Maybe next time we do a new wave church or something.”

“You’re going to let me do a next time?”

His mouth kicks up at the side. “I know you’re not done, Love.”

Vernon swings his legs back and forth, watching you rub cleanser into your face. You’ve given up on asking him why he likes to sit in the bathroom while you do your skincare. ‘Cause I like you was always the response, or some similar variation. You don’t mind. It’s endearing, and you’ve wanted to have Vernon like this… well, since forever.

Usually, you use this time to talk your way through things you want to try to help free him from possession - lack thereof, he asserts - but tonight you’re quiet. The water is warm as you splash it onto your face, melting the cleanser away and leaving nothing but blotchy, irritated skin.

You pat dry your face, avoiding looking in the mirror.

“What’s wrong?” Vernon’s question is soft. You look up at him, eyes round. “You’re extra quiet tonight.”

“Oh. Thinking, I guess.”

“About what?”

About everything. Somehow, this has become your new normal. You’re not entirely sure what to make of it, or the fact that it’s been weeks and Vernon genuinely shows no other signs of having an entity inside him. It’s more like he is the entity now.

Before, Vernon had always been a little on the sardonic side. But it had been quiet, his sharp words muttered, not spoken, his irritation silent, not voiced. In a way, it was the same way with his feelings for you. He’d revealed that he’d liked you as more than a friend for years, angry at how much of a coward he’d been and how it had taken motivation to make him say anything.

The Vernon who chose hiding and restraint was now replaced with a Vernon who asserted himself and could barely hold back. It was different. Not bad, different, just different. You liked the old Vernon but… you don’t dislike this Vernon, either. He still has the makings of his normal self, still interested in all the same books and video games, content to lose to Mingyu in Fortnite over and over, the same Vernon who likes movies and music and Sal’s Pizzeria.

Vernon gently taps a knuckle underneath your chin, getting your attention. “Tell me.”

“I was sort of wondering if the minister was right.”

He scoffs. “What?”

“Okay maybe not about the sin and everything but more like… I don’t know.”

Vernon senses your train of thought. “You still don’t like that you don’t care I killed people.”

You wince at his words. They are sharp and real and more honest than you can voice. Unable to find the courage to agree out loud, you nod your head.

Gently, Vernon reaches for you. You let him grab you by the biceps and navigate you so that you’re standing between his knees. He squeezes his legs shut, pining you to the spot, albeit gently. His gaze is soft when he looks down at you, his hands playing with your fingers.

“I can’t tell you how to feel,” he starts. “I can tell you… look, let me tell you what those first three nights were like. And why I don’t think I’m possessed, alright? This is just… me. A little different, but me, okay?”

Chewing your lip, you nod. His gaze falls down to where he plays with your fingers. “I definitely was possessed, that first night on Halloween. I have no idea how Soonyoung managed a ritual that was done right.” You pinch him and he laughs. “Yeah, right. You were sort of the linchpin. In that closet, I… felt taken over, like I was suddenly shoved in a box and flooded with emotions and rage and hate but more than that? Fear.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be. Then it got sort of quiet and I felt really disconnected. You left so fast and I didn’t even go after you because it felt like I was grappling with myself and I felt a little lost. When I went home is when the real mess started. I had all these thoughts and memories that weren’t mine, all these feelings and images and knowledge. It was overwhelming.”

“Is that why you avoided me?”

“Yes, but I was also just full of anger. Not just at things that didn’t belong to me, but things that did. A lot of it was at myself for wandering through life never voicing what I wanted or never taking action or just sort of… riding in the backseat, I guess.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And having the presence of someone else there was like - fuck it was like being in the backseat again. It made me pissed and I just sort of grappled with the spirit for what felt like days until I woke up and I was just… me. But there are random pieces that belong to him, I think. Like sort of an impression?”

“Is the… murder, one?”

“I don’t really know, Love.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I remember seeing him kill that woman he loved and then himself and my first thought was that I could never do that. I could never kill you. Regardless of what you ever did to me, I vowed that I would do anything for you. But on the other hand, it made me so angry to think anyone could do that to someone they cherished. I would set the world on fucking fire for you - how could others not feel that way when they love someone?”

Love someone. Vernon has never explicitly said that he loved you or was in love with you. He’s implied it - talked about you like he loves you or alluded to it. But now it’s out in the open as he speaks, a full admission that you are someone he loves that he would do anything for you.

“And then I saw those people who weren’t only cheating on people who loved them,” he murmurs. “But they were also terrible people. Like full of such shitty things they’ve done and I just… What if those people ever came across your path? Would they fuck you over? Would they cheat on you?”

Panic grips you. Vernon feels you go rigid in his grip and he looks up at you, realizing what he’s said. He shakes his head quickly, tightening his hands on you. “No - sorry. I didn’t do it because of you, that came out wrong. Please don’t - that isn’t what I meant. It isn’t your fault. I just couldn’t stop thinking about how the world would be better without them so I just… did it.”

“Vernon…”

“I swear to you, it wasn’t for you. It was… for everyone? I don’t know. I cannot stand the thought of fucking scum walking the earth like that, so I did something about it.”

“And then you stopped.”

He looks up at you, a bit sulky. “What you want is more important to me. But my point is… I don’t really know what to do with the fact that I don’t care about what I did either. And even if you don’t care, it doesn’t mean you’re a monster or anything. It just makes you the person I want most in the world, still.”

It’s terrifying, this profession from him. To realize that you have this much power over him, this much sway is overwhelming. Pinned between his knees, your thoughts race with no direction, pulled in so many different ways. This kind of love is everything - and yet it scares you. But if you step away from him now, if you pull away in the slightest, you know it’ll do irreparable damage. That it’ll hurt.

“Can we go to bed?” You whisper, daring a glance at him.

Vernon nods, sliding off the counter. As he does, you shuffle backward, but not far enough to be out of reach. He lifts his hands to your face, cradling it gently and angling you to look at him. “I’m me. A little weirder. A little less refined. But I’m me.”

He’s right. You hear the truth in his words and you realize perhaps that’s why you don’t care about the blood on his hands. Because it is Vernon, and he’s yours. You don’t care because you love him, and you’d do anything for him too. Which is why you’ve spent weeks researching a way to free him - from nothing, you’re starting to suspect - and why you’ve not taken a single opportunity to turn him in.

“You’re you,” you agree softly. He smiles and you stand on the tips of your toes, pressing your mouth to his. He makes a surprised sound but you feel his grin grow wider for a split second before he kisses you back in earnest, soft and slow. “Remember what you said to the minister?”

The question catches him off guard, his lips ghost against yours when you break the kiss. “What?”

“That he can’t fuck me like you do.”

Vernon’s grip on your face turns firm. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes flashing. “I meant it.”

“Do it.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, leaning into him. “Show me.”

“Fucking say less,” Vernon growls, pulling your lips to his again.

This kiss is all-consuming, needy. Vernon’s fingers slide to the sides of your neck, angling you to deepen the kiss. Your pulse hammers against his fingers, mouth sliding along his. His tongue presses against yours, hungry. You meet him with equal fervor, weeks of holding yourself breaking though.

Somehow, Vernon manages to walk you backward. You cling to his arms, careful not to trip over your own feet until you’re falling backward onto his mattress. It smells like him - safe. He reaches behind his head, gripping the collar of his shirt and yanking it up and over. Propped on your elbow, you watch him. He throws the shirt and then he’s on you again, pushing you back gently so he can climb on top of you, a knee on either side of your waist.

Vernon’s skin is burning hot. Your fingers trace his lines, making him moan into your mouth as he kisses you furiously again. Your heart hammers so hard in your chest you can feel it, a racing rhythm that backtracks the sound of your heavy breathing when he breaks the kiss to pepper your jaw and neck in warm, wet kisses.

Your lids flutter, stomach flipping when he bites down on your neck harshly, soothing the sting with a rough swipe of his tongue. It feels so good, a slow but steady ache spreading between your thighs as he busies himself with sucking fervently at your collarbone.

Slipping your hands around his tapered waist, you scratch your nails up his back, not hard enough to leave marks but firm enough to make him groan and shiver. You grin, arching up into him as your hands explore the muscled planes of his back.

Your hips squirm, canting up against him seeking friction. He laughs, dragging his mouth from your neck to your lips, mumbling, “Need help?”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not, baby. It’s cute.”

Baby. You whine, hips thrashing and he grins before silencing you with a sweet kiss before reaching down to slide a leg open, replacing the open space between your knees with his thigh. A thrill shoots through you when he brings it up to your core, one of his hands dropping to your ass to help grind you against him.

“Come on,” he urges, licking your jawline. “You know you want to.”

You do. You roll your hips, dragging your clothed cunt along his sweats. It’s not nearly enough friction to do anything significant but it still feels good, turning your body static.

Vernon slides his hands under your shirt, bunching up the material as he slides upward to rid you of it. The room is cool, your skin pebbling and nipples tightening at the temperature. Vernon immediately sends a lick of heat through your, dropping down to capture a nipple in his greedy mouth.

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes closing. It feels so good, his tongue swirling lazily around the bud as you grind against his thigh. “Feels good.”

Teeth scrape against your sensitive skin. You let out a breathy sound, eyes rolling back. You give Vernon control easily, letting him work you up. It’s sweltering between your bodies, his skin warm against yours, the air charged. You can barely breathe, head falling to the side as he lavishes attention to your chest, your little rolls against his thigh desperate.

One of Vernon’s hands slips to your waist, firm and sure. He lifts himself off you and you protest but he hushes you with a quick, hungry kiss. His breath is warm against your cheek when he pulls back, shifting to kneel between your legs on the bed.

His fingers find the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate. The fabric scrapes against your skin soft-slow, like Vernon is unwrapping something sacred. The cool air hits your skin with equal intensity as his stare, dark and focused. There’s no teasing smirk anymore, replaced with a desire so powerful you start to squirm.

Then he’s on you again, mouth crashing against yours, deep and messy, all tongue and teeth and spit. He kisses you like he’s trying to become one with you, like he needs to taste every sound and whimper and noise you make. You can hardly keep up before his hand presses between your legs, fingers sliding over the front of your panties, pressing into the heat and slick of your cunt through the fabric.

And fuck it feels good.

One of his hands stays there, circling your clit with firm, steady pressure, rubbing the soaked fabric against you. The other creeps upward, fingertips brushing your chest, your collarbone, until it finds home at your neck. His palm settles there, warm and weighty, and you feel him shift his grip just enough to pin you gently to the mattress. It’s not tight, not rough, just present. Possessive. Perfect.

You thrum beneath him, the room tilting on its axis, slow and dreamline. You feel lightheaded, not just from the stimulation building in your core, but from the soft restraint of his hand around your neck. He’s not squeezing just yet, but the pressure is enough to remind you that it’s Venron in control, a promise of more that sends a thrill through you. If you want it.

You do want it. Your hand stretches up without thinking, shaking fingers curling around his where he grips your throat. You give him a gentle squeeze, a plea. His glaze flicks down to yours, searching. He seems mystified by what he sees there for a moment, swearing before he nods once, barely perceptible, before tightening his grip just enough to send a tingle down your spine. Not too much. Not too tight. Just enough to make your body sing.

Vernon presses his forehead against yours, mouth barely brushing your lips. Your breathing is coming harder now, trying to keep up with the way your body is vibrating at his touch.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice gravelly and reverent. He slips a hand under the waistband of your underwear, fingers hooking the edge to pull the damp fabric aside, revealing the slick warmth underneath. He groans softly at the feel of you against his fingers, sticky. You moan and he curses again. “There it is. You sound so pretty, baby.”

That spurs you on. You make more sounds for him, gasping when his fingers circle your clit properly. Your thighs twitch in response, nearly closing around his hand. He tuts, pressing his mouth against your jaw. “Feel good?”

“Yes,” you whine. His grip tightens a bit more. “Yeah. Yeah like that.”

He pecks your cheek and does as you ask, squeezing the barest hint more.

You start to fray at the edges. You feel yourself coming apart, incapable of doing anything but shaking under his ministrations. Having him touch you like this again is good. You don’t want anything else, happy that you’re here again. You don’t care about the cost, don’t care what it means anymore. It’s just you and Vernon and his hand between your legs, pulling a long, drawn out orgasm that has you trembling quietly in his hold.

When you let out your breath, orgasm subsiding, Vernon moves. He lets go of your throat, the sudden loss bringing the blood back, rushing. The room turns on its axis, your eyes fluttering as he shuffles down the bed, his hands pressing your thighs open.

“Vernon.” His name leaves your mouth, hand shooting to grab him by his short locks when he presses his tongue to you. You can barely breathe, shaking when he slowly licks up your cum, not wasting a drop. “Fuuuuck.”

“Taste so fucking good,” he mumbles against your cunt, tongue lazily licking you in circles. “Missed this so fucking much.”

Vernon’s tongue is addicting. He’s messy with it, closing his lips around your clit to give greedy sucks before dragging his mouth down to prod at your entrance. You shake under the attention of his mouth, barely able to do a thing.

His tongue drags slowly, warm and wet as he licks you at his own lazy pace. You realize this is for him. He savors the way you melt in his mouth, the little sounds you make when his tongue flicks back and forth on your clit, the way you cry when he fucks his tongue into your entrance, nose bumping your clit.

It’s maddening. His tongue traces along your entrance, collecting arousal before curling back up to lap at your clit. It feels like your blood has turned into electricity, your veins the conductors, Vernon’s mouth the source. He hums against you, enjoying this as he gives your cunt sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.

“Shit,” you hiss. He’s going to make you come again. You’re not even sure that’s his goal. He seems more focused on tasting you, on drinking you in, on running his tongue around and around on your sensitive flesh.

He hums, looking up at you with a mouth full of pussy. You see the gleam in his eye, see how much he wants this, watch as he grins and puts on a show for you, opening up his mouth and holding his tongue flat to your pussy, letting you roll your hips to fuck his tongue.

Vernon nods, little mumbles of mhmmm as you near your high. He lets you take control, riding his tongue until you’re spasming, thighs squeezing his head. He doesn’t care, tongue moving back and forth, keeping you shaking as long as he can until you’re twitching, pushing at his head.

He comes away, mouth and chin slick, lips swollen. You don’t care, grabbing him and dragging him up to you, surging forward to lick across his lips, tasting yourself. He grins and pins you down to the mattress by your shoulders, content to let you taste as much as you want.

“Please,” you gasp against his mouth. “Want you.”

He curses. “Say it again.” He leans down to your ear, lips pressed against it when he says, “Say you want me.”

“Want you. Only you.”

“Mhmm.” He licks down your neck, biting down when he reaches the juncture of your shoulder.

Leaning up, Vernon kicks out of his sweats. His hands are reverant when he pulls your underwear down your thighs, fabric scraping against your hypersensitive skin. He dives back in, kissing you as he presses his waist against yours, cock heavy and leaking against your thigh.

You reach down, palming him in your hand. He moans, desperate and breathy, breaking the kiss to drop his head against your shoulder. He’s warm and smooth in your hand. He lets you swipe your thumb across the sensitive head of his cock, hips jerking. You spread his precum down his shaft, hand firm. He fists the sheets, hips twitching forward as you stroke him leisurely.

“Please,” he murmurs, breath fanning your neck. “Please.”

Hearing him ask for it nearly makes you pass out. You drag the crown of his cock through your messy folds, slicking him up. He growls when you do it, pressing his cock down down down until the tip catches your entrance. You moan in tandem, you at the pressure of him pushing in slightly, him at how bad he wants it.

Vernon sinks in slowly. You suck in a sharp breath, overwhelmed from the feeling of his cock pressing you open until there’s nowhere left to go. It feels good as he stills, hip-to-hip with you as you adjust. Your mouths tangle again and you slide your fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck, tugging what you can.

He gives an appreciative sound and pulls back slightly just to give a sharp fuck forward. You jostle and break the kiss, gasping, spit linking your mouth. His grin is wicked and he licks into your mouth again, starting to fuck into you slowly.

You start to synapse. You feel on firel, burning up from the inside out as Vernon sets a slow but deep pace, pulling all the way out before he drives all the way back in. He grabs one of your thighs, nails scraping as he pulls it up and fastens it around his waist. It changes the angle, makes everything feel deeper.

Everywhere Vernon touches you leaves a mark. He stains your soul, every press of his mouth a promise of ruination, every brush of his hands speaking prophecy into your skin. You feel him write himself into your scripture with each thrust, every pass of his tongue against yours a prayer.

The minister was wrong. You and Vernon have something holier than he could ever understand, a dark gospel unfolding between your moving bodies that only the two of you know the hymns to. How could it be anything but when you feel closer to God as Vernon grips your leg tight, pulling you down to meet each thrust. What is religion, if not the feeling of his moans buzzing through your lips, bringing you closer to revelation?

“Mine,” Vernon promises against your lips. “Mine.”

“Yours.” Your hand slides from the back of his neck around to his chest, pressing your palm flat against his chest. His heart is hammering, lungs heaving. “Mine.”

“Only yours.”

“You love me?”

You nod frantically against him.

“I need to hear you say it.”

“I love you.”

And you do. You realize that nothing else matters. You don’t care how fucked up the last few weeks have been. You don’t care that Vernon is something a little more than human, maybe something a little less. You don’t care about anything other than the fact that now he’s here, vulnerable with you - only for you.

He picks up his pace. You feel another orgasm coming, all of your nerves pulsing, near overloaded. “I would rip heaven from the sky if you asked.”

“I know.”

And you do know. You see it - feel it in the desperate way he grabs you, the way he fucks into you, frenzied. You feel yourself light up, an imploding star as you come around him, squeezing. He growls out your name, coming undone with you, thrusts messy and wet as you soak his cock.

Vernon’s mouth finds yours, uncoordinated and messy but greedy, gluttonous, needy. You kiss him with equal fervor, uncaring that your mouth feels bruised and swollen, willing to let him tear you apart just to have some fraction of him with you.

He starts to slow, spent and shaking until he’s hovering over you, trembling. Your hands rub up and down his sides gently, calming him down. He breathes heavily, the only sound trapped between you. You tilt your head to the side, pressing soft kisses against his inner forearm.

Eventually, he pulls out, leaving a wet mess and dull ache between your legs. He doesn’t go far, content to tangle himself up in you, pressed as close as he can. His mouth goes to your shoulder, pressing butterfly-light kisses there.

“If I’m a demon,” Vernon mumbles, voice scratchy from use, “you must be my angel.”

“Yeah?” You roll toward him, lifting your hand to cradle his face. His eyes are soft as ever, watching you. Your thumb brushes back and forth over his cheekbone until his eyes flutter shut and he nods. “So are you saying you’re a demon now?”

His mouth twitches but he shakes your head. “Don’t know what I am. I’m just yours.”

“Yes,” you agree softly, gazing at him with stars in your eyes. “Mine.”

All the candles are nearly burned to the wick when Vernon enters the church. The flamelight stutters, reacting to him like prey sensing a predator. His boots fall heavy against the threadbare carpet, each step a low, deliberate thud that echoes too long in the still air. His hands are buried in his pockets, but there’s a lazy, cruel confidence in his gait now, a swagger that would have been foreign on the boy who used to flinch at raised voices.

He thinks of that version of himself as dead now.

Old Vernon. Soft-spoken, uncertain, dying under the weight of all the words left unspoken.

This Vernon doesn’t tremble. This Vernon doesn’t hesitate to say what he wants - which is only ever you. This Vernon isn’t afraid to make the world bow at your feet, to crush anyone who would stand in your way.

He’s not possessed. He knows that. He hasn’t been possessed for a while. It doesn’t feel like Thomas left so much as Vernon devoured him. Bit by bit, until there was nothing left of Thomas’s spirit. Now, Vernon is more than he was. Maybe a little less human, he isn’t sure. Something with blood under his nails and your name forever on his tongue.

All his rage, all his violence, all his power? It's yours. It's what makes the constant simmering need to do damage bearable.

Vernon doesn’t knock when he reaches the minister’s office. The door opens with a warning creak, and the man looks up in confusion, wondering who would dare enter his office this late at night without knocking. He realizes who it is and his face twists into a tapestry of anger.

It dies just as fast.

Vernon doesn’t give him a moment to speak. He drives his boot into the desk, splintering the wood with a sickening crunch, sending it skidding into the minister’s chest. The man crumples with a wheeze and a painful shout, papers floating down around him like ash.

Circling the wreckage with deliberate calm, Vernon grins as he watches the man flail, trying to get up, a beetle stuck on its back.

“My girlfriend told me not to kill anyone,” Vernon explains. His voice is casual. Conversational. “Didn’t say I couldn’t ruin you for opening your fucking mouth, though.”

The minister gapes, trying to push away from Vernon. “What are you doing?”

Vernon’s fingers unlace from his pockets. He flexes them, tendons twitching like coiled wire. “Paying you back,” he growls, leaning down, breath hot and too close. “For every time you insulted her while we were here the other night. For calling her study a delusion and making her question herself and her work.”

He seizes the minister by the collar of his robe and hauls him upright like a limp doll. “This time,” Vernon murmurs, voice suddenly soft. Sensual. “I won’t stop at words.”

This time, Vernon’s hands draw blood.

TAG LIST:

@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn@thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @thepoopdokyeomtouched@eoieopda @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy@gyuguys @codeinebelle @ateez-atiny380 @bultaereume@yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @gyubakeries@archivistworld @asyre @kaepjjangiya @fancypeacepersonaa @beckyloveshannie @imujings @do-you-remember-summer-127 @jbluen@mingumis @kimsaerom @imlonelydontsendhelp @eunyi@smiileflower @gyuhao365 @thefrozeneternity @heechwe

@wakandabiitch2 @livelaughloveseventeen @igetcarriedawaywithyou @cristy-101

@mrsjohnnysuh @miyx-amour @lonegryffindor2005 @ohannah

#vernon smut #hansol smut #chwe vernon smut #chwe hansol smut #hansol x reader #vernon x reader #svt smut #svt fic #vernon x you #vernon angst #hansol angst #svt fanfic #svt imagines #svt x reader #tw: flashing gif #tw: flashing lights #tw: flashing

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wileycap · 12 hours ago

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I think we in the A:TLA fandom have missed the absolute potential of the fact that Ozai Firelord is canonically a fucking idiot. I mean the dude's straight up stupid. And I want to be very clear that this isn't a plot hole, this isn't a flaw in the show, this is a fantastic and super realistic element that honestly enhances my enjoyment of it! Dictators are often stupid and breed a culture of cronyism-over-competence. Any similarities with real world leaders, dead or alive, are coincidental yet inevitable.

What do I mean?

Well, let's take the Drill. When faced with the problem of Big Wall, Ozai's Fire Nation comes up with Big Drill. One singular Big Drill. Which, as anyone except an idiot could have predicted, immediately breaks down and accomplishes nothing. And if the Fire Nation had made it past the wall, then they would have been fighting through a narrow opening against people who can hurl long distance rocks! Which, if your face or body is vulnerable to high velocity rocks, is a bad thing for you and also for the battle.

Not to mention the resource cost of that thing! It's so insanely gigantic, it must have cost the Fire Nation the equivalent of trillions. For ONE drill. Not ten smaller drills. Just ONE drill. (Fanfic fuel: how much did Ba Sing Se profit off of stripping that drill for parts? Did they reverse engineer it? Did Long Feng keep that for himself?)

And you might be thinking, fairly, that it was War Minister Qin who came up with the drill and you'd be right, but it's Ozai who's approving all this shit. Instead of doing the reasonable thing and asking Qin if he et the whole edible, or even the in-character thing of burning him to death, Ozai just goes... big drill. Makes sense. We should have the biggest drill, because we are the biggest nation. Drill, baby, drill. sorry

It's not the first time, either! He also approves Zhao's invasion of the North Pole, apparently just because Zhao is good at kissing ass and hates Zuko? I couldn't tell you what merits Zhao has. We do not see him lead a single successful mission. The closest he comes is Pohuai, and even then its the Yuyan archers who do most of the work. (My longstanding headcanon is that the reason we don't see the Yuyan archers again is because Zhao blamed the whole thing on them and they were disbanded. This is great fic fuel for displaced Yuyan archers just, wandering around, being elite.)

He approved a massive naval invasion of the North Pole, surrounded by and made of water and ice, inhabited by people who bend water. A nation that was, by its own choice, completely out of the war.

Every time we see Ozai doing something, it's something stupid. Like disfiguring and banishing his firstborn child in a culture that has primogeniture. And then (once he's done pissing away a massive fleet of ships) he does the logical thing and sends his only other heir to bring his first heir back - even though his first heir would have been willing to return with a simple invitation. Like he could have sent a letter saying "dear son come home miss u pick up 200 000 tons of steel qin wants 2 build a drill lol", and Zuko would have come. (Okay, he did have a valid reason for having Zuko escorted, since he thought Iroh was a traitor, but there's absolutely NO reason to risk Azula. Why not send Combustion Man? It's the luckiest stroke of luck ever that Azula is 100 times more competent than her dad.)

Of course, a dictator(-wannabe) sending his daughter on high-level diplomatic missions is pure fiction. Nobody would do that.

The best part of this is that it's entirely realistic and in-character. I could absolutely imagine Ozai purging all of his competent admirals and generals, and then promoting brownnoses like Zhao and crackpots like Qin, because they promised him glorious destinies and secret knowledge of Big Drill.

I also really, really want a scene of Zuko and Azula realizing that their father is a fucking idiot.

I would also like to note that all this stupid shit happens after Iroh leaves with Zuko. So, here's a headcanon: the only reason the Fire Nation didn't immediately implode when Ozai took the throne and purged everyone is because of Iroh. Iroh leaving with Zuko doomed Ozai. It's also a nice little drop of complexity in Iroh's character - he knew he was single-handedly keeping the Fire Nation afloat, yet he only left when Zuko did. Did he plan for Zuko to take the throne from the start? What was his plan before Aang showed up? Did he not intervene in the Agni Kai because he was afraid, or because he knew that Ozai was making a huge mistake and didn't want to interrupt? Give me chessmaster Iroh please.

#atla #avatar the last airbender #zuko #azula #ozai #fire lord ozai #fire nation #uncle iroh #atla crack #atla headcanons #I have a vendetta against that drill. Again it's 100% a thing that I can see Ozai approving. But I hate it #Fuck your drill Fire Donald you dumb fucking idiot #sorry. a bit on the nose there. i was so subtle up until just then.#Also burning the whole Earth Kingdom? AND THEN WHAT ASSHOLE. THEN WHAT WILL YOU DO.#It's a miracle he didn't get assassinated. Ozai must have gone through five food tasters a day.#“Oop there goes another one. I guess they all just hate how great I am. hashtag sufferingfromsuccess”

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lovemepartly · 1 day ago

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mornings with... ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

featuring: choi seung-hyun, kwon jiyong, kang daesung

warnings: none except i was too lazy to proofread

a/n: first of all, sorry that this is short and sorry for generally being so inactive :(( i have exams for the next two weeks and my senioritis is so bad i just wanna arghsjbdf

also, i know i haven't written for sg in so long that's mb 🙁 i have so many wips for lots of characters that i just haven't had the motivation to finish but i will lock in soon trust me 🙏 anddd i may start posting for skz soon!

finally, i've really liked writing these headcanons for bigbang so if you have any requests i'll probably do them :')

choi seung-hyun ⋆⭒˚.⋆

• seung-hyun either wakes up extremely early (and once he does he can’t fall back asleep) or he wakes up at like 2pm.

• when he wakes up early, he quietly slips out of bed, not wanting to wake you. he’ll spend some quiet time to himself - i definitely see him as the kind of guy that has a diary and meditates and does yoga and whatnot.

• around the time you wake up, he’ll make some breakfast for the two of you. he’s not the best cook but can make something simple and honestly the gesture is so sweet you wouldn’t care even if the food was bad.

• seung-hyun usually wakes up late on the weekends. he’s definitely a heavy sleeper, so he probably wouldn’t even notice when you wake up, kissing him softly on the forehead.

• when he finally stumbles out of the room at 1pm, rubbing his eyes groggily, you can’t help but laugh quietly to yourself. he has markings all over his cheek from the bedsheets and can barely open his eyes as he stumbles over to you, kissing you lazily.

kwon jiyong ⋆⭒˚.⋆

• jiyong sleeps in late, but not too late. he loveees sleeping with you and is definitely a cuddler. it doesn’t matter if he’s the big spoon or small spoon, he just loves to be near you and sleeps so much better next to you.

• if you wake up early to go to bed, good luck getting jiyong to let go of you. when your alarm sounds and he feels you stirring in bed, he’ll tightly wrap an arm around your waist and bury his face in your shoulder, sleepily mumbling, “five more minutes.”

• on weekends, when the two of you can both wake up late, he loves cooking breakfast with you. picture the most cliché couple that makes breakfast together in silly aprons - and that’s you guys. you love it, though.

kang daesung ⋆⭒˚.⋆

• daesung wakes up early. he has his alarm set and everything and loves sticking to his schedule. if you try to get him to stay in bed, cuddling up next to him, he’ll happily comply, staying with you for a couple more minutes before insetting that he really does have to get up.

• he’ll make breakfast for you, though, and when it’s finally time for you to wake up for work, he’ll plant a soft kiss to your forehead to wake you.

• on weekends, he still likes to wake up early, but if you’re really insistent, he’ll stay in bed with you a little longer. he’ll hold you tightly, stroking your hair, letting you sleep in his arms and i just know it’s the best feeling ever.

#bigbang #bigbang fic #bigbang x reader #choi seunghyun #choi seunghyun x reader #top x reader #kwon jiyong #kwon jiyong x reader #gdragon #gdragon x reader #kang daesung #daesung #daesung x reader

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nicetrybuster · 2 days ago

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♡ Unexpected visit ♡

18+

It was a cold snowy night, the fireplace outside burned out and snow coated the deck. Everyone was in their room to sleep or for warmth in their own comfort. Well.. almost everyone.

You just wanted a shower, hey, if nami gets to do that practically all the time, why can't you?

You sighed when the hot water touched your feet, this was nice. This was reeeeally nice.

"HEEEEY Y/N!!!" not nice, this is not nice at all.

"WHERE ARE YOU?" you wrap yourself in a towel and moved out the way. And in three, two one..

He bursts through the door, "there you are!" And slips, and in the most cartoonish way, crashes into the place you just moved away from.

"hey cap'n" you say, smiling with water dripping from Luffy head to toe, "shishishishi I guess I got too caught up" he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head

"happens to the best to us" you sigh and clear your throat "you should leave now" he looked at you curiously "why?" He said in an annoying tone

"are ya afraid?" You were too tired to deal with this "no, Luffy, I just want some piece and quiet" you almost wanted to leave, but no way were you gonna waste hot water!

"nu uh! You're scared!" He chuckled and moved closer to you, and pulled you into a big hug "see! There's nothing to be afraid of!!"

Well there goes your towel..!

He didn't realize his mistake and you obviously weren't prepared for this, so speechless was the situation right now.

"Luffy..." He looked at you innocently while you were in his arms and for the first time he was understanding what he was doing, your chest was pressed against his and his legs wrapped around your waist, a classic Luffy hug.

Except your cold like a bitch. "sorry" ...well, I guess that some people are too innocent for this world.

He sat you down on his lap "is this more comfortable?" Wow, he is retarted!! You looked over your shoulder too see Luffy holding your waist

You didn't wanna seem like you were kicking him out, so you went the easy way, "Luffy, aren't you cold?" He was soaking wet after all but all he did was hold you tighter in his arms, and nuzzled his head in your neck and you felt his breath on you skin.

Well great, at least he isn't the only wet one

you felt his growing erection this is a sensation you never guessed you would feel. He felt it, you felt it..

"uuuuh luffy?" Ohhhh boy, you never even knew rubber could get THIS red! And all you wanted to see is that shade to go brighter.

So you slowly, and I mean SLOWLY grind against him, just to get a reaction out of him, but then it went faster and faster... And next thing you knew is Luffy was holding your waist and grinding on you as hard as he could

At least you weren't cold anymore!!

He then flips you over.

"Luffy-". "shut up." Whoa there buddy what happened to a drink and a movie first?

But that just made you soaked, as if you weren't already.

You hear him pulling down his pants and unbuttoning his shirt, fast. Like reeeeally fast.

you're laying down on the FLOOR facing up, and he just whips out his dick? Damn have some manners- HOLY SHIT ITS BIG.

#luffy head cannons #monkey d. luffy #luffy x reader #luffy #one piece #one piece x reader #luffy x fem reader #luffy smut #straw hat luffy #one peice

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cherrygirlfriend · 13 hours ago

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DRUNK & SEEING STARS 🌌

⟡ pairing: aaron x bau!reader

⟡ summary: everyone knows that sleeping with your boss is a bad idea, but what’s even worse is drunkenly confronting said boss for avoiding you.

⟡ warnings / tags: angst & comfort, allusions to sexual activities but no smut, MDNI!

⟡ author's notes: first hotch fic let’s gooo!!

if you were sober, maybe you'd have cared about the fact that this was the worst idea in the world, but the buzz from the bottles of wine you had split between three of your co-workers during a weekly girls' night didn't care even though it knew that this could very well lead to you being terminated. you simply stared out of the window at the passing, hazy streetlights in the back of a cab that smelled of booze even more than you did.

it all started a month ago, the events of that night also coincidentally caused by having one too many drinks. what started as casual drinks with your team after a case turned into stumbling into your apartment, your lips pressed against your unit chief's as the two of you couldn't get out of your clothes and into your bed faster.

what started with you falling asleep naked in his arms ended up with you waking up to a cold bed, empty of anything except for a note consisting of two words.

i'm sorry.

and the next time you saw him, hotch acted just like he always did, like the two of you had slept together, to the point that you could almost be convinced it didn't happen, except it was as if his touch had been engraved into your flesh, as if his fingerprints left permanent marks in their wake, as if you could still feel his lips press against your inner thigh, as if you could still feel him inside of you...

when the taxi pulled up in front of hotch's building, you handed the driver the money you owed, before heading inside. the entire elevator ride to his floor, your head kept screaming at you to stop, to turn around, that you were being an idiot. but it was as if your body had a mind of its own, because your feet led you to his door, and your hand balled into a fist and knocked without even realizing what you were doing.

the door was pulled open, and you were faced with a familiar figure; it was one in the morning, but he was still wearing his suit, having ditched the jacket and tie, the top buttons undone. the black-haired man wasn't one to show much emotion, but you could see his eyebrow twitch slightly, making it clear that he was as confused about why you were here as you were.

"agent, what-"

but before aaron could finish his sentence, your legs had moved on their own, had made you press yourself into him as you let out soft sniffles. the man let out a small sigh, wrapping his arms around you as quiet, warm tears began to run down your cheeks. one of his hands went to the back of your head, holding you closer as he stroked your hair.

"come on." he mumbled quietly, leading you over to the couch. aaron sat you down, one of his arms still around you, pulling back slightly to look at your face, one of his calloused hands reaching out to wipe away the tears, "what's going on?" he asked in his gruff voice, trying to say it as gently as possible.

"is there something wrong with me...?" you asked quietly, avoiding looking at his face, into the eyes that you remember gazing into that night. he lifted your head up by your chin.

"there's nothing wrong with you."

"then why did you just leave?" you countered, making aaron let out a sigh, bringing his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose. "it has nothing to do with there being something wrong with you, and everything with you working for me."

you swallow the bitter taste in your throat, "do you regret it...?"

"i... i don't know." aaron said, tugging you close to him as another tear ran down your cheek, but this time the man didn't wipe it away. "it's complicated. i don't regret it, but i don't think it should've happened."

"i don't regret it." you sniffled, wiping the tear away yourself, "and i'm glad it happened. why do you keep acting like it didn't happen?"

"because... if i don't, then i'd have to admit to myself that i wish it happened again."

you don't think you'd ever been as stunned as you were when those words left his lips, your head spinning at his words, "you... you wish it happened again?"

"i wish it could happen again." aaron sighed again, leaning his head back on the sofa cushion, staring up at the ceiling, "but it can't. we both know it can't."

you curl into his chest and closed your eyes, letting out a small hum. you agreed. it should've never happened in the first place. but you couldn't help but want it to happen again, and again. you listened to the steady beat of aaron's heart, your mascara tears surely leaving stains in his button-down, his thumb stroking your back in a soothing motion, pressing a kiss on top of your head. and the last thing you heard before you fell asleep were three little words that would mean nothing to anyone else but everything to you.

"i'm not sorry..."

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dark-lord-of-awesomeness · 2 days ago

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I'm slowly savoring the absolutely delicious dish that is Princess Stan fic and the "turned into gold" scene can't leave my imagination.

So sorry if it was asked before, but was it confusing for Dragon Ford? Because I'm imagining that for a first several moments he's even reassured because his little twin is feeling so right, so shiny, so precious. He smells right and he shines as he always should... And then as he realises what happened he's horrified because for some moments he was welcoming this turn?

What I'm hearing is you'd like a Ford Pov of the gold Stan scene :)

"Fine, but make it quick, I'm trying to gloat here." Bill said, making the rage and fire in Ford's chest burn brighter. How dare the demon claim to be his Stan's relation in any kind of way. His Stan was His, and their parents were only of dim importance to that fact.

His Stan stretched his mouth out, bringing a hand up to massage it while trying to look at the demon perched on his shoulder. Another reason to crush him into pieces, no creature like Bill should be able to touch his Stan.

"What do I get out of you sticking to me like a barnacle? You just gonna yap-" his Stan was cut off as the demon's arms came up and wrapped around his mouth, making Ford and his Stan growl.

When he got his claws on Bill, the demon would regret treating his brother so carelessly.

"You see, thats the kicker here," Bill sighed, sitting down on his Stan's shoulder like a common seat, completely disregarding the respect his Stan deserved, "the job description was kinda vague, but it boils down to 'making you happy' and 'granting withes' which, lame? Why should I waste my time making you happy? Your misery makes me happy enough."

His Stan's happiness was like the rarest pearls. Ford had been trying for weeks to get the barest of his Stan's smiles, and he treasured each one like diamonds. Bill's words were an insult to life itself.

Before he could start telling the demon that in detail, his Stan tapped the arms around his mouth, making Bill groan.

Good.

"Look, you're already so needy. What is it now."

"Why on earth would I want you to grant any of my wishes?" his Stan asked, looking annoyed as he eyed Bill, "You already said you were a demon king-"

"THE demon king, brat"

The urge to tear Bill limb from limb was almost impossible to control. His Stan? A brat? The moment he could he was going to rip the demon's tongue out for daring to call him something so awful.

His Stanly ignored it, continuing on like Bill hadn't insulted the best thing to walk the castle halls.

"-A demon king, why would i trust you to do anything?"

Exactly, Ford nodded, eyeing Bill and slowly moving the claw not holding his Stan closer, judging the space over his shoulder and how well he could pinch something so small.

"You'd obviously twist everything I wanted around, like when people say 'I wish for my weight in gold' then-"

Bill snapped his fingers, and before Ford could blink his Stan went silent. He was still leaning on Fords claws, still eyeing Bill, still looking distrustful. Everything was the same, except that he was now solid gold.

Ford felt his heart stop in his chest, the dread and panic hitting him so hard, he hardly registered Bill disappearing in a cloud of pink smoke.

My Stanley, he cooed, gently reaching out with his other claw to brush through his brother's hair. It clanged against it, leaving the smallest of scratches.

Gold was very soft after all, and Ford was very, very big.

MY STANLEY! Ford roared, claw twitching before he straightened it out, terrified to put the barest of pressure on his brothers too still form. Gold was so so soft, and Ford knew, deep in his heart, that his Stan was made of it from the tips of his hair down to his toes. Just like he knew where every object of his hoard was and what it was worth, he knew his Stan was right here, unmoving and worth more and less than he every had been.

Some darker, primal part in him trilled in delight at his brother's new from. Like this, his Stan looked just as precious on the outside as he was on the inside. Like this, his Stan couldn't try sneaking out, couldn't wander off or away. Like this, Ford wouldn't have to worry about food, or water, or keeping him warm. He'd stay right where Ford put him.

Forever.

Ford crushed that part of himself. He snarled as he ripped it to shreds and burned the pieces to a crisp. His Stan might be difficult, but he was precious because he was Fords brother. His twin brother, who was loud and funny and made Ford feel safe and loved. The best of friends, together wherever they went.

His Stan couldn't be any of those things like this. Not with how he was slowly cooling in Ford's claws, stiff and lifeless.

MY STANLEY! he roared again, leaning in as close as he dared while he inspected the golden statue in his claw. No heart beat in its chest, no air moved in its lungs. The light from above shone down and reflected off of the curves and folds of his brother's hair and clothes in a shimmering display as Ford turned him delicately in his claw.

How beautiful.

How horrifying.

He was going to shred Bill to pieces.

FIDDLEFORD! Ford roared, carefully standing on his hind legs and rushing towards the treasury doors, FIDDLEFORD!

Fiddleford could help, or Emma-May. They'd been studying curses this whole time, so his servants friends had to have some idea of what to do. Ford's thoughts scrambled and snarled at each other, only agreeing to hold his Stan cupped in his claws, so his poor brother couldn't be damaged any more than he already was.

They'd fix it, or work on fixing it. Something. Anything.

Otherwise he wasn't sure he'd be able to control what he did next.

#gravity falls #gravity falls au #stan pines #ford pines #princess stan #dragon ford #bill cipher #ignore how i wrote this instead of the next chapter of doppelganger

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forsaken-headcanons · 23 hours ago

Note

(TW for implied child death !! and body mutation idk. uhh basically the c00lgui did some things. yeah.)

If we're going to start blaming a survivor for being Spectre or for being the reason everyone's there, it's most likely to be 007n7.

NOW HEAR ME OUT PLEASE DON'T BLOW UP MY HOU gunfire sfx

ANYWAY AS I WAS SAYING, if one of the survivors were to be "Spectre", it would most likely be 007n7 for a small list of reasons I've gathered so far.

First off, the survivors and killers. I have a small list of the characters and why he would "forsaken" them.

Noob & Guest 666 - Noob and G666 had an extremely positive friendship back then, which made 007n7 deeply resent them because - how dare the two of them be happy, while he had to suffer in his own guilt for what he had done to Noli? He did some shit and figured out how to fuck with G666's code (I imagine Robloxians are mostly made up of code) and made him what he is in forsaken, hence why G666 mostly has a red-black color palette like his c00lgui (the color palette's definitely a stretch, but whatever </3)

Elliot - This is a really obvious pick. Part of me thinks that he would've let Elliot go if he hadn't pissed him off by banning them from Builder Brothers' Pizza and making c00lkidd extremely emotional and throw a tantrum about it, but I feel like that's just the PizzaBurger shipper in me. If I would be more realistic, he might've just forsaken him out of spite.

The Admins + 1x1x1x1 - Again, really obvious. They tried to supress him and his hacking things yada yada.... He also made Doom a killer out of spite and specifically chose him because... y'know. Doombringer. He is quite literally the bringer of doom??? And he also added 1x1x1x1 to rub more salt in Shedletsky's hypothetical wound.

Taph - Works for the Admins. Also, I feel like at some point, Taph would've demolished 007n7's house because - y'know - falsely terminated, so 007n7 just kept that hate to himself internally because he knew damn well he was gonna get his "revenge" soon.

Two Time & Azure - Similar to Noob and G666, he resents their relationship and how close they were. When he found out that a ritual had been performed and Azure had been sacrificed, he had taken that opportunity and made him into the killer he is in Forsaken, along with sending in Two Time, a way to teach them that no offense goes unpunished.

Guest 1337 - 1337 had a positive and a really happy family. 007n7 envied his joy and decided to take it away from him, just his own was taken away, too. This could explain why Guest was never favored by the "Spectre" and hadn't left him with any tools or items to fend himself with, only his fists and abilities.

Chance - They were always carefree and were surrounded by a BUNCH of people. 007n7, again, envied that. The carefree attitude they always had, their large friend groups, their fame... He had everything, and yet he still had the nerve to let himself be put into dangerous situations for the adrenaline rush. If life-threatening, adrenaline-inducing, scarring experiences was what Chance wanted, 007n7 would give it to them.

Area 51 killers - 007n7 probably had an Area 51 phase as a teen or something. Idk I can't make up anything here except for that.

John Doe & Jane Doe - Again, envy. Seeing their positive marriage had dealt some level of effect on 007n7. He felt envious of the fact the two were happily in love, happily holding a relationship he knew he would never had. The thought of that alone had driven him insane with anger and guilt, corrupting John Doe and leaving Jane Doe only as a mere spectator, never being able to see her own husband face-to-face ever again.

Noli - As a plea of forgiveness. Before he had left Noli for whatever reason, 007n7 knew about Noli's sadistic tendencies and how he used to often torment people with his programs. He had forsaken him as a way to tell him "Hey, I still remember you enjoy this. Please don't ever think I forgot about you." and "I'm sorry for what I did. Here, I'll let you have free will to do whatever you want, as long as it means you'll forgive me."

(This is where the TWs come in !!)

c00lkidd - Had a bit of difficulty figuring out this one without implementing some hcs into it. You know how there was an accident that had something happen to c00lkidd? 007n7 could never forgive himself after that. He spent all night and all day trying to search for kidd, going from town to town, asking locals if they had seen his son, to no avail.

It wasn't until the day he had finally found c00lkidd's body, deep in the woods, dripping in blood. He didn't know what had happened. He didn't know why his son was dead, heartlessly murdered, left in the woods. Driven by guilt, he had tried his best to bring him back to life, tears dripping down his face as he messily fumbled with his son's code, trying to find a way to bring him back warm and into his arms.

All he had ended up doing was disfiguring his own son's body. Arms and legs freakishly longer than a normal 10-year-olds, a wide, sunken smile on his face, and a distorted voice. But it didn't matter. He had brought his son back to life. He knew what he had done was wrong, but he couldn't bring it in himself to undo his craft. Instead, he had opted for sending his son into the crooked world he had crafted, letting him "play" with the survivors and make new friends. After all, all he wanted was the best for his beloved son.

As for 007n7 himself, well...

The one in rounds isn't actually him. It's just a more advanced clone of himself, which is why "he" almost always never smiles, always looks distant or out of it. He had used that puppet multiple times to try to have conversations with his son and former friend, trying to see if they were doing alright in the pocket dimension.

Uhh might add some more on this theory soon <3 my brain is FRIED rn and I still have some homework to do :P

-⛑️🍗 anon

007N7 AS THE SPECTRE AU/THEORY??? WAITT THIS IS LOWKEY PEAK.... we might fw the idea for this actually...

godss the concepts of how everyone got here are so so good!! but trust us when we say we are hunting you down for the potential angst ideas /silly. in tears at c00lkidd's part... 7n7.... 7n7 we don't think that's what your son would've wanted vro 💔💔

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mallory524 · 8 hours ago

Text

a bunch of teenagers

bob x reader

(she/her)

pictures from pinterest

summary- Bob has really started to like you, but he assumes you don’t feel the same way about him. You do though, and everyone seems to know that except Bob… and apparently also Walker, who really thought he had a chance

warnings- thunderbolts* spoilers kinda, thunderbolts being roomies and hanging out yayy, pining, slight jealousy, bob not feeling very confident :( small mention of void stuff, slightly suggestive mention, john walker likes you and of course that goes absolutely nowhere, bucky is getting too old for this foolishness, hand holding, fluff

word count- 1443

notes- i will write for any of the thunderbolts, you guys, the obsession has reallyyy set in

The view of the sunset from the Watchtower is a beautiful backdrop for an already nice evening with the group. You’re all sitting around, waiting for Bucky to come back with food for everyone. Alexei is telling some awfully embarrassing childhood story about Yelena, who keeps trying to cut him off mid-story. "No listen, I was a small child-"

Bob is listening and occasionally laughing, but he’s focusing on you more than he’s focusing on the story. You’re sitting right next to Alexei and trying really hard not to laugh at his story (for Yelena’s sake) but occasionally you cover your face as your whole body shakes with laughter. Bob loves it. He loves seeing you smile. He feels like he’s being weird so he looks away, but he quickly notices that he’s not the only one looking at you.

Walker, who’s sitting right across from him, keeps glancing your way, too. Bob’s never considered before that Walker would like you, but it's not surprising. Of course he would. You’re so funny and smart and you’re tough, but you can also be so kind and, of course, you’re absolutely beautiful... Walker would have to be so dumb to not to see all of that, but it doesn’t mean that Bob approves of this at all.

He doesn’t think Walker is right for you, and he's never considered that you might see Walker that way, but now the idea is in his head and he hates it.

Walker can be a real jerk, (and of course he’s got some rage issues), but he is good looking, and he’s actually able to help on missions. Bob has to stay back most of the time. Plus, sometimes Walker can be pleasant. Sometimes.

Walker also doesn’t risk showing you your most awful traumatic memories every time you touch. Bob’s mostly got it under control now, but it doesn’t matter because now he’s got the mental image of you and Walker touching and that makes him feel nauseous. The idea of you and Walker-

He doesn’t realize he’s been intensely staring down Walker until he looks up at Bob with the most confused look on his face and mouths “what??”.

Even the mere idea of something happening between you and Walker is bothering him, and he can't get it out of his head. I don't know why I'm upset. It's not like I ever had a chance.

After dinner, everyone starts to split up and do their own thing around the tower for the rest of the night. Of course, no one bothered to clean up after themselves, so you take it upon yourself. Bob walks over and hands you another dirty plate. “Sorry”, he says with a shy little laugh.

“Aww dang", you say with a chuckle, "Thanks for actually handing me your dishes, though. Ava left hers on the floor”, and the two of you quietly snicker.

Bob awkwardly fiddles with random things on the counter, as if one of them will give him another excuse to stay there and keep talking to you. You suspect that's what he's doing, but you never know exactly what's going on in his head. Whatever he's doing, it's endearing. Although, you find everything about him endearing: his smile, his little laugh he does every time he's nervous, his messy curls that are starting to fall over his eyes...

You realize neither of you have said anything in a while. "Hey, how are you feeling tonight? You've been extra quiet", you tell him with a sweet smile.

Bob panics, "No, what? I'm fine. Um. I'm just tired, that's what it is", and he smiles at you, but then the direct eye contact is a little too much for him and he redirects his smile to the tile floor.

"Okay, just checking", You aren't sure if you believe him, but you're not going to push it. "Hey, did you see that video where-", and you start talking about something else.

Yelena walks back into the room to grab her phone, and she smiles and rolls her eyes when she sees you happily talking and laughing together.

At some point, Walker strolls in and soo casually leans against the counter, (he thinks he's being really cool), and thanks you for cleaning up, completely ignoring Bob, who is standing right there and helping clean up, too. Bob glances at you, trying to see if you act any different when Walker's around.

As Walker steps back into the hallway to go to bed, he stops walking for a second and glances back at you from afar, until a voice totally pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Don’t even think about it”

“Geez Bucky, don’t sneak up on me like that”, Walker says before turning back to look at you and Bob again. “But seriously, do you think I should go for it?”

“No”, Bucky says with no hesitation.

“Well don’t think too hard about it.” Walker responds sarcastically and crosses his arms defensively.

“I’m not just saying this to be disagreeable. Everyone knows she kind of…” Bucky starts to say before trailing off.

“What? What is it?”

Bucky hesitates and then decides Walker isn’t going to let it go. He leans in and quietly says, “Everyone around here kinda thinks she likes Bob.”

He’s dumbfounded. “Bob?? You cannot be serious. There’s no way that-”

“Watch it, John”

“No, you know I love Bob! But come on, don’t you think if I put the idea out there that maybe she’d at least consider it?”

Bucky groans dramatically, “Ughh I do not want to be involved in all this. I’m just letting you know I think you’d be... unsuccessful”, and as Walker rolls his eyes and walks back to his room for the night, Bucky notices that Bob’s down the hall, and has apparently been listening to the entire thing.

Bob quickly walks up to Bucky. “Do you think that’s true? Actually?”, he says in a hushed tone, with what can only be described as big hopeful puppy dog eyes.

Bucky mutters something under his breath about his new team being “a bunch of teenagers” and then turns to face Bob again. “I mean, she hasn’t said anything to me, but it’s pretty clear. Yelena and Ava were talking about this earlier and they think so, too.”

Bob can’t believe this. There’s no way. He doesn't want to get his hopes up, but if 4 of his friends think so, then maybe it really is true?

Bucky puts a hand on his shoulder. “Ask her to get lunch with you or something tomorrow. You can decide for yourself.”

Bob starts to frantically shake his head, “No, no I can’t do that, it would be so embarrassing if she didn’t want to.”

“Come on, man. She’ll want to. You should probably do this soon before Walker beats you to it”, Bucky says with a little laugh.

That was enough to convince him.

The next afternoon, you’ve been training for a bit, and now you’re going over some random important documents the group was sent. You see Bob over at the counter, so you decide to walk over and pour yourself some tea, too.

“Hey, Bob”, you say cheerfully, and he turns to look at you.

“Hi”, and he pours the tea into your mug without you having to ask.

You thank him and then look in his eyes. He’s clearly thinking about something. “Bob?”

“Would you like to go get lunch with me today?”, he says out of nowhere. He says it like he thinks that if he didn’t ask you now, he never would. Which is probably true. Any more time to think about it and he might've convinced himself it was the worst idea ever.

You smile warmly at him. “Yeah I’d love to. What time were you thinking?”

Bob is so caught off guard by your positive response that he almost doesn’t answer. “Uhh, we could go in half an hour. If that works for you, of course.”

“Yeah that works. Thanks Bob!”, you say, and then you gently pat him on the shoulder and leave the room to shower and get changed. Bob stands there for a second, hoping he didn't just imagine all of that.

When the two of you are ready, you slowly take his hand, and he lightly squeezes your hand back and smiles at you.

Over on the couch, Ava smiles, and Bucky pats Walker on the back with no real sympathy. "Told ya".

Walker kind of scoffs, but he can't help but smile just a little as he watches Bob step into the elevator, happily holding your hand.

#thunderbolts*#thunderbolts x reader #bob x reader #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds #bob x fem!reader #fem!reader #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #x reader #marvel #marvel x reader #thunderbolts spoilers #john walker #bucky barnes

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kasagia · 3 days ago

Text

I love you... I am sorry IV

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova/The Darkling x fem!witch! reader Summary: Aleksander spends more time with Alina, playing with your heart. Luckily, an old friend returns to your side. Will he help you get over your Sasha and finally put yourself first? Or maybe you'll find that you're not dodging a bullet, you're just losing the love of your life. Aleksander Morozova's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~Main Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Part 3 ~•♤♤♤•~ Part 5 ~•♤♤♤•~

"Any longer you stare at her like that and you'll burn holes in the back of her skull." Ulla comments as you sit in the tavern a bit apart from the rest of the group. And you look. At Aleksander and Alina's.

You shake your head and look away from them, digging into the beer in your hands. Ulla was right. You were pathetic, giving him exactly what he wanted – attention – when he was flirting with Alina just to spite you. Son of a bitch.

"I have no idea what you're on about." You mumble at her, the bitterness in your voice so obvious you grimace into your beer.

"About that donkey head, aka my stupid brother and his annoying Sunny Queen. I know you love that stubborn bastard, but the way you look at him and her, you're giving him exactly what he wants. Your jealousy. Just ignore him and go have fun with someone. Preferably a guy. That'll piss him off more."

You roll your eyes at her brilliant plan to get back at Aleksander. Sometimes you really wonder if you didn't make a mistake in raising her. She was such a teenage drama queen at times. Just like her brother.

"I doubt that adding another guy to this mess will help me in any way. Besides, he's right. We haven't been together for what… an age? I think it's time to move on."

"What?!" Ulla shouts at you, drawing the attention of the people around your table. And not only them.

You ignore the quick glance that Aleksander throws your way and try to speak as quietly as you can so he doesn't understand anything of your little conversation.

"What you just heard. I stayed where he left me for too long."

Ulla stares at you with wide eyes, blinking several times.

"But… but you can't… you love each other and… but…" You place your hand on hers and give her a sad smile.

"The thing is… sometimes love is not enough. You have to meet the other person halfway. Understand them, accept their flaws and be with them… we probably lacked that." You shrug and take a sip of your beer, trying your best to keep the tears from welling up in your eyes.

It would be better this way. After all, Luke and the other witches were after you. It'll only be a matter of time before they get you... or when you get them.

“Stupid boy.” Baghra comments as she sits down next to you. You raise an eyebrow at her unexpected company, noticing Ulla tense up next to you out of the corner of your eye. “I told you he wasn’t worth the effort.”

"Since when on earth are you interested in my personal life? Or anyone else's except yours?" You mock her as you sip your beer and try to ignore the way Aleksander delicately tugs at a strand of his Sol Koroleva's hair.

You feel like throwing up. And it's not from the amount of beer you've had. Maybe you need a little more to get drunk. This is probably the best way to spend tonight.

"When you make stupid decisions. Which means always." You roll your eyes at her and glance around the bar, trying to ignore the monologue she's giving you.

Keeping your gaze from wandering to the Darklina, as Ulla affectionately called it, is getting harder with each passing second.

You might want to gouge your eyes out.

But then, you notice the fire in the inn's fireplace flashing with different colours. Curious, you look closer until you see a hand in the fire. You frown, finishing the rest of your beer and watching as the hand waves at you, encouraging you to come over. You come up with some stupid excuse and get up from the table, heading towards the inn's exit.

The cold wind hits your skin, a clear reminder that you should have brought a coat with you. Especially when you're on the border with Fjerda in the dead of winter. You rub your arms together and mutter some kind of warming spell when suddenly, a thick coat is draped over you... a reindeer coat. With tiny crystals sewn into the leather.

You only knew one person who would voluntarily wear something like that.

"Mijomir?" You ask in shock and turn around to find yourself in the arms of your old friend.

"So obvious?" He asks with that trademark smirk of his. You jump into his arms with a squeal and wrap him in a tight hug.

"I've been looking for you for a decade, you idiot! Where have you been? We last saw each other at the port in Western Ravka."

"A little here, a little there. Kerch is a very interesting land. I'm sure you'd like it. For the record, I'm still mad at you for not coming with me, but I understand. Your boyfriend and all. But… I heard Luke's after you."

"Yeah… minor inconvenience."

"Luke or your man?"

"Both." You answer quickly, not wanting to delve into the subject. “Actually… I don’t have a man. He... he is not my man.” You mumble it more to yourself than to him.

The words are like a bitter goo on your tongue, a poison you must taste… or a terrible medicine that will heal you. Anyway... saying it out loud confirms what had been happening this week. Alina and Aleksander's closeness... your distance from each other. Maybe you were never meant to be together. Maybe you weren't the one he saw at the heart of creating the world. So why did it feel so right while it lasted?

Mijomir frowns at your confession but doesn't comment or question it. A true friend. One of the very few. If there was anyone you could trust with your life, other than Ulla and Aleks… other than Ulla, it was him. And only him.

"Anyway… I figured you could use some help. Either killing Luke or pretending you were dead. Although from what I gather, you managed to pull off the latter. You scared the living daylights out of me, by the way. I thought you were actually dead until I found that damn communication stone."

"Sorry, drastic measures and all that. Besides, I haven't heard from you in 10 years."

"I was busy. I thought I was…" He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "We don't have much luck with significant others, do we?"

"Hell no. But I'm guessing most witches don't." You nod, agreeing with him on that one point.

You open your mouth to ask him exactly what he was doing during that time, but just then fate decides to put another witch in your path. This time, a worse one.

You don't even know the redhead who attacks you. She simply throws ropes at you and uses her magic to bind you with them. But before she can leap at you with a golden dagger, Mijomir is there to save the day and push her away from you. Clumsily enough that the woman cuts your right cheek.

You hiss as you feel blood drip down your skin but quickly recover. You shrug off your heavy cloak and use an old trick taught to you by the older witches in your coven. The woman begins to choke on her own blood, which unfortunately has the same effect on you.

Blood pours from your eyeballs as you work your dark magic, tearing apart every cell in her, causing her heart to stop as you strip away every tiny tissue of her muscle and nerves to her heart.

Meanwhile, Mijomir kills another witch who came to the aid of the first one. You catch your breath in quick gasps, exhausted from using so much power. Mijomir quickly shoves the bodies into a ditch and sets them on fire, controlling the flame so it's not big enough to attract anyone's attention.

“Are you okay?” He asks, grabbing your arm and pulling you away from the fire. You nod, looking around the alley. "Don't worry; these are less-travelled areas. Although I think you know that when you stop here. What are you even doing here? You should be far away from here, either planning to assassinate Luke or to escape and start a new identity and life."

"I… I'm not exactly alone." You mumble, staring at the small fire.

5th attack this week. And it was only Wednesday. I think you're going for a record this week. And I guess the news of your death wasn't convincing enough in the witch world.

"What do you mean?"

"Y/N!" You shiver at the sound of Aleksander's voice behind you. You turn to see him, Baghra, Ulla, and Ivan heading your way. You sigh, realising that you're in for another long evening of explaining what happened.

You frown as Mijomir suddenly slumps on his knees to the ground, shivering in pain as he puts his hand on his heart. Luckily, you connect the dots quickly.

"No! Leave him alone, Ivan! He's a friend!" You shout at him and kneel next to the wizard.

Ivan thankfully listens to you for once, you doubt it was out of respect for you. More like your furious look or Aleksander's nod as he dismisses his shadows.

Anyway, when Mijomir can finally stand properly on two legs and is not in danger of being attacked by your little company, he is recognised.

"It can't be…" Ulla mutters, taking a step towards you and looking at him.

"Ulen'ka?" Your friend mumbles, squinting at her as if trying to connect the face of the child he knew with the face of the adult woman now standing before him.

"Uncle Mijo!" She screams and rushes to hug him. He can barely stand on his two legs.

Luckily, you support him, keeping your hand on his back and making sure Ulla doesn't jump on him and throw the two of them into the ditch where the witches' bodies were still burning.

"Uncle? I don't exactly remember you being part of the family." Aleksander speaks up, drawing your gaze.

You ignore the way your heart beats a little too fast, pleading with the saints who still listen to your pleas for Ivan not to sense this, and you give him a distant, cold look.

"He's my family, so don't be surprised that he's the same for Ulla."

"I thought you had no family." He notices, jabbing you in the sweet spot with a pin, using the knowledge of your past to hurt you intentionally. Son of a bitch. A real one.

"Well, I have Ulla and him. I guess that counts."

You mask your winning smirk, turning your head towards Ulla and Mijomir at the perfect moment, ensuring you do not notice the spark of pain in Aleksander's dark eyes as you exclude him from your 'family'. Serves him right. Although you doubt you would think so if you saw the true effect it had on him.

No… you end up putting him first.

"Let's go inside. Fedyor will patch you up." Aleksander says, nodding at your bloody cheek and the streaks of blood under your eyes.

"Ah, that. Don't move, Y/N." Mijomir says and walks over to you. He cups both of your cheeks in his hands and presses his lips to your forehead. You feel the magic swirl between you as he helps you heal without the little science of Grisha, just his magical essence.

After a while you feel much better; your head isn't spinning as much as before, and you feel more energetic after Mijomir lent you some of his magic so you could replenish your supplies.

He doesn't give you a chance to check Aleksander's expression. He grabs your hand and simply drags you into the inn, mumbling something about the bloody winter and how he won't be rubbing you with healing oils if you catch a cold.

Ulla will later describe to you in full detail how furious her brother was watching this interaction between you two.

You feel that Mijomir will help you with this exactly as a true friend would... or maybe even someone more.

"I don't want to leave you alone with her…" Aleksander grumbles, feeling guilty as he packs to leave.

You sigh, walking over to him. You take out the black linen shirt he wanted to take and leave it on your small bed. You hug him tightly, burying your face in the crook of his neck and inhaling his scent, tracing gentle, soothing circles on his back.

"I know, honey… But you said yourself that this is a good opportunity for us. Quick earnings, low risk of being discovered. And we need this money. Ulla is growing faster and faster; Baghra hasn't shown up in years… And you know perfectly well that my little witcher tricks and money creation are quite limited for now. You have to go."

He mumbles something into your hair and plants a long, tender kiss on the top of your head.

"Are you sure you'll be okay? And that you'll be safe without me?"

"Aleksander, it's only two weeks." You notice, pulling away to get a better look at him before he will leave.

Damn, you were lucky. He was all yours. Only yours.

"A lot may happen in those two weeks... just promise me you will wait here for me." You snort in amusement, as if you were going to move anywhere else until he comes back for the two of you.

His serious expression, however, suggests he's not in the same playful mood as you. You smile and cup his slightly bearded cheek in your hand.

"I will. I'm not going anywhere until you come back here again. Consider this a vacation from me and Ulla." You add playfully and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

You gasp in surprise when he grabs you by the waist, pressing you against the wooden wall of your little cabin in the woods and stealing a breath-taking kiss.

One of his hands wraps gently around your neck, the other cupping your cheek, lifting your head higher as his tongue makes its way into your mouth.

He devours you.

He takes everything you have from you, and all you can do is moan into his mouth, tightening your grip on him, pulling him closer to you desperately, melting into the feeling of having him so close to you, almost as close as he should ever be.

Your lips chase after his as he pulls away, but he doesn't let you kiss him again. Instead, he trails along the column of your neck, leaving soft bites and kisses, marking you for his absence, as if he hadn't done enough the night before, as if you weren't still sore from a long evening and morning of goodbyes.

As if you would ever let anyone have you the way he had you.

"I could spend all eternity with you and still not have enough of you." He mumbles against your skin, pressing one last kiss to your jaw and resting his forehead against yours, inhaling your scent, revelling in his final moments of closeness with you.

"Silver tongue…"

"As always. Just look at another man in my absence and you'll see what else I'm capable of."

"And jealous… you look damn handsome when you're jealous, Mr Morozova." You can't help but tease him, sending him a mischievous smirk as you ruffle his hair.

"Only about you, future Mrs Morozova."

"A bold statement from a man who didn't even give me a ring."

"Bold assumption that this man will let you go and have other options."

And maybe other women would have been scared of that, taken it as a big red flag, and packed their bags and run away long ago. But you loved that he was almost as madly in love with you as you were with him.

"Did he leave?" Mojomir asks, knocking on your door a few minutes after Aleksander leaves. You nod and open the door wider for him. "Woman, I feel like I'm in some kind of occupation. Or a secret cult. Or both. Are you sure you want this one? He keeps you locked away in the middle of the forest, away from the world, and makes you babysit his sister, as sweet as she is." He whispers, not wanting to wake Ulla from her afternoon nap.

"It's not like that… He loves me. And I love him. We just have each other, and that's it. Besides, I doubt the world would welcome a witch like me and a Grisha like him so willingly. I'm happy here."

You defend Aleksander, unpacking all the supplies Mijomir brought you from his last expedition. A few herbs that can't be obtained anywhere in Ravka, crystals, a new cauldron for your collection, and two new potion books.

"Does he even know what you're going to do? How much are you willing to sacrifice for him?" He asks you, taking one of the chairs. You sigh, putting the new things back in their places with your other witchy things.

"It's my choice. He has nothing to do with it. Anyway, if I told him, he'd try to stop me."

"That's what I was hoping for. This is crazy, Y/N. No one has ever attempted to create something this strong. Maybe only Ilya Morozova himself."

You smile to yourself at the irony of it. He was right. No one but Aleksander's grandfather would have dared to do something so crazy. You regret that he is dead, that you can't meet him, and talk about what you are going to do out of love for his grandson and granddaughter.

But it didn't discourage you. Or scare you. After all, you were supposed to be Morozova. You were supposed to create great things yourself.

"Only lunatics are worth something."

"I'll carve that on your tombstone. And mine, when that boyfriend of yours finds out I had a hand in this and helped you get killed."

"I think he'd sooner kill you just to come here and talk to me. You don't have to do anything more."

"Poor consolation. But seriously, watch out for him."

"He's a good man… despite what others may think."

Mijomir mumbles something under his breath about a psychopath with a heart of gold who kills innocent friends, but you don't have a chance to comment on it. Ulla, awake, runs to her step-uncle, peppering him with questions about his travels and adventures from the doorstep. You prepare dinner, listening to everything Mijomir exposed himself to, making little remarks about his safety from time to time.

You felt a little bit downhearted without Aleksander... but at least you had other family members to take care of.

After a long day of explaining to everyone the reason for Mijomir's presence, you almost thank the saints that you can finally rest.

You lie in the tavern's dingy bed, tossing and turning. Your restless mind effectively prevents you from falling asleep in these already questionable conditions. You sigh and get out of bed. You put on your coat and step out onto the small balcony that was somehow held up by the tavern's rotten wooden planks.

Your thoughts, of course, are none other than Alexander. As they always have been for centuries. You sigh and close your eyes, remembering the way he's looked at Alina these past few weeks. And even though you should have been over it, even though you should have walked away with dignity ages ago, let go of this losing battle with his pride; you just... couldn't.

He was the love of your life. He had told you a thousand times that you were the love of his life. And yet now, after so many centuries, after so much gossiping, after so many years together, after so many plans for a future together, so many promises that felt almost sacred... it felt more like a loss of your life.

It hurt all the more knowing that you would love him no matter what he did. Even if it was to hurt you. Sick, really. How could anyone love someone to such an extent? You suspected it was because of your immortality. Maybe if you had fewer years to waste sighing over him, it would be easier to forget him.

"Can't sleep?" You shiver as his voice booms from behind you. He pursues you like a plague, yet he won't even touch you with a three-foot pole. Ridiculous.

"I don't need sleep." You mumble without turning to face him, still leaning against the wooden railings. You wonder how much longer they can hold your weight before they break.

"Probably." He snorts mockingly and walks over to you. He leans against the railing, wincing as he hears the crunch of wood. "This is going to collapse soon."

"Probably." You nod apathetically, looking at the streets in front of you, not giving him a second glance. “Maybe you should go inside.”

"Who was he to you?" He growls, either unable to stop himself or biting his tongue too late.

"Who? Mijomir?" You ask, giving him a quick glance. “A friend. He would come over sometimes to help me with my witch stuff. Ulla loved playing with him.”

"Only a friend?"

This innocent question asked in the most nonchalant way he could muster makes you lose your composure. You snort in disbelief, finally giving him your gaze, only to see hurt and anger in his irises. He was acting like a 5-year-old who had a toy taken away that he didn't play with anyway but decided to be dramatic about it.

"You've got the nerve of a donkey turd to ask me that. Besides, I don't have to answer you. We're not together." You snap at him, ready to go back to your room and leave the balcony you share with him, but clearly today he's made it a point to annoy the living hell out of you.

"True. We are not together. And yet you are irritated by the sight of Alina and me." You stop at the door, clenching your fist at his irritating, cocky tone. Little son of a bitch. Scum.

"What can I say? You're not my favourite people. I actually only tolerate Ulla. And Mijomir." You engage in a verbal spar with him, even though the rational part of you is screaming to get out of there. You turn around and fold your arms, taking a step towards him. "But I see that today the roulette of your multiple personalities has drawn the version of you that wants to cling to our past." He snorts mockingly at your mockery and takes a step toward you, undeterred by the fury with which your eyes burn into his face.

"I think you're upset for a completely different reason." He replies confidently, as if he had any right to point out how he makes you feel.

"What do you want?" You sigh, tired of this game between you.

You had a coven of witches coveting your head, a war with Fjerda, and all of that combined with your ex's moods made you slowly prepare to explode. Preferably at him.

"Tomorrow we have our first serious battle with Fjerda. Alina has gathered the men." He explains it to you as if you were not a participant in any conversations about strategy for this particular battle.

"I know. And?" You ask impatiently, raising an eyebrow at him. He sighs and shifts his gaze from you to the streetlights.

"Look after yourself." He mumbles through clenched teeth as if someone had forced him to utter that small request. For a moment you stand there, frozen in shock, before you burst out laughing, shaking your head in disbelief.

"I don't have to. I have Mijomir."

"Y/N..." He growls, grabbing your elbow the moment you turn to go back to your room. You close your eyes and swallow as he spins you around, holding both of your forearms in his tight grip. "I am serious."

"Me too. You should go to Alina." You reply, looking him straight in the eyes, trying to maintain that unfazed attitude.

But he knows you better than that. One look in your eyes, the slight tremor in your voice as you say her name, and he knows everything he needs.

"Jealous?" You snort mockingly at his question. His raised eyebrow and mischievous smirk quickly fall under your indifferent and nonchalant attitude.

"I have no right to."

"But you are, don't you?" You frown as he continues to push the subject.

Even if you were... what would it change? Absolutely nothing. He's burnt himself too many times to put his hand in the same fire a second time. And you... you were probably too bruised to fight for him anymore.

"What game are you playing right now? What do you want to prove?"

You stare at each other for a long moment as he ponders the answer he was supposed to give you. Because what exactly did he want from you? Why did he follow you here? Why did he go out on that damn balcony after you without a second thought? Why did he tell Ivan to keep an eye on you? He knew. But it would be too pathetic to admit it.

"You were with me just to create this necklace, weren't you?" He watches you closely, asking you this question, a question that has hung unspoken between you ever since he found out what exactly the glass heart on your chest was supposed to do.

He watches with stoic calm as your eyes widen in shock at his question as you hold your breath for a moment, processing exactly what he's just said to you. And the moment you pull away from him, when tears briefly fill your eyes, quickly giving way to anger and frustration, he knows that the answer wasn't going to be quite what his logical, rational side was expecting.

"No. I loved you. I loved you, Aleksander. I fucking loved you with all my stupid heart. From the moment I saw you, I knew I had to have you, and from the moment I really knew you, I knew I had lost my heart to some guy who was too mysterious to tell me his damn name. And I should have known better; I should have walked away at the first sign of trouble, but damn it, I LOVED YOU. That's why I created this necklace. To never leave you alone, to always be with you, to help you bear the eternity that awaited you. But you can't seem to get it into your thick skull, so what does it matter? Too many years have passed to continue digging into it. You won't trust me anymore, and I won't forgive you for choosing to believe I was against you from the very beginning of us for so long, so... so maybe we should finally let this go."

"Let this go? Do you really want to let this go? Just like that?"

"I am dead to you either way. Am I not, Aleksander?" You ask with your head held high, even though your voice cracks slightly at the end.

He's astonished. He instinctively moves closer, extending his hand in an attempt to grasp your arm. However, you deftly retreat, evading his touch before his fingertips can even touch your skin. The sight of your tears sends a pain through him as intense as the merzost itself has never caused.

"How can you expect... you were the love of my life..." He stutters through his words, too afraid to open up to both you and himself and too petrified to let you go forever.

"And you were the loss of mine, Sasha." You whisper, letting a few tears roll down your cheeks before you aggressively wipe them away with the sleeve of your shirt. The glass heart of your necklace clinks against the metal buttons.

This destroys him completely. He stands frozen in place, watching as you take off that damn immortality necklace and place it on the railing that looks like it's about to collapse in any second.

"Here… do with it what you want." You reply in resignation as he is frozen in pure panic, only able to hear the pounding of his own heart as it accelerates by several hundred miles a minute.

"Y/N..." He mumbles, reaching for you one last time, but can only manage to graze the fabric of your shirt with his fingertip as you run as fast as you can back to your room. "Y/N!" He calls after you as you slam the door shut, nearly ripping the already questionably constructed frame off its hinges.

He takes the necklace in a flash and clutches it securely in his hand, having a small heart attack as a silver pendant almost falls off the railing from the power of which you shut the door.

You wanted to get rid of that damn necklace and him… but all you did was prove to him what you had just said so loudly.

You didn't want immortality just for yourself.

You wanted it for him. So he wouldn't be alone.

And now that Alina was there and you thought he was with her…

No… you couldn't just do it… without it you'll die, if not of old age then from those who hunted you… and he couldn't… Ulla will kill him.

"Trouble in paradise?" His mother asks, leaning against the door frame and watching him carefully.

He takes one deep calming breath, shoving his shaking, empty hand into his pocket so as not to show her the unstable, trembling emotional mess he currently was.

"For centuries, thanks for noticing, mother." He growls back at her with clenched teeth, staring at the necklace in his hand. His blood. In this heart. He had thought for a long time that it was meant to symbolise your power over his heart. In fact, it was a symbol of his power over yours.

How funny it is that in the moments when he feels the most powerless, his mother is always there with him...

"Are you just going to let her go?"

The irony is that the same woman who pushed him away from you is now questioning your idea of leaving him. Even dares to talk him out of the mere idea of allowing it… or maybe that was his mother's way to make him completely disgusted with you. Although… in all these years, has he ever really had a resentment for you that outweighed his… his love for you?

"You wanted this. Weren't you the one who told me she created that necklace behind my back? Weren't you the one who rubbed it in my face with pleasure that I had let a witch who wanted to use my immortality for her own gain? That it was never about me, but about the power I have? Didn't you do the same with Alina?" He throws accusations at her furiously, as if a moment ago he did not have tears of helplessness and despair in his eyes.

"I was right about Alina. You wanted to use her, you can't convince me otherwise. The saints know that all you really loved was that witch girl and your sister."

Aleksander just shakes his head and heads inside his room, knowing that arguing with her is a lost cause. He sits on the bed, the necklace still in his tight grip as he wonders what the hell he's supposed to do now.

"You were right. I made a mistake with Y/N. But how was I supposed to know she did it for you?"

"And how was I supposed to trust her when you spent your whole life teaching me to rely only on myself, mother?" He asks mockingly, lifting his gaze to her, surprised that she had gone to the trouble of following him and continuing his tirade.

"Don't put the blame on me. The pride that prevents you from telling her you were wrong is something you earned entirely by yourself." She continues to mock him, to which he just rolls his eyes. Her demeanour changes though, becoming a tad… awkward as she avoids looking at him. "I… I may have been wrong in a few matters. But I know one thing for sure. Pride, Aleksander, does not go hand in hand with love."

"Another lesson?" He mumbles, raising an eyebrow at her.

She doesn't grace him with an answer, though. She leaves his room, leaving him alone with his thoughts, the shadows moving around him, and the necklace still safe in his hand.

And Aleksander is faced with one dark truth that he has been running away from for so many years, centuries even.

He had wasted so much time with you, believing the worst, clinging to his mother's suspicions of you, and then, when some sense returned to him, he had clung to his pride. Because admitting that he had ruined your lives… who had condemned your love to loss and failure would have been too devastating for him.

For a long time he had thought that the Sun Summoner would be his guide, his equal, would show him the way, would stay with him, and would fight for their people together. Would fight for him. Would give him light in his darkness. But the truth was, he already had his equal. You. And he had lost you.

No. He won't let you go.

He jumps out of his bed and walks out of his room, storming into yours. He almost breaks the door down with his strength, and if he weren't so desperate, he'd wonder why it's open, but all he can think about is getting you back.

Damn his pride. Without you, none of this mattered anyway; nothing worked out for him the way it should. And although he couldn't live with you, living without you seemed a much crueller, more torturous process than admitting that he needed you desperately, painfully, in a crazy way that took away his rational thought.

"I love you, Y/N. I'm sorry, I…" His confession dies on his tongue when he sees only an empty room. An empty room with a broken window and signs of a fight in it.

His apology catches in his throat, ash on his tongue as he realises exactly what happened while he was in the next room, oblivious, when he should have been in your bed with you, holding you safe in his arms, killing whoever came after you.

A cold chill runs through him, his shadows churning within him, ready to be released, to create another Fold, like when they first took you from him. Thankfully, he is much older and has much more self-control. He does not want to destroy any clues.

"IVAN!" He's yelling at the entire tavern, not caring who he wakes up. In fact, he wants to wake everyone up and immediately go on a search, chasing you. "IVAN!"

He places your necklace around his neck, his own heart racing with fear. You were defenceless. Mortal. Vulnerable to ordinary blades and bullets.

"Moi soverenyi, what..." Ivan’s question dies on his lips as he runs into the room, his kefta barely fastened. Heartrender swallows hard. “She’s gone.”

"Collect our people. We're coming for her. Spread the word. Everyone who believes in the Starless One must show up."

"What's going on?" Alina enters the room, tying her robe. He can see Nikolai and Ulla right behind her, but he's too preoccupied to answer her.

He walks deeper into the room, analysing every inch of the floor covered in blood and blade scratches. And then he finds. A small figurine of a wolf's head. A Drüskelle.

If they had her, word would spread quickly to the Sabbath who hunted her.

"You can't disappear and look for her now! We have more important things to do! We have a war to win!" Alina protests, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt, forcing him to stand up from the floor and look at her.

He's faster than she can process. He grabs her by the throat and pins her to the wall. Alina gasps, barely able to say a word, let alone take a proper breath. He casts his shadows, seeing Nikolai reach for his gun out of the corner of his eye. Saints praise Ivan; he'll quickly overpower the little Tsar.

"Sasha, stop!" Aleksander hears Ulla's weak protest, but all he can do is stare at Alina with pure hatred.

For a moment, he thinks of a similar situation between them in his grandfather's workshop. The difference is that then he did care a little about the Sun Summoner, but now he doesn't feel that sentiment anymore.

But after the diminutive form of his name uttered by Ulla seeps into his brain, all he can remember are your words.

You were the love of my life...

And you were the loss of mine, Sasha.

"If I don't find her, I'll make sure you have nothing to fight for. There'll be no Fjerda, no Ravka, no Shu, nothing. I'll leave nothing that my shadows won't turn into one big fold. Do you understand now how important she is, moya tsarista?" He growls, using his most intimidating tone. Shadows gather around him uncontrollably, his hand around Alina's neck shaking as he struggles to retain any remaining control.

You were the loss of mine, Sasha.

He watches with satisfaction as she just nods, barely able to do anything. He lets go of her, letting her fall to the floor, coughing, holding her neck as she gasps for air.

"You are mad... completely mad." Alina is panting on the floor, trying to pull herself together after his attack at her. But he doesn't see her. He only sees your tearful eyes.

You were the loss of my life, Sasha.

"Don't blame me, my Sol Koroleva. Love makes me crazy." He scoffs mockingly and turns to Ulla, who has been watching this with panic and slight disappointment. "Go get that wizard of hers. Maybe he'll be useful." Aleksander replies, unfazed by her gaze. He will be whatever monster he has to to get you back.

He was the Black General. A Darkling. He would kill anyone who dared to touch what was his.

His sister nods and runs out of the room, leaving him with a furious Alina, an unconscious Nikolai, and Ivan, who is the only one who seems unfazed by the whole situation. May the saints bless him.

"We'll find her." His heartrender assures him, at which he just nods.

He has to find you. He sees no other option.

The glass heart now hanging around his neck had evaporated a hole right through him. This is the last time he lets you take off that damn necklace.

Suddenly he doesn't care at all that it was created without his consent. What an irony…

All he thinks about is your last words to him.

Do with it what you want.

He will. He will put it right where it belongs. On your neck.

Or he'll kill everything around him trying to do so.

Did I have fun writing the end of the chapter? Yes. I'm curious what you think about Mijomir and what your attitudes are towards the next chapter. I'm also wondering how long this series will be, what else you want to see, etc., so if you have any special requests, feel free to write! (I love all my anonymous people, so do not be more shy than me! 😊😘)

Any comments/messages/hearts are greatly appreciated! Thank you so much!!! If you want to, let me know what you think 🥰🖤🖤

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sknyuz · 7 hours ago

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Can you please do the prompt "three words. just say the three words." With Na Baek-Jin but make it enemies to lovers and full of yearning😭😭💗

prompt — "three words. just say the three words." pairing — academic rival!na baekjin x reader genre — academic rivals to lovers, highschool, mutual pining, soft angst cw — academic pressure, tension, one kiss, just that type of yearning where you almost hate both of them for it wc — ~700 notes: i wrote this on someone else's laptop so sorry if the layout or my writing is a lil wonky ToT this was pretty rushed/not proofread

masterlist | join the taglist | request a fic

you and baekjin have been neck and neck for as long as you can remember. same grade, same extracurriculars, same perfectly neat handwriting across test papers the teachers always returned with that look, the one that silently said, again? you two?

he always rolled his eyes when they called your names together, like it was a curse, and you did the same.

still, somehow, every quiz bee, every debate tournament, every single research camp—you ended up beside him. not by choice. just... fate, or bad luck, or the fact that your scores matched to the decimal.

you told yourself you hated him. but sometimes, you caught him looking. there are stolen moments that you two share. like that one time, late night in the library, when you both reached for the same textbook and your hands brushed—and neither of you moved away.

or the time you caught him staring at you mid-question during the final round of an academic bee, and he looked so focused, like he was memorizing your face instead of the answer.

and then there was that out-of-province regional thing last fall—when they messed up the room assignments and you two were forced to share a bed in some tiny guesthouse. the silence was thick. your backs were to each other. but sometime in the middle of the night, you woke up and he was facing you, but neither of you moved.

and now, senior year. your last nationals together. you’ve both just won it all—a team victory, but the only hand you felt trembling slightly against yours was his. his knuckles brushed yours during the final round, and you should’ve pulled away. but you didn’t, your fingers intertwined as you bowed together, closing off your championship run.

later, when the noise dies and the cameras are gone, you find each other alone behind the auditorium. he’s still in his blazer, medal heavy around his neck. the low light hits his profile just right—jaw clenched, throat bobbing.

"you didn’t have to stay back," you say quietly, as you organized the notes in your bag. “everyone’s at that hot pot place by now.”

"i know," he replies, just as quiet. "but... i knew you would."

you scoff. “of course you do.”

he studies you in that quiet, calculating way he does before a competition—except now, there’s no scoreboard, just the way his eyes soften like he’s tired of pretending.

"you know, bakejin, i kinda hate this," you whisper. it slips out. too raw, too real.

"what?"

"this thing between us." your voice wavers. "i mean, do we really still see each other as rivals, or is this just an excuse to keep whatever this is going?" you say, motioning between you and him. “we’re seniors now, baekjin. not kids.” a few months from now you won’t be winning competitions with him, sneaking glances at him while you studied for the next—hell, you might never even see baekjin again.

but baekjin takes a step closer, and your heart starts counting every second like it’s timed.

"then say it," he murmurs.

you blink. "say what?"

"three words," he says. "just say the three words."

your heart stutters.

"i hate you?" you offer, shaky.

he exhales—sharp, almost annoyed. not at you, but at the space between what you’re saying and what you mean. “no.”

you pause.

you know what he means. you know exactly what he means.

but you’ve spent so long pretending you didn’t.

he speaks first, his voice is quieter now. more raw than you’ve ever heard it.

"i love you."

the words land heavy. like a confession and an accusation all at once. and god, the way he looks at you after — like he’s bracing for the moment you walk away. like he already expects you to run.

but you don’t.

you step in, closing the distance. you let your fingers graze his—not by accident like earlier onstage, but deliberately.

"then i love you too," you say, as your other hand reaches up to curl your fingers around his tie, pulling him into a chaste kiss. you were both winners, after all.

note: i accidentally posted this while doing last minute edits lol so i edited it some more and decided to let it stay up instead of reuploading. ig i offer this as a token of my appreciation for the love surrounding my weak hero class works <3

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taevescence · 1 day ago

Text

She's All I Wanna Be | Kim Seokjin x Reader

Summary: You've loved Jin in silence for years. You’ve been his best friend, his safe place, the one constant in his life. You waited patiently, reading between the lines, believing that one day he’d finally see you as something more. And just when you thought that moment had come, he introduced you to his girlfriend—the first one since you’ve known him. Now, with your heart wavering between habit and longing, you don’t know whether to give up… or fight for him. Author’s note: PLEASE READ BEFORE STARTING! This is the first chapter of the BOTN series (where all 7 members have their own story). Now, if you happened to read the old version—let me tell you, it has nothing to do with this one. I deleted it. It no longer exists. I wanted to make some changes (especially to the narration), so I started from scratch. That’s something I’m planning to do with most of the things I’ve published (except for the ones in the old masterlist). With that said, I really hope you enjoy the fic! I’d love to know what you think 💕 My asks are always open for you! Pairing: Bassist!Jin x Fem!Reader AUs: Band!AU Word count: 6.3k Warnings/tags: Childhood best friends. It’s actually very angsty (not sorry). The reader is a seamstress. There’s subtle, implicit workplace sexism. Jin sends very mixed signals. Oh, and there's a love triangle. Status: Ongoing. Permanent Taglist: @thunderg @minjianhyung @queenv1997 @yoongtism @lizzymizzy-blogg @superbbananananana @drpepperobsessed @themwordsblog @taekritimin123 @bluecloudss @yooglefics @tan-veee@angellekookie @madussthougths @meadowsweetskoo You can join the taglist here! Dividers by @sisterlucifergraphics

You looked at your reflection through the stained-glass window of the small café where Jin had asked to meet you a few hours earlier. It was tucked behind several large corporate buildings, hidden away by their modern and excessive architecture—a stark contrast that was almost laughable. The café walls mimicked the look of wood, and hundreds of fake vines adorned the interior, giving it a rustic, wild touch. The tables, which you were sure were made of mahogany, were just big enough to seat two people, and the chairs were spacious and comfortable enough to sit in for hours.

It was the perfect place to read on a sunny afternoon—or to sip a warm cup of hot chocolate on a rainy evening. The perfect place for quiet confessions between people who had known each other all their lives.

The thought made your cheeks warm, and your heart skip a few beats in joy.

It was Saturday—the only day you allowed yourself to wake up a bit later than usual. Sleeping in until 9 a.m. was “late” by your standards, especially since you normally got up at 5 on weekdays. Just an hour after your alarm went off, Yellow by Coldplay began to play. You immediately knew it was Jin. He was the only person in your contacts with a personalized ringtone.

You thought he’d say something silly, maybe make a joke, or even call to complain about one of the guys in the band. But he didn’t. His voice was soft, broken up by small, nervous laughs as he mumbled something about meeting in two hours at your usual café—the one you always went to when you needed to catch up or just be with each other.

And you said yes.

Your voice was calm and steady, just as certain as the hundreds of other times you’d said “yes” to Jin over the course of your life. But inside, you were a mess of nerves. Sure, it was normal for Jin to call you on weekends. Yes, it was normal for you two to meet at that old but cozy café. But he’d never sounded like that before. Never that nervous about asking you to hang out.

That made your mind race with possibilities—each one ending with the two of you walking out of that café no longer just childhood friends… but something more.

So, you got dressed up—more than usual. You used the most expensive makeup in your kit, careful to keep the look subtle enough for a coffee shop, but still soft and captivating. You wore a simple yet elegant dress—one that Jin himself had bought for your birthday (and nearly gave you a heart attack when you found out how much it cost). You wore brand-new shoes that you'd originally planned to debut at your sister’s wedding, and you straightened your hair with care, adding a special lotion to make it shinier and softer.

You looked beautiful. You felt beautiful.

You’d arrived about ten minutes ago—almost eleven now—and all you could do was stare at your reflection in the glass, fidgeting with your hair over and over again, trying to fix invisible flaws, trying to calm the rising anxiety with each passing second.

And then Jin arrived.

Your entire body responded to his presence instantly. Your back straightened, your lips parted slightly, and your eyes lit up in a way they hadn’t before.

He wore a simple cream-colored suit that only made his delicate features stand out more. His hair, as always, was perfect—now a rich, dark brown that framed his face beautifully. He spotted you immediately and made his way over with that quiet confidence he always had.

“Before you scold me for being late—it wasn’t my fault,” he said quickly, sitting across from you with that effortlessly elegant air that was so uniquely his. “I had to take a few detours to shake off some reporters who… You know what? Doesn’t matter. What matters is we’re both here—and there’s a killer deal on Saturdays.”

You laughed at the sight of his annoyed expression as he rummaged through his bag—because Jin couldn’t care less if the media called him feminine for carrying a bag—in search of what you assumed was his wallet. You could hear him mumbling under his breath. You couldn’t quite make out the words, but you were sure they were complaints and insults aimed at those ‘lifeless’ people obsessed with him and the other members.

You simply nodded, resting your chin on your hand as you watched every little detail of his face, every small change in expression. You knew the way he’d jerk his head back when something startled or annoyed him. You knew he covered his face when he was embarrassed. You knew his voice got higher and faster when he was upset. You guessed that was the result of a friendship that had lasted over twenty years, born from the affection your mothers had for each other.

“Have you ordered yet? This one’s on me,” he said once he’d finally found his wallet and placed it gently on the table. It had a cute sticker of a little plant with a face. You gave it to him five years ago when you joined a botany club. He stuck it on right away, and it was still there.

“Ah, no, not yet,” you said, clearing your throat as a blush crept up your cheeks. “I wanted to wait for you,” you added quietly. You weren’t sure if he heard you or not. But it didn’t matter—not when you were so sure that today, everything would change.

“Great! Then I’ll get the usual,” he said, turning his head in search of the waitress who usually served you both. She always wore a bright smile, her hair decorated with colorful clips shaped like cats and bunnies that stood out almost as much as her vibrant red hair.

You didn’t catch most of the small talk. You knew both of you had greeted her politely, and that she said something about how lovely you two looked today. Then things got blurry.

You blamed Jin—for looking that good while talking.

There was something about the way he smiled and laughed at his own nonsense that you found utterly endearing. Everything about him was enchanting to you, if we’re being honest—but his smile? Seeing him happy? That’s what you loved the most.

“Let me guess—one slice of cheesecake, one lemon pie, and two cups of coffee?” Saeyoung asked, glancing between the two of you with a knowing look, waiting for confirmation so she could head to the counter.

“You read my mind,” Jin replied with a soft laugh as he pulled out his card. “That, and a tiramisu.”

Saeyoung blinked, confused. You straightened in your seat. The two of you exchanged a silent look, one that said exactly the same thing. Confusion.

In all the years you’d been coming here, Jin had never invited anyone else. Not even the guys from the band. You’d both agreed—this place was your little escape from the world, a hidden corner just for the two of you.

So who was he inviting?

Right then, the soft bell above the door chimed, followed by a gentle click and quick footsteps heading straight toward your table.

Only then did you actually notice the person who had just arrived—now walking toward you both with a bright smile and a hand raised in greeting.

You’d seen hundreds of beautiful women in your life. You went to a school full of wealthy people, the kind who could afford a level of self-care others couldn’t. You’d seen models, actresses, and singers at the events hosted by BOTN. You’d even designed clothes for emerging models—each one stunning.

But her?

She was on a whole different level.

She was much shorter than both you and Jin. With those pink heels, she was probably just barely 5'3". Her skin looked soft and flawless, with a hint of blush on her cheeks. Her nose was small and upturned, and her lips were full and a gorgeous rosy pink that perfectly matched her pale rose suit—which you swore was from Celine. But the most beautiful thing about her? Her eyes. Large, dark, with long lashes that fluttered like butterflies every time she blinked.

In short, she looked like an angel.

“Yeji! You made it,” Jin said, standing up the second he saw her approaching. He stepped aside and pulled a chair over from another table, placing it in the empty spot between you both. He held it open until she sat down, then finally sat again himself.

“Yeah, I got a bit lost getting here. All the streets looked the same,” She adjusted herself in the chair with a clumsy gesture, fixing a strand of blonde hair—which obviously wasn't natural, but suited her so well she could have been born with that color—pushing it behind her ear. You noticed how her cheeks turned even redder when she mentioned getting lost. Oh, and of course, you noticed that her voice was one of the softest and warmest you had heard in at least the last two years.

Was everything about her really this… sweet and beautiful?

“Y/N, this is Yeji.” He was looking at you. But his hand was resting on Yeji’s on the table, his thumb gently stroking her hand. All of this while his gaze remained fixed on you. Warm. Soft. In love. But not with you. “My girlfriend.”

Everything stopped for a second. The air in your lungs seemed to vanish, your heart seemed to stop beating, and your head went completely blank. You were sure your whole body was tense, your hands, which were now clasped together on the table, were gripping way too tightly, and your eyes were fixed on ‘Yeji’ with tears threatening to spill at any moment.

But it was only for a second.

You took a breath. It was a little shaky, probably too close to a sob, but no tears came. You wouldn’t let yourself cry—not now, not with both of them here. Not after hearing that.

You cleared your throat, counted to three, and put on the same smile you always gave Jin. And to Yeji.

“Your girlfriend? You never told me about her. How long have you been together?” You subtly lowered your hands, afraid Jin would see them trembling, afraid he would notice that crack the news had just made. He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t know how you felt about him.

Why had you thought today would change things?

Why did you believe it was mutual?

“We’ve been together for three months!” Yeji answered, her eyes quickly moving to Jin, sparkling in a way you knew all too well. Your eyes sparkled that way when you looked at him. “Jin has told me so much about you over these past few months that I couldn’t help but beg him to introduce us.”

Now all her attention was on you. She took your hands from under the table, holding them between hers, smiling at you with so much emotion that you almost felt guilty. Why did you feel guilty?

“Jin always mentioned how beautiful you were, but seeing you in person is really something else.”

You tried to smile. You tried to be as polite as possible. But it was hard. There were so many questions running through your head, so many things you couldn’t understand. Why had he told her about you? Because you were his best friend, of course—his parents knew you too—but why had he told her he thought you were beautiful?

Did it matter? The answer was simple. No. Because even if he spoke about you, even if he told her you were beautiful, it was her who was by his side.

And you’d have to watch from afar. Again.

Jin wasn’t a womanizer, at least not the type you saw in movies. During his teenage years, he never had a girlfriend. You knew this because you were inseparable, nobody could separate you, and you spent most of your time together, hardly talking to anyone else.

Things changed when he started his band project, specifically when they released their first album. It was a huge success, playing on every local radio station, and all the young people seemed to love the songs. And the members.

It was after a month of releasing the first album that this “womanizer phase” began. He went out with several girls, not for just one night, but for short periods—one month, maybe three. It had never been serious. He had never introduced you to any of them. You knew from rumors, from women’s clothes in his apartment, from the loving calls and messages you sometimes saw by accident on his phone.

Jin had never given any hints about his love life with you, and for some reason, that gave you hope.

Because despite being able to be with any of those beautiful and talented women, he always came back to you. You were always by his side.

But it wasn’t until this moment that you realized; you were always there because he considered you his best friend, not because he was in love with you.

And Yeji was the perfect example of that realization.

“Thank you, Yeji. Can I call you that?” You kept your eyes locked on hers, afraid to face Jin right now, afraid he would notice your fear, your shame, your sadness. You wanted to run. You wanted to disappear completely.

But you wouldn’t. Because Jin’s happiness came before your selfish desires. Because before being in love with him, you were his friend.

“Oh, of course! We’re the same age anyway.” She nodded quickly before relaxing her smile a little. No, it wasn’t relaxed. It was a shy smile, embarrassed, fearful. “Ah, sorry, am I being too forward? We’ve just met, and I already took your hands like this, how rude of me!” She let go of your hands, leaving them gently on your lap. You noticed how hers were shaking, how, despite her cheerful expression, there seemed to be a hint of fear hidden beneath.

“Don’t worry, I have a friend who’s much, um, more expressive with her affection.” You said softly, as if trying to calm her. You were trying to, weren’t you? “You can call me Y/N if you want,” you leaned in a little closer to her, lowering your voice just enough to make it seem like a secret between you two, though you were sure Jin would hear it perfectly. “Between us, I’m not a big fan of honorifics.”

You smiled faintly when you heard her laugh at your comment. It hurt. It hurt seeing her be so beautiful and speaking harmoniously, it hurt that even her personality at first glance seemed kind. It hurt because you couldn’t hate her.

When you looked at Jin again, his eyes were fixed on yours. The warmth from before was still there, you could feel it, from his smile, from his relaxed posture. Why did he have to look at you with that gaze that seemed to want to give everything, if he’d never give it all to you?

Maybe that was what hurt the most.

“And he told you she was his girlfriend? Seriously?” Chaeyoung, who was barely managing to stuff more food into her mouth, frowned at you. She was wearing a T-shirt you were pretty sure belonged to Yoongi, and a pair of shorts way too short for how cold it was at this hour. “That’s so weird. Who sets up a breakfast meeting to introduce their girlfriend? Like, couldn’t he have just called you at, I don’t know, four or something?”

“You’re totally missing the point of this conversation, Chaeyoung,” Sooah mumbled. Her lilac iPad —the one she took everywhere— sat on her side of the table, screen filled with rows of meetings and deadlines. Her phone displayed a bunch of agency contacts she was quickly scribbling down on one of the napkins they’d gotten with their order. “Though, she’s not wrong. It is weird. He didn’t even tell us he was seeing someone. Maybe I should talk to him tomorrow.” The last part was more to herself than to either of you.

Sooah had been the boys’ manager not long after they debuted. She was organized, level-headed, and ridiculously smart. She was, in short, the perfect woman to put opportunistic companies in their place and demand proper pay and treatment for the boys. She’d been one of the group’s biggest pillars, and everyone —from the members to the fans— knew that a good part of their success came from her relentless work and effort to get people to see them.

“So this is the first time he’s ever introduced one of his girlfriends to you?” She grabbed one of the soju bottles on the table, opened it effortlessly, and took a sip. Her eyes stayed on you the entire time, like she was waiting for an answer you couldn’t give her. At least not right now. You were still way too shocked to even process the news. “She must be someone really special if he did that.” She paused, registering what she’d just said. Realizing she’d just hit a nerve.

Sooah gave her a raised eyebrow. You covered your face with both hands. She looked between the two of you and let out a short, awkward laugh.

“But he told you first! That makes you special too!” Chaeyoung turned to Sooah with pleading eyes, silently begging her to help smooth things over, to say something that would lighten the mood.

She didn’t.

“He took her to our special place,” you mumbled, still hiding your face in your hands. You could hear your voice —how it sounded like a child throwing a tantrum because someone else had just played in the sandbox you’d guarded your whole life. You remembered reading somewhere that when sadness and heartbreak overwhelm you, you tend to regress a little. Act younger than you are. And now you got it. You got it so well it made you feel embarrassed.

You were better than this.

But here you were, one second away from crying because a sweet, beautiful girl had stolen the heart of the man you thought was the love of your life.

Both Chaeyoung and Sooah exchanged a look. They’d spent years around you; by this point, they were almost your best friends —though Sooah would never admit that out loud. You and Sooah had known each other since 2013, the year BOTN debuted. Chaeyoung joined the circle three years later, and the three of you had been practically inseparable ever since. How could you not be? You saw each other more than anyone else in your lives.

Sooah was always wherever the group was —constantly keeping things in check, making sure everything ran smoothly. Chaeyoung… well, she was wherever Yoongi was. Every concert, every shoot —always there to support him. Perks of being your own boss. And you, you’d always been there for Jin. To remind him he was doing amazing work when he felt down, to be in the crowd at every show just so he wouldn’t feel alone.

Now you weren’t even sure if you had the right to do that anymore. Was it even okay, when he had a girlfriend who was probably ready to do all of that for him?

“Y/N,” Sooah started, letting out a soft sigh before turning off her iPad and giving you her full attention, “have you thought that maybe… it’s time to let him go?”

“Wait, what?” Chaeyoung shook her head like she’d just heard the dumbest thing ever. “No way. Absolutely not. She’s been in love with him for years! You can’t just let go after spending over a decade trying to win him over —that would be such a waste of time!”

“Exactly. She’s already wasted enough time chasing someone who never loved her back. She’s 25 now. It’s time to move on. There are hundreds of men out there who could replace him,” she crossed her arms, eyes locked on you even though her words were aimed at Chaeyoung.

You were pretty sure their argument went on for a while, but you were too focused on your untouched plate to care about what they were saying.

Everything around you started to blur, fade out —the noise, the smell of grilled meat and smoke, the faint music playing from an old radio, the soft rustling of the tent’s plastic flaps.

All you could hear now was Jin’s voice introducing you to his girlfriend. Yeji’s voice, greeting you like she genuinely liked you. Like she expected the two of you to be friends. And all you could see was the way Jin’s eyes sparkled. The way he sparkled.

You frowned. Closed your eyes. Counted to ten.

You weren’t going to cry.

“I’m not going to do anything,” you whispered. But you knew they both heard it, because their voices fell silent instantly. You didn’t look at them. You couldn’t. “I don’t want to replace him, because I know no one could ever take Jin’s place.” You took a breath, straightened your posture, and looked at your two friends —hoping that just doing that might make it easier to carry the weight on your chest. “But I’m not going to get in the middle of his relationship either. That girl… Yeji… she doesn’t deserve that. And Jin doesn’t either.”

Sooah sighed. Chaeyoung looked at you with sympathy. And you… you just tried your best to finish the food on your plate despite the lump in your throat.

A week.

It had been a week since Jin's confession, and the world kept turning.

People still walked from work to their homes, the sun still rose in the morning, time kept moving forward—but not in the same way it used to.

You got up at five, did your workout routine, took a shower, had breakfast. By eight, you were on your way to work; you arrived, worked on your designs, followed your boss’s orders, ate lunch, went back to work. At seven, you went home, had dinner, changed into your pajamas, watered your plants, went to bed. By eleven thirty, you were fast asleep.

Life went on. But you felt more stuck than ever.

You tried to distract yourself with work, tried to take extra hours, avoid Jin’s calls, reply to his messages as dryly as possible. You tried to set a boundary—for your own good, and for the sake of Jin’s relationship.

But it wasn’t easy to ignore your best friend.

“Ugh, that meeting was so boring. I don’t know why Mr. Lee can’t just give us a summary,” said Soojin, a young intern who’d been hired a few months ago. She had a wild fashion sense and wasn’t what you’d call “subtle” when it came to complaining about work. But she was good company.

You weren’t really listening to the rest of her rant. You were too focused on your phone’s inbox.

25 messages. You had 25 messages from Jin. Most of them were him telling you about his day—he always did that, you always talked about your days at work. Your shared chat was like a diary, one filled with references only the two of you understood, full of thoughts and feelings neither of you could share with anyone else because they belonged to just the two of you.

You turned off your phone.

“You can leave early if you want, I’ve got something to discuss with Mr. Lee before heading out,” you said suddenly, cutting off Soojin’s verbal vomit. She just blinked and shrugged before kissing you on the cheek and wishing you “good luck.”

You slipped your phone into one of your coat pockets and walked to your desk to grab a lime green folder. Your name was written on it in delicate, elegant handwriting. You’d made it when you graduated college, determined to use it one day to show your designs to your future boss. Determined to chase your dream.

You hadn’t dared to use it until now. Maybe because, in a way, you felt like you couldn’t possibly feel worse than you already did.

Your heart had been broken less than a week ago. If it broke again now, while the wound was still fresh, maybe it would save you from suffering later. Did that logic make sense? Probably not.

You walked toward Mr. Lee’s office, clutching the folder to your chest, head held high. Confidence is everything. If you believe in what you do—even if it’s stupid—you’ll convince anyone. Or at least that’s what your mom always said.

You knocked on the glass door with your knuckles—two soft taps—and Mr. Lee, already in his 60s, looked up from the stack of papers on his desk to give you a cold, sharp stare. Your whole body froze, and the only thing left inside you was regret and the urge to run away.

But you didn’t. It was too late now.

You walked in quietly, deliberately looking around the office to avoid his gaze. The shelves sparkled, the floor looked like a mirror, and his desk was so clean that if it weren’t for the metal supports, you wouldn’t even see it.

“Miss Y/N, care to explain why you’re in my office at this hour?” His raspy voice and condescending tone made you shrink where you stood. He had always seemed like a serious, intimidating man; no one ever dared speak up in meetings, no one ever looked him in the eye, and you didn’t think you’d ever heard anyone say they’d had a friendly chat with him after work.

The last time you saw someone come out of his office, the guy had tears all over his face.

“I’m sorry for bothering you so late, Mr. Lee,” you murmured, head down, eyes on your nails—painted the same color as your folder. You took a breath. Tried to think of something that would calm you. Plants. You loved plants. How about a field? A field full of exotic flowers and the smell of wet soil. You, sitting on a hill in the middle of it. Jin beside you. The weight in your chest eased just a bit. “I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll be brief.”

You reached out and handed him your folder. This time, you ignored his disapproving look.

“I’d like you to take a look at my designs,” you said in the firmest tone you could muster. You were surprised you didn’t stutter at all.

Mr. Lee’s eyes fell on the folder. Your heart nearly stopped when he took it from your hands, opened it, and flipped through the pages in silence. You had spent years working on those designs. He took less than a minute to glance through them and toss them into the corner of his desk.

“The next time you waste my time, I hope it’s for something actually worth it, Miss Y/N.”

He didn’t even look at them. Not really.

“I’m sorry for wasting your time,” you whispered, gathering your things, bowing at a perfect ninety degrees, and walking out of his office.

You didn’t start crying until you got back to your desk. But it wasn’t the loud, sobbing, throat-burning kind of crying. It was the silent kind. The kind of crying that comes when you’re resigned. When you just accept what happened because you weren’t expecting anything better.

Because deep down, you knew he was going to reject you.

And you weren’t sure if you were crying over your boss’s rejection, or Jin’s.

You didn’t bother wiping your tears away—there was no point. They’d keep falling until you found at least a little bit of relief. You packed up your things, much slower than usual. Not like you had anything else to do afterward.

You don’t remember exactly how you got to the company’s entrance, but you knew you’d looked down when you passed Mr. Lee’s office again. You remembered getting into the elevator and seeing your reflection—broken, sad, empty. That only made you cry harder.

But no one said anything. Because people are like that. They can see someone crying their eyes out in the middle of the street and still do nothing to help.

And you were really, really grateful for that right now.

The walk from the elevator to the exit was a bit clearer. You remembered saying goodbye to the security guards, hearing the sound of your heels echoing with every step, watching your tears hit the floor, and the tightness in your chest making it hard to breathe properly.

And then you heard his voice. That’s the part you remember the clearest.

“Y/N?”

You looked up, biting the inside of your lip when you saw Jin standing at the entrance, wearing a wool hat you’d given him back when you finished school and a black face mask barely covering his chin. His phone was in his hands. You felt your pocket vibrate.

He was calling you.

“Are you crying?” He already knew the answer. Of course he did—that’s why he didn’t wait for a reply. He rushed over to you, cupping your face in his hands, checking you carefully, with that worried look that made your heart skip because it meant he cared. “What happened? Did you get hurt? Did some jerk try to touch you? Because if someone—swear to God I’ll—”

You didn’t let him finish. You couldn’t. You wrapped your arms around his waist and let everything you’d been holding in that week pour out. The guilt was still there, eating you up inside, but the pain—and the need to feel him close, to get even the tiniest bit of comfort—was stronger.

You felt his body relax in your arms, and almost instantly, his arms wrapped around you. He buried his face in your shoulder, held you like he was the one who needed the hug, like he was the one who had missed you the way you missed him.

“I want to go home,” you whispered against his chest, gripping his jacket like your life depended on it. Maybe because, in that moment, it kind of did.

“I brought my car.” He didn’t move. If anything, he held you tighter. One of his hands slid into your hair, gently stroking it—just like he always did when you cried. “I’ll take you.”

"I can’t believe he did that. What’s his problem?" Jin said, his voice slightly higher and more irritated than usual. His brows were furrowed and his lips formed an almost imperceptible pout. He was angry. He was angry because your boss had dismissed your effort. You’d be lying if you said that didn’t feel good. "Your work is seriously amazing. Our fans always go crazy when you design our outfits."

You let out a soft laugh. Faint. Jin wasn’t wrong—his fans had always appreciated the style you gave the boys because you cared about their comfort and essence. You weren’t just looking for something that looked cool—you wanted their outfits to scream their personalities. You wanted them to be iconic, memorable, something that felt like part of who they were.

So far, you’d done a great job.

"I need that party pooper’s approval, not your fans’, you know?" you muttered, looking at the coffee mug resting on the glass coffee table. You really liked glass tables, and you loved decorating them with small plants in pastel-colored pots. There was something about those things—clean, natural, fragrant—that calmed you, even just a little.

They gave you peace. The kind of peace you could only find at home.

"My fans are way more important than that bald guy," he shook his head, as if he was genuinely confused about how you could even compare them to his sweet little Stars. You’d never fully liked the name they gave their fandom. But you never said anything.

"I wish it felt that way," you pulled your legs up, hugging them tightly enough to rest your chin on your knees. The coffee was still on the table. The steam had nearly stopped rising.

You both shared a silence. Long. Peaceful. Without the same tension that had lingered between you ever since Jin introduced you to Yeji. For the first time in these seven days, you finally stopped feeling that weight in your chest that seemed to freeze time.

For once, it was just you and him.

"Jokes aside," Jin set his own mug next to yours. His was a lovely pastel pink. Yours was cream-colored. "You’re incredible, Y/N. Seriously. And the only one losing here is him." He placed a hand on your back. His fingers tangled in your hair again, his eyes lost somewhere in the blank space on your back. "He has no idea what an amazing woman he’s letting go of."

Your heart skipped a beat. Your breath caught. And you couldn’t resist lifting your gaze to meet his face.

It didn’t feel like he was talking about your boss. It felt far too personal. You felt it too personally.

You didn’t know when it had happened exactly, but his face was much closer to yours now. Barely a breath separated you. You both stared in silence, and the tension you thought had been left behind wrapped around you again, suffocating. And this time, you were sure you weren’t the only one feeling it.

His eyes looked darker, his lips were pressed together, and you could see his Adam’s apple move nervously every few seconds.

Before you could think, before you could even question what was happening between the two of you, you opened your mouth, the doubt planted in you since meeting Yeji finally breaking free.

"Why didn’t you ever mention her?" you whispered, afraid that speaking louder would shatter the atmosphere and lead you both to make a mistake you’d regret the next day.

"Why have you been ignoring me?" he replied, his eyes scanning every inch of your face, studying it carefully. You were sure they lingered a little longer on your lips.

"I didn’t want to overstep."

"I didn’t want you to meet her."

You swallowed hard. Bit the inside of your cheek. Spoke again.

"Why?"

"Because that makes it real."

You wanted to look away, to hold on to your principles, to remind yourself that this was all in your head—that he wasn’t really looking at you with that intense gleam in his eyes, that he wasn’t actually glancing at your lips every five seconds.

You wanted to remind yourself that none of those gestures belonged to you.

But it was too hard.

"Then why did you introduce me to her in the first place?" Why are you with her? That was the real question you wanted to ask—the one that gnawed at you so much it made your heart ache. But you couldn’t say it out loud.

That question seemed to shatter the moment entirely. Jin looked away and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes blinked fast, his head tilted back, and he looked so confused and hurt—like he wasn’t even sure of the answer himself, like saying it out loud would sting.

"She wanted to meet you," he murmured, his voice a little hoarser, his eyes avoiding yours completely. "She really liked you."

You let your legs fall, stretching them across the floor. You looked back at the coffee; this time, there wasn’t a single trace of steam left.

"Why were you talking to her about me?"

"Because you’re the most important person to me."

The words came out too easily, too fast, like they’d been dancing on his tongue for a long time before he finally said them. You wished it were just as easy not to react to them.

"It’s late," you stood up carefully, wincing as a tingling sensation rushed through your legs. They felt shaky and numb, but you had to force them to move. You had to get out of here. "I’m going to bed—you know where everything is."

You both said goodnight. You both lay down in separate rooms. But neither of you managed to fall asleep—not when you were both too aware of the other’s presence. Not after nearly ruining everything.

That night, you found yourself remembering your conversation with Chaeyoung and Sooah again—wondering, just for a moment, if you could really let him go after tonight.

Masterlist.

#BOTN #seokjin x you #jin x y/n #seokjin x reader #bts x reader #kim seokjin x reader #bts x you #bts fanfic #bts imagine #bts x y/n #bts x fem!reader #fanfic #fiction #jin x reader #jin x you #kim seokjin x you #seokjin x y/n

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