#having their own state where they are untouchable | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gojover · 2 months ago

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the courtship affairs of a common man

summary: nanami kento prides himself on his discipline, efficiency, and ironclad work ethic. you, on the other hand, are a paragon of spontaneity and relentless optimism. as ceo, you’re used to getting what you want—and your next business venture? winning him over.

�� pairing: secretary!nanami kento x ceo!fem!reader ⇢ contains: fluff, mild angst, smut (oral sex, desk sex, protected sex, angry sex, slight dirty talk), office romance au, grumpy x sunshine, profanity, alcohol consumption, parental pressure to get married, corrupt corporate companies, implied misogyny—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! ⇢ word count: 17.9k ⇢ art credit: pinterest | read on ao3 here.

Nanami Kento is a man of routine. At precisely 7:26 A.M, he heads out of his apartment with his tie knotted perfectly and his shoes shined. At 7:43 A.M, he reaches the coffee shop he always frequents, and by 7:54 A.M, he walks out with an iced coffee with three shots of espresso (for himself) and a Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino (for you).

If he drives fast enough, he can clock in at his workplace by 8:28 A.M, and by the time he reaches his desk, it’s 8:31 A.M. He waits patiently for you to arrive sometime between 8:36 and 8:49. Usually, you arrive exactly at 8:45 A.M, and until then, Nanami works on making a list of all the tasks scheduled for today, in order of greatest priority.

It’s when the clock starts inching towards 9:25 A.M and you still haven’t arrived, that Nanami Kento starts to get a little bit worried.

At 9:26 A.M, Nanami finally sets down his pen. He isn’t the type to fidget, nor is he the type to worry unnecessarily, but there’s an undeniable itch in his chest—a quiet, nagging thought that something is off. He checks his watch. Then his phone. No missed calls, no unread messages. Highly unusual.

The drink he bought for you sits untouched on your desk, the condensation already forming a damp ring on the pristine surface. You always take the first sip as soon as you walk in, mumbling some variation of how you need caffeine to tolerate capitalism.

He waits exactly three more minutes before standing.

If anyone notices the way he strides towards the elevator with more urgency than usual, they don’t comment. The building’s lobby is its usual mess of suits and hurried footsteps, but your usual entrance—heels clicking against polished tile, a cheerful “Morning, Nanami!”—is absent.

He exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly as he debates his next move. Calling you outright would be overstepping. You are his boss. He is your secretary. If you were simply running late, you would text.

That means something must have happened.

Nanami adjusts his tie and makes the call anyway. The phone rings. Once, twice, three times—and then, finally, your voice; groggy and unmistakably hoarse.

“...Nanami?”

He clenches his jaw. “Where are you?”

You pause, followed by a rustling sound, as if you’re shifting under blankets. “Oh, shit.”

“You overslept,” Nanami states.

“Uh,” you say intelligently. “Maybe?”

Nananmi doesn’t sigh, though he wants to. You’re an excellent CEO—brilliant, quick-witted, sharper than most people twice your age. But responsible when it comes to your own well-being? Absolutely not.

There’s more shifting on your end, followed by a muffled groan. “I might be a little hungover.”

“Of course you are.” His glasses have slid down the bridge of his nose, so he adjusts the frame.

“Listen, it was my friend’s birthday—”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“Okay, mother.”

Nanami does sigh this time. He glances at his watch. If he leaves now, he can get to your apartment in twelve minutes, fifteen if traffic is bad. “I’m coming to get you.”

“Wait, what?”

“You’ll waste another thirty minutes trying to function. I’ll be there in twelve.”

There’s a long pause. Then, in a voice that’s entirely too suspicious for someone who just admitted to being hungover, you say, “...How do you know where I live?”

“I fill out your paperwork,” the secretary says.

Another pause. “This feels like an invasion of privacy.”

“You list it under the company address.”

“Well, I could be lying.”

“Are you?”

Silence. Then, begrudgingly, you admit, “No.”

Nanami does not have the time for this. He’s already halfway to the parking garage, briefcase in hand, and his patience—though formidable—is starting to wear thin. “Stay put. Drink some water. Don’t make it worse.”

You hum. “Define worse.”

“Don’t make me regret my employment here.”

There’s a chuckle on your end before the call clicks off. Nanami shoves his phone into his pocket and fishes for his car keys. The headlights of his white Toyota Corolla blink back at him. He slides into the driver’s seat as quickly as possible and starts the engine.

Nanami Kento does not speed. He is a very responsible driver. Yet, here he is, at 9:41 A.M, speeding towards your apartment because you overslept, are likely still half-drunk, and have a board meeting in less than an hour. Objectively speaking, this should not be his problem. But Nanami has long-since accepted that you are his problem.

There is a margin of error in his schedule now, and he does not like it. His mind is already running through the necessary steps to minimise the damage.

Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You’re already awake, dressed and hydrated. You recognise the consequences of your actions. You get in the car immediately. The meeting proceeds as planned. (The probability of this happening is about the same as Gojo Satoru from HR filing his paperwork on time.)

Most Likely Scenario (Unfortunate but Expected): You answer the door in your pyjamas. You have not consumed a single drop of water. You groan at him, complain about work, and stall for at least ten minutes. He has to herd you into productivity like a kindergarten teacher. He gets you to the office just in time—barely.

Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You’re still in bed. You refuse to move. You throw up on his shoes (he will quit). You open the board meeting by saying something absurd like, “Gentlemen, what if we invested in a company that just makes really big spoons?” and Nanami Kento gets fired.

He adjusts his tie at a red light. No, he refuses to let it reach that point.

By the time he pulls up to your apartment, he is ready. He checks his watch once more. 9:53 A.M. Nanami forgoes the elevator in favour of climbing up the staircase two steps at a time. Your apartment is on the fifth floor, and he knocks twice. Firm and precise.

The door swings open, and you are—well. Exactly what Nanami had expected.

You’re standing in the doorway wearing an oversized hoodie and what are definitely not your pants. Your hair is a tangled mess, mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes. Nanami is not a man easily shaken, but this is certainly not how he expected to start his morning.

“You look awful,” he says.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

Nanami steps into your apartment uninvited. The place is surprisingly not a disaster, though for a luxury apartment, it does seem a tad bit shabby. An empty wine glass balances precariously on your coffee table, next to a half-eaten slice of cheesecake and—God help him—what appears to be a sequined tiara.

He chooses not to ask. Instead, he sets his briefcase down, rolls up his sleeves, and heads straight for your kitchen.

You blink. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing this.” He pulls open your fridge, scanning the contents with a critical eye. It is, to his horror, mostly condiments. “When was the last time you ate a proper meal?”

You scratch your cheek. “Um. Last night?”

He shuts the fridge a little harder than necessary. “Cheesecake doesn’t count.”

“Rude. That cake was expensive.”

Nanami ignores you, opting instead to fill a glass of water. He hands it over, watching as you take a slow, reluctant sip. “Drink all of it,” he instructs.

“You sound like my mom,” you say, squinting at him.

“Yes, well, if your mother were here, I assume she wouldn’t have let you drink half your body weight in alcohol the night before a board meeting.”

“Wait.” Your eyes widen. “The board meeting.”

Nanami resists the urge to point out that this should have been your first concern, not the last. “Yes,” he says, “the one that starts in thirty-five minutes.”

You suck in a breath sharply. “I need to shower.”

“Obviously.”

“I don’t have time to do my hair.”

“You’re wearing it up.”

“I don’t have time for makeup.”

“You keep a bag in your office.”

You scowl. “You’re very annoying, you know that?”

Nanami gives you a pointed look, taking your empty glass of water from your hands. “Yes.”

You grumble something under your breath before disappearing into your room, the door clicking shut behind you. Nanami sighs. He takes off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose, before rolling his shoulders. He deserves a pay raise.

By the time Nanami drags you into the office, you’re at least functioning. He’s made sure of it. He forced you to drink two full bottles of water and a homemade electrolyte mix (which you gagged on); stopped you from wearing a sweatshirt that said Eat the Rich (your argument was that it was thematically appropriate); shoved a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich into your hands (which you sullenly ate in the elevator, glaring at him the entire time); and silently questioned all of his life choices.

And now, he stands beside you in the conference room, arms crossed, expression stoic, while you sit at the head of the long, polished table, addressing a room full of corporate executives.

To your credit, you’re holding your own. Your voice is even. Your sentences are concise. Your data is accurate. If Nanami didn’t know that you had been half-dead in bed forty minutes ago, he wouldn’t be able to tell.

The board members—a collection of old money, new money, and at least one guy who definitely inherited his position from his father—watch you with varying degrees of interest. Some, like Flower Bandana and Secret Tattoo from Marketing, nod along. Others, most notably, Wire-Rimmed Glasses and Charcoal Pants, pretend to skim the reports in front of them. Nepotism Baby, however, is very obviously checking golf scores under the table.

Nanami clocks all of it. Still, you power through.

“—and as you can see, our projected quarterly growth remains steady despite recent market shifts. However, to maintain momentum, we need to prioritise long-term investments in—” You pause. Nanami notices it immediately—a brief hesitation, a flicker of your fingers against the table.

You’ve forgotten what you were saying.

To the untrained eye, it is imperceptible. To Nanami, who has spent an ungodly amount of time observing you, it’s as obvious as a flashing neon sign.

Before you can recover, Salt-and-Pepper Board Member—the one who always speaks in a tone that suggests he hasn’t been happy since the Reagan administration—leans forward. “Miss CEO,” he says, adjusting his gold watch, “before we move forward, I’d like to address something.”

“Of course,” you reply smoothly, though Nanami catches the way your hands tense against the table.

Salt-and-Pepper clasps his hands together. “While we appreciate your insights, I have to ask—” a pause, carefully calculated for dramatic effect— “what exactly is your long-term vision for the company?”

The room stills. It’s a trap. A carefully laid, passive-aggressive, MBA-scented trap. Nanami watches you closely. He knows this type of boardroom maneuver—an underhanded way to question your competence without outrightly saying it. Testing the waters to see if you’ll crack, so to speak.

You, as always, rise to the occasion.

“My vision?” you repeat, tilting your head slightly, voice measured. “That’s an interesting question.”

Nanami presses his lips together. He can see the gears turning in your head.

You lean back in your chair, lacing your fingers together. “If I had to sum it up, I’d say my long-term vision is simple: Growth, innovation, and ensuring that this company doesn’t crumble under the weight of its own outdated bureaucracy.”

Salt-and-Pepper’s eyes narrow just slightly. You continue.

“Because let’s be honest, gentlemen—” (Nanami notes how you conveniently exclude the few women in the room; they could do no wrong in your eyes) “—we could sit here, shuffle numbers, and pat ourselves on the back for maintaining the status quo, or we could actually build something for the future. Something sustainable, something adaptive. Something that doesn’t leave us scrambling every time the market shifts.”

Impressive. Nanami hides his amusement behind a neutral expression. You’ve managed to say absolutely nothing while making it sound like you’ve said everything. A skill only a true genius could master. Salt-and-Pepper’s eyebrows pinch. He opens his mouth—likely to challenge you—but before he can, Nanami steps in.

“Further details on our strategic initiatives can be found on page five,” he says, flipping to the appropriate section in the report. “You’ll find that the CEO’s approach aligns with our projected financial goals and ensures continued shareholder confidence.”

Translation: Shut up and read the damn report. Salt-and-Pepper huffs in irritation.

The meeting continues. Charts are analysed. Projections are debated. Wire-Rimmed Glasses tries to poke holes in your marketing budget, only for Secret Tattoo to shut him down with three lines of data and an unimpressed eyebrow raise. Nepotism Baby suddenly develops an interest in the conversation only when someone brings up potential tax incentives.

Throughout it all, Nanami stands beside you like a quiet, immovable force of nature, ready to step in whenever necessary—though, to his silent chagrin, you seem to be having fun.

“You know,” you say, after redirecting a particularly obtuse question from Charcoal Pants, “I was going to bring this up later, but since we’re already on the subject of outdated models—”

Nanami immediately dislikes where this is going.

“—I’d love to discuss our executive compensation structure.”

The temperature in the room drops several degrees. There’s a long, pointed silence. Salt-and-Pepper visibly tenses. Wire-Rimmed Glasses stops pretending to read his report. Charcoal Pants blinks very fast. Nanami sighs. You are testing his patience. He’s not sure what you’re trying to achieve by discussing potential salary cuts to the Board of Directors, but it is too late now, and he is in too deep.

“Compensation structure?” Salt-and-Pepper repeats, as if you’ve just suggested setting fire to the stock portfolio.

“Yes,” you agree. “As you all know, our yearly executive bonuses amount to a significant percentage of our net profits. While rewarding performance is important, I believe we should also explore options that align with our long-term company health.”

One of Salt-and-Pepper’s eyes twitches. “I see. And what exactly do you propose?”

“A more balanced structure. Something performance-driven, sure, but also weighted in a way that ensures we’re reinvesting into the company and our employees. After all, a company is only as strong as its people.”

“That’s a… bold suggestion.” Salt-and-Pepper smiles, but it is a smile in the way a wolf bares its teeth.

“Oh, I know.” You flash him a blindingly fake grin. “But that’s what visionaries do, right? Think boldly?”

The discussion moves forward. The board members clearly have no interest in discussing executive pay cuts, and after five minutes of unproductive back-and-forth, Nanami steps in to smooth things over.

“We can table this discussion for another time,” he offers. “Let’s return to our key agenda items.”

Translation: You are all embarrassing yourselves. Move on. Thus, the meeting drags to an exhausting close. As the last board member exits, the conference room falls into silence. Nanami breathes out slowly. He turns his attention back to you—where you sit, still slumped in your chair, spinning a pen between your fingers.

You look pleased with yourself. Of course, you do.

“You’re mean,” he says plainly.

You grin, unapologetic. “But you’re still here.”

Nanami presses his lips together, but he doesn’t deny it. You’re right; he is still here. Still standing beside you, still following you through your commitments and obligations, still making sure you don’t self-destruct before lunch, let alone the fiscal year. Still watching.

Nanami Kento isn’t blind to his own habits. He is not a man given to sentiment, nor is he someone who allows himself to be distracted. He has spent years cultivating a certain discipline, a carefully maintained distance between himself and his work.

Yet, here he is.

Here he is, noticing things. Like the way your fingers tap absently against the table when you’re thinking. The way you tilt your head ever-so slightly when someone challenges you, as if already preparing a rebuttal. The way you wield charm and sharp wit like a weapon, disarming a room full of men who think they can rattle you.

Here he is, memorising things. Like the exact cadence of your voice when you’re amused versus when you’re irritated. The way you argue, not just for the sake of arguing, but because you genuinely believe things should be better.

Here he is, wondering things. Like why the sight of you so thoroughly holding your own in that room makes something in his chest feel curiously, infuriatingly warm.

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t worry about you, shouldn’t be so aware of the way your presence has begun to take up space in his thoughts.

Nanami isn’t sure when it started. Maybe it was the first time you dragged him into a fight you had no business winning, arguing down a board member twice your age with nothing but facts and deduction. Maybe it was the morning you shoved a coffee into his hands without preamble, grumbling something about corporate capitalism slowly draining the life out of him. Maybe it was when he realised that despite your recklessness, despite your exhausting tendency to push every limit—

You were trying.

Maybe that’s why he stays. Not because you’re impossible. Not because you test his patience on a daily basis, but because, despite it all, Nanami believes in you. Maybe—just maybe—that belief is starting to feel like something else entirely.

He clears his throat, shaking off whatever momentary lapse has settled over him. “Your next meeting is in fifteen minutes,” he says, already turning towards the door. “Try not to fall asleep before lunch.”

“No promises,” you call after him, and Nanami forces himself not to look back.

The next morning, you arrive at 8:45 A.M on the dot, and though you don’t greet Nanami with a chipper good morning wish, you do shove a neatly-wrapped roll of melonpan into his arms.

“For yesterday,” you explain. “Thanks for picking me up even though it’s not a part of your job.”

Nanami stares at the melon bread in his hands. It’s soft, and still warm, wrapped in crinkly butter paper. For a moment, he simply blinks at it, as if it’s some kind of foreign object, something misplaced in the orderly structure of his morning routine. (It is.)

Then, he looks at you. You’re already at your desk, halfway through flipping through a manila folder, scanning through documents with your brows furrowed in concentration. But Nanami catches it—the way your fingers loosely hold the paper, the way your shoulders aren’t as stiff as they were yesterday. It’s an offering—but more than that, it’s you remembering, because the name of the bakery printed on the butter paper is his favourite one.

He sets the melonpan carefully on the desk beside his coffee. “It was never not part of my job.”

“Huh?” Your head snaps up.

“Looking after you.”

Your brows knit together in something Nanami recognises as your default setting: Suspicion. “That’s not in your job description.”

“It should be,” he says, shrugging.

Your expression flickers—just for a second—before you roll your eyes. “Great. So I’ve officially become a liability. Good to know.”

“You’ve been a liability since day one.”

“Wow. You’ve been holding onto that one, huh?”

“I’m simply stating facts.” Nanami picks up the bread, breaking off a piece, and takes a bite. The outer layer of cookie dough is crisp, and it melts on his tongue with just the right amount of sweetness.

Your lips press together, like you’re trying to fight off a smile. “So?”

Nanami chews, swallows, and nods once. “Acceptable.”

“Oh, shut up. You love it.”

He says nothing, merely covers up the bread with the butter paper once more and places it next to his coffee once more. You look pretty today, he thinks. You’ve recovered from yesterday’s series of meetings. You’re smiling more. It might turn out to be a good day after all. Nanami doesn’t allow himself to linger on the thought. He reaches for his coffee, taking a sip, while you return to your documents, flipping a page with a little too much force.

“You have a meeting at ten,” he reminds you.

“I know.”

“And a working lunch with Legal.”

You make a noise of protest. “Not the suits. Again.”

“They have concerns about the expansion,” Nanami says mildly.

“They always have concerns.” You sigh, tilting your head back against your chair. “I swear, they enjoy making my life difficult.”

Nanami hums noncommittally. It’s not an argument he’s inclined to entertain—mostly because he knows you’ll win, and you’ll be smug about it. Instead, he glances at his watch. “You have exactly ten minutes before the executive team starts pestering me about your whereabouts.”

You make a face, dropping your folder onto your desk with a soft thud. “Can’t I just—skip?”

Nanami gives you a look. You groan and stretch your arms above your head, letting out a soft sigh before reaching for your pen. He watches as you jot something down in the margins of your notes. You’re still tired, he realises. Maybe not visibly, not in the way you were yesterday, but he sees it. The way you rub your temple when you think he isn’t looking, or the way your posture shifts just slightly when you exhale. It’s ridiculous, really, how attuned he is to you.

He clears his throat. “I rescheduled your two-thirty to tomorrow.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Because you’ll need the break.”

You purse your lips, considering this, and for a second, he thinks you’ll argue. But then, to his quiet surprise, you nod. “...Okay.”

The ten o’clock meeting is exactly as tedious as Nanami expects it to be. The executive team drones on about projections and budget allocations, with at least three separate tangents about “synergy” and “maximising operational efficiency.” Nanami watches as you nod along at all the right moments, feigning interest while you fiddle with your pen. He knows you’re not actually absorbing any of it—your attention is already elsewhere, likely preoccupied with the looming meeting with Legal.

(He knows this because, at one point, you doodle a tiny stick figure on the margins of your notes. When the CFO asks for your thoughts, you barely miss a beat before delivering a perfectly rehearsed response.)

When the meeting ends, he follows behind you. You stretch discreetly, rolling out your shoulders, and when you glance at him, your expression is a silent plea for mercy.

Nanami sighs. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you expect me to spare you from your next obligation.”

“But you could,” you say, all mock innocence.

“I won’t,” he answers.

You heave a sigh. “You’re heartless.”

“I’m efficient.”

“Same thing.”

“You have twenty minutes before your next meeting,” Nanami says instead. “Eat something.”

“Okay, boss.”

Your secretary rolls his eyes. “You’ll thank me later.”

You do, albeit reluctantly. The legal team’s working lunch is predictably dull, full of jargon and contingency plans and hypothetical risks that you pretend to take notes on. At some point, you throw Nanami a look so filled with unspoken suffering that, if he were a softer man, he might have pitied you.

See? your expression seems to say over the rim of your coffee cup, eyes flat with boredom. This is my suffering.

Nanami lets his mouth twitch upwards. You’ll survive.

You don’t know that. You narrow your eyes at him.

You do survive—just barely—through an hour of suffocating legalese, sitting through discussions on compliance policies and liability frameworks with a blank notepad and polite nods. You haven’t written anything down except Help me in the margins, which Nanami had caught a glimpse of when you’d shifted the notepad slightly. When the meeting finally, mercifully, ends, you slump back in your chair, stretching your legs out beneath the conference table with an exaggerated groan.

“I deserve a reward for making it through that,” you mutter.

Nanami flips through his schedule. “Your reward is not getting sued.”

“That’s a terrible reward,” you retort, scrunching your nose.

“It’s an important one.”

“You’re no fun, you know that?” you say, but there’s no real bite to it. Just annoyance, not directed at him.

“I do,” Nanami says, without missing a beat.

You huff a soft laugh, shaking your head before pushing yourself to stand. He follows suit, gathering his notes. It’s only when you step out of the conference room that he notices it again—the way your fingers tap absently against your arm, the slight crease in your forehead.

You’re preoccupied. Not just with work—no, he’d recognise that kind of stress easily. This is something else.

Nanami doesn’t pry. He never does. If you wanted to talk about it, you would. But when you step into the elevator and don’t immediately pull out your phone or launch into complaints about Legal, he speaks before he can stop himself. “What’s on your mind?”

You turn to him, mildly surprised. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been distracted all morning,” he says evenly.

“It’s nothing serious,” you say, a little softer than usual. “Just… something personal.”

That’s more than he expected you to admit. Nanami nods. He doesn’t push further or demand an explanation, but he asks, “Do you need anything?”

“I—” Your fingers still against your arm. “No. I’m fine.”

Nanami Kento doesn’t believe in prying. He’s spent years making sure the lines between professional and personal stay intact, clean and neat. You, however, have spent just as long ignoring those lines completely. He could leave it at that. Should, probably. It’s not his place to push, not when you so rarely let people in. But the problem is, he knows you too well—or, at least, better than most. He knows you well enough to recognise when you’re on the verge of running yourself into the ground, or to see through the half-hearted distractions you use to keep yourself from thinking too much.

The elevator doors slide open, and you step out first, wringing your hands like you’re physically squeezing out whatever was on your mind. He doesn’t comment when you pick up your pace, diving headfirst back into work as though you were never distracted in the first place.

It’s strange, he thinks, this feeling that lingers in his chest as he watches you settle back behind your desk. He’s always known his role in your life. He’s your secretary, your buffer against boardroom politics, the person who keeps your world running just a little more smoothly. He arranges your meetings, reorganises your schedule, and reminds you to eat when you’re too caught up in your work to remember.

Still.

There are moments like these—moments where the boundary blurs, where the concern twists into something deeper. Moments where he finds himself wanting to do more than just keep you organised.

It’s a dangerous thought, one he has no business entertaining, so he doesn’t.

Nanami Kento is not a morning person. He is, however, a responsible person, which means he is usually awake at a reasonable hour, even on weekends. Today is no exception.

His apartment is quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall—the minute hand inches towards 7:42 A.M—and the occasional rustle of a turning page as he reads. A fresh cup of coffee sits within reach, steam curling lazily into the air. It’s black, strong, and exactly the way he likes it—no unnecessary sweetness, no frills. This is how he prefers to spend his time off: A slow morning, a good book, and silence.

Then his phone buzzes. Nanami glances at the screen, frowning slightly at the name that appears. You. He sighs, already feeling a headache coming on. Nothing good ever comes from you calling him on a weekend. Or at all, really.

Still, he picks up. “What?”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence on the other end. Then he hears you take in a breath, like you’re working up the nerve to speak. “Hey, um— Are you busy?”

“It’s my day off.” Nanami closes his book and leans back in his chair, his fingers pressing against his temple.

“I know,” you say quickly. Your voice sounds a little different—softer, almost unsure. That alone puts him on edge. He isn’t used to you hesitating. “That’s… actually why I called.”

His frown deepens. He recognises this setup. This is how people sound right before they ask him for something. Nanami shifts the phone to his other ear, already resigned. “What do you want?”

“Okay, first of all,” you say, defensive already, “I resent the implication that I only call you when I need something.”

“That is the only time you call me.”

“...Okay, fine. That’s fair.”

Nanami sighs again. He swears he isn’t the sighing sort of person, but you seem to bring out sides of him he never knew existed. “What is it?”

There’s another pause, longer this time. He hears the faint sound of movement—maybe you shifting your weight, maybe you fidgeting. He almost rolls his eyes.

“There’s a flea market today,” you say, but there’s something different about the way you say it. Your voice is notably quieter, almost hesitant. “I, um… I wanted to go, but I don’t really have anyone to go with.”

Nanami stills. You? Hesitant? You, who has no problem bossing him around at work, who never hesitates to demand his time and attention, shy about asking him for a favour? Something about the way you say it makes his chest unfurl with warmth.

“So,” you continue, voice uncertain in a way he isn’t used to, “I was wondering if maybe you’d wanna come with me?”

Nanami doesn’t answer right away. He could say no. In fact, he probably should say no. It’s his day off, and he has no interest in spending his weekend surrounded by noisy crowds, looking at secondhand trinkets he doesn’t need.

He exhales, already regretting this. “What time?”

“Be ready in an hour?” you ask hopefully. “Dress casual. But, like, not too casual.”

“I’m hanging up now,” he says.

“Wait—”

Nanami places his phone down on the table and stares at his coffee like it has personally betrayed him. How did this happen? One moment, he’s enjoying his peaceful morning. The next, he’s been roped into spending his day off at a flea market. It’s fine. He can handle this. He just needs a plan.

Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You’re already waiting outside when he arrives. You haven’t made any impulse purchases within the first ten minutes. You respect his personal space. You finish browsing in a reasonable amount of time, and Nanami returns home with his sanity intact. (This is about as likely as Gojo Satoru from HR suddenly developing the ability to stay awake for longer than five minutes during important meetings.)

Most Likely Scenario (Unfortunate but Expected): You’re ready, but you’re too excited. You get distracted by every shiny object at the market. You see a vintage typewriter and suddenly develop an unrealistic dream of becoming a novelist. You haggle dramatically over an item that costs the same as a cup of coffee. He ends up carrying all your bags.

Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You’re waiting outside, but you’ve already made three online purchases while waiting. You spot a tarot card reader and decide he needs his fortune told. You find a vintage sword and somehow convince him to buy it. He loses you in the crowd and considers leaving you there. He doesn’t. (Unfortunately.)

Nanami arrives exactly on time, at 8:42 A.M, dressed in a dark olive button-up with the sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows, paired with well-pressed slacks and his usual leather shoes. His watch glints under the afternoon sun as he adjusts his glasses, scanning the crowd until his gaze lands on you.

You’re waiting near the entrance, shifting your weight from foot to foot with barely contained excitement. You’re wearing a breezy sundress, the colour bright against your skin. A canvas tote hangs from your shoulder. You rock onto your toes when you spot him, waving as if he might somehow miss you in the small crowd. Nanami sighs. You look pretty, he thinks, but when has he ever not thought so?

Just like that, Nanami Kento finds himself being led—against all better judgement—towards the market, where the streets are lined with stalls draped in colourful awnings, and the scent of saffron and cherries mingles in the air. Vendors call out their wares, old books are piled up in uneven stacks on wooden crates, and delicate silver necklaces and earrings gleam in glass cases. Somewhere, a musician plays a soft tune on a violin, the notes drifting through the air like the slow unraveling of a ribbon.

You walk slightly ahead, turning back every so often to ensure Nanami is still there, as if he might bolt at the first opportunity. How stupid of you. As if he’d go anywhere else. The man doesn’t miss the way your shoulders are loose, the way you no longer hold tension in your frame like a coiled wire. This is why weekends exist, he supposes.

When you reach a stall selling secondhand books, you stop abruptly. “See? This is nice,” you say, running a finger along the worn spine of a novel. “Better than sitting in a meeting with Legal.”

Nanami hums. His gaze is on you. You pick up a book with a cracked leather cover, flipping through its yellowed pages. Then, suddenly, you turn to him, holding it up.

“Tell me,” you muse, lips curving. “Have you ever been wooed in a flea market before?”

He blinks. “I don’t think so.”

You clear your throat and read aloud: ‘...and he regarded her with a most admiring countenance, struck by the quickness of her wit and the sharpness of her tongue…’

Nanami crosses his arms as you hold the book open like a scholar about to present a groundbreaking thesis. The corners of his lips twitch, but he schools his expression into something neutral. “Is that so?”

You nod solemnly. “A most admiring countenance,” you repeat, tapping the page. “That’s what it says. I think that’s a very poetic way of describing how you look at me all the time.”

He looks at you, ready to say something horrifically stupid, probably, but then you grin, mischief shining in your eyes, and he shakes his head with a quiet sigh. “You do realise that’s from a romance novel.”

“Oh, I’m very aware. I just thought, maybe, if I read enough passages, you might be so swept away by the romance of it all that you’ll fall madly in love with me.”

There it is. That ridiculous, absurd, entirely unserious thing you do—teasing him just enough to see if you can get a reaction. Nanami knows this game well.

“Hm.” He tilts his head slightly, his voice even. “And if I say it’s working?”

You blink. For once, you don’t have a quick-witted reply. Your fingers tighten around the book as you search his expression for something—anything—to indicate that he’s joking. But Nanami is frustratingly unreadable, his gaze steady, the sunlight catching the sharp planes of his face.

You shift, looking back at the book. “Then I’d say I need to find more material,” you mumble. “Something more compelling.”

He chuckles, amused at the way you retreat when met with your own words. “Of course.”

You huff, flipping through the pages again. He watches as your fingers dance over the old paper, as you scan each line with an almost childlike curiosity. There’s a sort of reverence in the way you handle books, as if each one holds a tiny universe inside. Nanami understands. He takes a step closer, just enough to catch the scent of your perfume—light, familiar. You’re so engrossed in your search that you don’t even notice.

“This one’s nice,” you murmur, tapping another passage with your fingertip before reading it aloud. “‘To be looked at with such devotion… it is a wonder she could bear it at all.’ Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Nanami doesn’t say anything. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet.

You brighten instantly. “So you are being wooed.”

He hands over a few bills to the vendor without acknowledging your comment. “Just buy the book.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, barely holding back a laugh, before placing the book inside your tote bag. Your fingers brush against his briefly—just the lightest touch, gone too soon. The transaction is done, and the book is safely tucked away, but Nanami doesn’t know why his mouth suddenly feels too dry, or his clothes feel too warm.

“You’re a very easy target,” you say, tilting your head up to look at him.

“Enlighten me.”

“Well, for one, you act all stern and no-nonsense, but you just bought a book because I read one romantic passage out loud. That, Nanami, is the behaviour of a man who is, against his better judgement, deeply susceptible to my charm.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turns and starts walking down the narrow aisle between the market stalls, knowing full well that you’ll follow. You fall into step beside him. “Hey, I wasn’t done talking.”

“I know.”

“You’re so rude.”

“You’ll live.”

You roll your eyes and he lets you get distracted by the next few stalls—one selling mismatched ceramic mugs, another displaying old postcards with faded ink scrawled across them. You pause at a stall selling silver jewelry, fingers trailing over delicate rings arranged on a velvet-lined tray.

Nanami watches, hands in his pockets, as you try on a ring, twisting it around your finger before putting it back. “Not getting one?” he asks.

You shrug. “I don’t know. I like the idea of having one, but I don’t think I’d wear it often enough to justify it.”

He glances at the tray, his gaze settling on a simple silver band. He briefly considers buying it for you, but the thought unsettles him for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely. He says nothing and waits for you to move.

You wander through the market together, stopping here and there—laughing when you find a truly heinous painting of a cat, nudging Nanami when you spot a tarot reader just to see his reaction, groaning dramatically when he refuses to let you buy a vintage sword. (He doesn’t trust you with a sharp object. This is a reasonable stance, he thinks.)

By the time the afternoon sun hangs high, painting the streets in gold, Nanami finds himself carrying a small bag of your purchases despite his earlier aversion—not because you asked, but because, without thinking, he took it from you when your hands were full, and somehow, neither of you mentioned it.

Nanami Kento is brushing his teeth, already halfway through his night routine, when his phone buzzes against the bathroom counter. He considers ignoring it—nothing good ever comes out of late-night calls—but then he sees your name flashing on the screen, again. He closes his eyes. He spent half the Saturday with you at the flea market. It’s a Sunday night, and he’s already thinking about the miserable Monday morning waiting for him. He doesn’t need whatever nonsense you’re about to tell him. Still, he picks up the phone.

A sigh leaves him, muffled by the toothbrush in his mouth. He spits, rinses, and presses the call button. “What?”

“Nanami,” you say, pathetically slurred.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“No, listen, listen,” you insist, voice wobbly. “I have—a problem.”

“Of course, you do,” Nanami says. “Where are you?”

“At home.” There’s a rustling sound on the other end, like you’re rolling around on a couch, or maybe tangled up in a blanket that you don’t have the coordination to escape from. “I made it home all by myself. I think that’s really impressive. You should say you’re impressed.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re so mean,” you whine. Then, lower, in a voice so pitiful he almost snorts, “I think I’m dying.”

Nanami checks the time. 10:34 P.M. He should tell you to drink some water and go to sleep. He should just hang up. From the other end of the line, you let out a tiny, miserable noise. It’s barely a sniffle, more like a small whimper of distress—pathetic, and fleeting, but it sits wrong with him. He stands there for a moment, staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, waiting for the irritation to take over. It never does.

Instead, his eyebrows furrow in something that isn't quite a frown, but close enough. Then, he grabs his coat. If he leaves now, he can reach your apartment in twelve minutes, fifteen if traffic is bad.

Your apartment is unlocked when he gets there. Nanami pushes the door open, stepping inside and toeing off his shoes. He barely has the time to take in the mess—your shoes kicked off in two completely different directions, your bag lying lifeless in the middle of the floor, clearly dropped mid-stride—before you come stumbling out of the kitchen, gripping a glass of water like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

“You came,” you breathe, eyes wide. “My saviour.”

He frowns. “Why is your door unlocked?”

You wave a hand, dismissive. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

“Why are you mad?” You blink at him, wobbling slightly where you stand, and tilt your head like he’s the one being unreasonable.

Nanami presses his lips into a thin line. Instead of answering, he reaches out to flick you on the forehead. You yelp, nearly dropping your glass. “That’s for being careless.” He folds his arms. “How much did you drink?”

“Mm. Enough.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Enough to want to die, but not enough to actually die,” you clarify, solemn. “Does that help?”

“No.”

You snicker at his flat tone, but it quickly turns into a hiccup. Eyes wide, you slap a hand over your mouth, until you relent and start giggling uncontrollably. Nanami watches you, expressionless. He has never been more tired in his life.

Without another word, he moves past you and into your kitchen. “Sit down. I’ll make you something to sober up.”

“I don’t wanna sober up,” you whine, trailing after him.

He eyes you critically, pulling open a cabinet in search of honey and ginger. “What’s your excuse for getting drunk this time? Another friend’s birthday party?”

You snort. “Don’t be silly, Nanami. You’re the only friend I have.”

He stills. You blink at him, swaying slightly. He ignores the warmth creeping up his cheeks, and tells you to sit down before you fall over. You huff, but oblige, dragging a chair out and collapsing into it. Your head flops onto the counter, cheek squished against the cool surface. “You’re kinda good at this,” you mumble.

Nanami doesn’t bother looking at you as he fills the kettle. “It’s just tea.”

“No,” you say, voice thick with something close to admiration. “Like. Taking care of people.”

His hands still for a fraction of a second before he returns to slicing ginger. He doesn’t acknowledge your words, but something in his chest twists. It’s not like it’s hard to take care of you—you stumble through life with the kind of reckless abandon that practically demands someone step in before disaster strikes. He glances at you. Your arms are folded under your head, body lax, but your eyes are distant, slightly unfocused.

He asks, “What happened?”

You blink sluggishly, turning your head just enough to look at him. “Huh?”

“You don’t drink like this for no reason,” he says. “What happened?”

Your lips purse. You look like you’re debating whether to brush him off or tell him the truth. Then, with a hiccup and sniffle, you mumble, “My parents want me to get married.”

“What?”

Your nose wrinkles, like the very thought is giving you a headache. “It’s stupid,” you grumble. “They want me to meet some guy, settle down, be stable or whatever. Like that’s something I can just do.” You lift your head slightly, eyes glassy, lower lip wobbling. “I don’t wanna get married.”

Nanami swallows. There’s something painfully childlike in the way you say it, as if you’re afraid of being forced into something you can’t escape from. Your face is flushed from the alcohol, but your expression is unguarded. He could be rational about this—tell you that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, that it’s your life. But he knows that’s not what you need right now.

Instead, he reaches out, pressing his palm against the top of your head, warm and steady. He hears your sharp intake of breath.

“You don’t have to get married if you don’t want to,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “No one can make you.”

You stare up at him, wide-eyed. The room is still. The only sound is the quiet whistle of the kettle coming to a boil. Then, like a switch has flipped, you sniffle, rubbing at your nose with the sleeve of your sweater. “You’re so nice to me, Nanami.”

“I really am.”

“I should marry you,” you say seriously.

He pulls his hand back immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?” you say, lips quirking into a lazy grin. “You afraid you’d fall in love with me?”

Nanami levels you with a flat look. “I’m afraid you’d forget that we ever got married in the first place.”

You cackle, unbothered, and he shakes his head, exasperated. The kettle clicks off. Nanami turns back to the counter, pouring the hot water into a mug. He stirs in the honey and hears you sigh behind him.

“I mean it, though,” you say, softer now. “I don’t wanna get married. Not to someone I don’t love, or ‘cause my parents think I should.”

Nanami glances at you over his shoulder. Your face is half-hidden behind your arms again, but your eyes are clearer now, a little more serious despite the alcohol buzzing through your system. He walks over, setting the tea down in front of you, and says, “Then don’t.”

You blink up at him again. He nudges the mug towards you, and you wrap your hands around it, staring down at the amber liquid.

Nanami inhales slowly. “Now drink your tea and go to bed.”

You hum, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. Then, peeking up at him through your lashes, you say, “Will you stay?”

He hesitates. It’s late. He has work tomorrow. You have work tomorrow. But when he looks at you—tired, drunk, a little lost—he knows he won’t be able to leave until he’s sure you’re okay. “...I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

You smile sleepily, satisfied, and take another sip of your tea.

The board votes.

Salt-and-Pepper calls it. Wire-Rimmed Glasses raises his hand first, the corporate equivalent of a teacher’s pet. Charcoal Pants follows, though his fingers twitch with uncertainty. Nepotism Baby—who has been thoroughly checked out for the past forty-five minutes—glances up from his phone just long enough to nod vaguely before going back to whatever meaningless app he’s scrolling through. Nanami watches you from the corner of his eye. You don’t move.

Salt-and-Pepper looks pleased. “Well, that’s that. We’ll move forward with drafting the initial—”

“Wait,” Secret Tattoo from Marketing cuts in. “Are we seriously doing this?”

Salt-and-Pepper’s eyebrows rise, as if he hadn’t expected resistance. Foolish of him. “Is there an issue?”

An issue? Oh, where to begin. Your fingers drum once, twice, against the table. “Zen’in Industries.” You say it like you’re testing the words, rolling them around in your mouth to see if they taste any less like poison. “That’s the best we could do?”

Wire-Rimmed Glasses adjusts his frames. “They’re the most viable partner given the timeline.”

“That’s debatable.”

“The most viable approved partner,” Salt-and-Pepper clarifies. “We’ve reviewed the alternatives.”

“You reviewed them wrong,” Flower Bandana mutters under her breath.

Secret Tattoo leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “I don’t like it either.”

“This decision was made with careful consideration,” Salt-and-Pepper says. His left eye twitches, and he turns back to you. “Miss CEO, while I understand your concerns, business decisions must be made pragmatically, not emotionally.”

Translation: Suck it up and sign the damn papers.

You tilt your head. “Right. And pragmatism is why we’re aligning ourselves with a company whose leadership has been, let’s see, sued five separate times in the last decade for fraudulent business practices, labour violations, and—oh, my favourite—potential ties to organised crime?”

Wire-Rimmed Glasses clears his throat. “Those cases were dismissed.”

“They barely avoided a federal indictment,” you say.

Nepotism Baby suddenly chimes in. “Zen’in’s big. They’ve got resources.”

Nanami resists the urge to sigh. Yes, genius, that’s how companies work. You shoot the boy an unimpressed look, and say, “They also have a history of—how do I put this politely—being absolutely terrible.”

Charcoal Pants shifts uncomfortably. “That’s a bit—”

“Am I wrong?”

Secret Tattoo raises a hand. “Would now be a bad time to remind everyone that they also had an entire warehouse shut down for safety violations?”

“That was an isolated incident,” Wire-Rimmed Glasses says.

“Was it?” you ask. “Because my notes say it happened twice.”

Nepotism Baby leans towards Wire-Rimmed Glasses. “Wait. Twice?”

Salt-and-Pepper clears his throat. “Miss CEO, I assure you—”

“No, really, help me understand.” You lean forward, elbows on the table. “Because last I checked, we weren’t in the business of giving ethics violations a seat at our table.”

“This partnership will allow us to expand at a rate we can’t achieve alone.”

“Uh-huh. And remind me again, what’s the exact rate we’re aiming for? Because if you’re simply going to say something like, faster than usual, I feel like there are other ways to do that. Like, I don’t know, hiring more people. Investing in R&D. Not selling our souls to a family that definitely has bodies buried somewhere.”

Nepotism Baby looks even more alarmed. He leans back towards Wire-Rimmed Glasses. “Wait. Bodies?”

“Metaphorically,” Charcoal Pants says weakly.

You click your tongue. “Probably.”

“The decision has been made.” Translation: Sit down and deal with it. Salt-and-Pepper’s patience has officially run out. Flower Bandana shakes her head. Secret Tattoo mutters under her breath about corporate bootlickers.

Your fingers curl around the pen in front of you. Nanami, ever the observer, sees it immediately—the way you stiffen, the way your expression shutters, before you school it into something blank. “Fine,” you say coolly. “If that’s what the board wants.”

Salt-and-Pepper nods, pleased. “I’m glad we could come to an understanding.”

The meeting adjourns. The board members leave. Salt-and-Pepper sniffs condescendingly in your direction before stepping out. Nepotism Baby stretches, lets out an obnoxiously loud yawn, and wanders off. Charcoal Pants moves quickly, as if afraid you might call him back, and Wire-Rimmed Glasses follows him. One by one, they filter out, until the conference room is empty, save for you and Nanami.

Your fingers uncurl from the pen you’ve been gripping so tightly that there are deep grooves in your skin. You set it down. Tilting your head back, you stare at the ceiling for precisely three seconds before letting out a single, humourless laugh.

“Well.” Your voice is calm, but only barely. “That was fucking awful.”

“You handled it well,” Nanami says.

You let out a breath, somewhere in between a scoff and a sigh. “I shouldn’t have had to handle it in the first place.”

That’s fair, he thinks. You drag a hand down your face as if trying to smother the frustration bubbling just beneath your skin. It doesn’t work. “I knew they’d pull something,” you mutter, “but Zen’in? Of all the goddamn companies in the world, they want them?”

“It’s a strategic decision.” He knows it’s not what you want to hear, but he says it anyway.

You drop your hand and turn to him. “Say that again, and I’ll replace you.”

“I’m only pointing out the obvious.”

You sigh, but don’t argue. You both know the board sees nothing but numbers, nothing but projections and timelines and carefully-worded justifications. They don’t care about anything outside the bottom line.

“I don’t want to work with them, Nanami,” you admit.

He already knew that. But hearing you say it—softer now, tired—settles something heavy in his chest. He doesn’t like it. “You won’t do it alone,” he says simply.

Your lips twitch upwards, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You study him, searching for something, but whatever you find must be enough, because you sigh and push yourself up from your chair. “Guess we’re stuck with this mess, then.”

“Seems that way.”

“If I’m suffering, then you’re suffering with me.”

“Unfortunate,” Nanami says, but he knows you know he doesn’t mean it.

You guffaw, tension easing—slightly. He can tell it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface. He’s still thinking about it, watching you as you head for the door. He sees the way your jaw is set too tightly, the way your shoulders are stiff. You’re angry. Not just irritated, not just frustrated—angry. It’s not just about the board’s incompetence. It’s Zen’in Industries.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Nanami says.

“God, Nanami. Are you asking me to lunch?”

He stiffens slightly at your teasing, but he doesn’t say anything. He just walks past you, already heading to the elevator. You laugh, falling into step beside him.

At lunch, you pick at a Greek salad with disinterest, stabbing a piece of feta cheese with your fork. The restaurant is a nice place—not overly extravagant, but tasteful in a way that suits Nanami’s particular preferences. He hadn’t put much thought into where to take you. He just needed to get you out of that boardroom.

Now, though, as he watches you pick apart your salad, he wonders if it even helped.

You roll an olive on your plate with your fork. Across from you, Nanami takes an absent sip of his lime soda, only half paying attention to the taste. The silence is not uncomfortable, but he feels awkward regardless. He should be focused on the partnership, on the logistics, on the long list of ways this shouldn’t be as much of a problem as you’re making it out to be. But instead, his mind drifts.

To you.

To your sharp edges and sharp tongue, to the way your expressions flicker just a little too fast sometimes, as if you’re trying too hard to rein yourself in. To the way you are so painfully aware of everything around you: Every person in a room, every slight shift in tone, every implication buried in corporate jargon.

You are, objectively speaking, a brilliant CEO. Ruthless when you need to be, charming when it suits you, but most of all, uncompromising. Yet, when it comes to this—when it comes to Zen’in Industries—your anger is not just professional. It is personal.

Nanami doesn’t like personal. Personal is messy. Personal gets in the way of logic, of utilitarianism, of clear-cut and efficient decisions.

He tells himself that is why he is still thinking about this. Not because the tightness in your shoulders makes his chest ache. Not because he has never once seen you almost falter the way you did today. Not because he has spent the past half-hour cycling through every possible reason for your reaction and coming up empty.

No, he tells himself, it is because this is a complication he cannot account for, and that is what bothers him.

You press your fork into the olive, just enough to puncture the skin. Then, so casually, you might as well be commenting on the weather, you say, “Did you know that I was in a relationship with Zen’in Naoya?”

Nanami freezes. His brain—normally so methodical, so efficient—comes to a screeching halt. There is no quick calculation, no immediate strategy to deal with this information. There is only the sound of your voice, so stunningly normal in its delivery, juxtaposed against the implication of the words themselves. His grip tightens around his glass of lime side. He doesn’t set it down or react outwardly—but he shifts in his seat.

Zen’in Naoya.

He knows the name well. Anyone even remotely involved in business does. He is a member of the Zen’in family—one of those Zen’ins. A man with power, influence, and a reputation that precedes him. Not for anything good, either. Nanami has never met him in person, but he’s read enough and heard enough to know that he would not want to.

He finally sets down his glass. For once, Nanami Kento does not immediately know what to say.

“Nothing to say?” you ask lightly.

Nanami studies you carefully. You are not looking at him, but he recognises this version of you—the one who pretends you’re fine, who deflects with indifference. The one who would rather fill the silence than allow it to become suffocating.

“You never mentioned that before,” he says slowly. It is not a question; just an observation.

You attempt to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “It never came up.”

Nanami is many things, but he is not stupid. The warble in your voice, the way your fingers tighten ever-so slightly around your fork—this is why you were so angry in the meeting. This is why you stiffened at the mention of the Zen’ins, why you dug your heels in so hard. He should have realised it sooner.

He breathes out slowly. “And now it has.”

“Yes,” you say simply. “Would you like me to tell you about our first date?”

Nanami does not react. He makes sure he sounds neutral when he answers, “No.”

You hum, feigning disappointment. “It was terribly boring, anyway. He took me to some overpriced restaurant with a six-course meal, and every single dish had foam in it.”

Nanami ignores the way his stomach twists at the thought of you on a date with someone like Naoya. It is illogical. Unnecessary.

“I was nineteen,” you continue. “Very stupid. I thought I knew everything. He was older, and it seemed impressive at the time. He said all the right things. I was easily impressed back then.”

Nanami’s fingers curl against the table. Back then. As if there is a before and after to who you are. He doesn’t like the insinuations of that. “You’re not now,” he says.

“No, I guess not.” For the first time in the conversation you look up at him. Nanami does not look away. You lean back in your chair and say, “So, now you know.”

Now he knows. Nanami doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge. It sits uncomfortably in his mind, wedged there like a stubborn wooden splinter. For now, he does the only thing he can do. He nods, takes another sip of his lime soda, and says, “Eat your salad.”

You laugh. It’s a short huff, but it almost makes Nanami smile.

“Miss CEO,” one of the Zen’in representatives—a wiry, balding man who sweats too much—says, visibly struggling to remain polite, “surely you understand that our current offer is more than fair.”

“Fair,” you echo, as if testing the word on your tongue. “That’s an interesting way to put it.”

Nanami—who has spent the last three weeks enduring these negotiations—already knows where this is going. He resists the urge to sigh.

“Would you care to elaborate?” Balding Man asks. He keeps his tone professional, but there is an undeniable sense of annoyance in his eyes. Nanami takes a deep breath. You, however, smile.

“Well,” you say. “I just think it’s funny—”

Oh, no. Nanami shuts his eyes for a brief moment, pressing his fingers to his temple. He has heard you say this exact phrase at least five times this week, and every time, what follows is never actually funny. It is, usually, a goddamn nightmare.

Balding Man shifts in his seat. “Funny,” he repeats cautiously.

“Mhm,” you hum. “I just think it’s funny that, in your latest revision, you’ve somehow—” you tilt your head— “conveniently removed the profit-sharing clause we originally discussed. The one your team proposed, by the way.”

“That was an adjustment made to account for—”

“—what, exactly?” you interrupt, leaning forward slightly. “Because as far as I can tell, it was an attempt to quietly slip in a clause that benefits your side while offering absolutely nothing in return. Now, I’m sure that’s just a simple oversight, right?”

Balding Man opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, like a fish flopping around outside water. Nanami watches this unfold with an increasing sense of frustration.

You are doing this on purpose.

This is not a necessary discussion. The contract could have been finalised two meetings ago, but you have spent the last three weeks turning every single interaction into an exercise in endurance. You nitpick everything. You argue over semantics. You demand last-minute revisions on things that don’t even matter. At one point, you outright rejected a clause you had originally asked for—just to make them go through the process of re-drafting it.

And because Nanami Kento is your secretary, he has spent most of his time smoothing things over before the Zen’ins lose their patience entirely. It is, frankly, exhausting.

“We can revisit that clause,” Balding Man says tightly.

“Oh, we will,” you say, with a delightfully insincere smile. “In fact, let’s go ahead and set up another review meeting.”

Nanami finally steps in. “That won’t be necessary,” he says, voice clipped.

Your head snaps to him so fast that he almost regrets speaking. Almost.

“Excuse me?” Your voice is deceptively calm.

Nanami meets your gaze, unwavering. “Dragging out negotiations benefits no one.”

Balding Man exhales, muttering something under his breath. You, however, do not look impressed. Your fingers drum once, twice, against the polished surface of the table. “I wasn’t aware I asked for your opinion, Nanami.”

A sharp silence settles over the room. Nanami’s fingers curl into his palm. You do this all the time. You argue, you challenge, you push every meeting to its breaking point. When things spiral, he’s the one left cleaning up the mess. Now, when he finally intervenes, you’re mad at him? Fine.

Nanami sets his jaw. “I’m only saying what needs to be said.”

The corners of your mouth turn down—just a fraction—before you lean back in your chair. Without looking at him, you say, “Let’s wrap this up.”

Nanami doesn’t allow himself to feel relieved just yet, but at least you don’t push back any further. The rest of the meeting crawls towards a conclusion, with the Zen’in representatives clearly eager to be anywhere else. The moment the last pleasantries are exchanged, Balding Man all but scrambles out the door, leaving you and Nanami alone in the conference room. The silence is razor-thin, stretched taut like a wire about to snap.

“That was productive,” you say, standing up.

He closes the folder in front of him with a controlled snap. “It could have been productive three weeks ago.”

You don’t even look at him. “Tragic, isn’t it?”

He levels you with a stare, but you keep your attention on straightening the cuffs of your blazer, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. The dismissal is blatant. His patience thins. “You’re making my job harder than it needs to be,” he says.

At that, you finally glance at him. “Then maybe you should stop getting in my way and embarrassing me in front of our collaborators.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Are you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks more like you’re doing theirs.”

The words are like ice—controlled, but cold enough to cut. Nanami’s fingernails dig crescents into his palm. “You’re dragging this out for no reason,” he says evenly.

You hum, turning towards the door. “If you think that, then maybe you should stick to taking notes instead of giving opinions.”

That stops him in his tracks. You don’t wait for a response. You step out of the conference room without another glance, the steady click of your heels the only sound in the empty hall. Nanami exhales, fingers flexing at his sides.

You’re shutting him out. If that’s how you want to play, so be it.

It starts with the coffee. Nanami always brings it to you in the morning when he reaches his desk at 8:31 A.M—black for him, a complicated order with enough sugar to kill a lesser man for you. He knows the exact amount of cream that you like, and the precise temperature it needs to be when you take your first sip. But the morning after the meeting, when he sets his cup down on his desk, there’s no second cup. He hears the slight pause in your typing when you notice. A small shift of paper against paper.

“Nanami,” you say.

He doesn’t look up. “Yes?”

“Did you forget something?”

He smooths his tie down over his chest, eyes still on his tablet. “I assumed you wouldn’t need my help with something so simple.”

There’s a long, brittle pause. He knows you’re looking at him. He can feel your eyes upon him from across the room. But he doesn’t glance up, doesn’t shift. Finally, you close the file in front of you with a muted snap and rise from your chair. Your heels click sharply against the floor as you pass him, pausing just briefly at his side. “Hope your schedule’s clear,” you say, voice like glass. “You’ll need to redraft the acquisition proposal by noon.”

“Fine.” His mouth tightens.

He retaliates with paperwork. Nanami knows exactly how to drown someone in administrative hell without breaking a sweat. The next morning, he leaves a neat stack of contracts, memos, and reports on your desk, all unlabeled. He knows you hate that. The revised budget is buried beneath the expense sheets, and the acquisition report—still missing a key section—has no notes attached. He hears the scrape of a chair, followed by the clipped sound of your heels striking the marble floor as you stalk towards his desk.

“Did you think this was acceptable?” you say, tossing the report onto his desk. Nanami’s hands are still on his keyboard. He doesn’t look up. “The section on profit restructuring is incomplete,” you add.

“I assumed you’d prefer to review it yourself,” he says, “since you were so insistent on final approval.”

“Correct it,” you say, voice low. “And put it on my desk by the end of the day.”

Nanami closes his laptop with deliberate care. “Of course.”

Meetings become a war zone. He starts cutting in before you’ve finished speaking. You return the favour without hesitation. One afternoon, during a strategy meeting, he hears you inhale and knows exactly what you’re about to say. “Actually—” he begins.

“I don’t need clarification,” you say flatly, not even looking at him.

“It’s important to avoid miscommunication,” Nanami says. His eyes flick towards you.

Your smile is thin. “Then stop talking.”

Nanami’s mood darkens. Balding Man, sitting across the table, looks like he’d rather fling himself out of the nearest window. Nanami doesn’t care. You’ve made it clear how little you care about his input. If you want to micromanage everything, he’ll stop bothering to clean up your messes.

He starts adjusting your schedule. Meetings appear on your calendar without explanation—overlapping appointments, double-booked sit visits, late-night briefings. At one point, you get a notification for an 8 A.M call with the accounting department, only to find out Nanami cancelled it an hour earlier. You stride into his office. He doesn’t look up from his tablet.

“I thought you handled scheduling,” you say.

“I must have misunderstood your preferences,” he says without inflection. “Since you’ve made it clear that you prefer to handle things yourself.”

You stare at him. He still doesn’t look up. Finally, you scoff under your breath and leave. Nanami watches the door swing shut, something sharp and pointed pressing into his chest.

Lunch becomes unbearable. You still sit together—out of habit, perhaps—but the silence is cutting. Nanami eats his neatly-packed bento with steady, measured bites; you stab aggressively at your pasta, tearing the penne apart like it’s personally offended you. Once, you push your tray an inch towards him and say, “Taste this.”

“I’m allergic to it,” Nanami says, scrolling through some news article on his phone.

“You’re not allergic to chocolate mousse.”

“I could be.”

You make a noise, sharp and irritated, and push the tray away. Nanami doesn’t look away from his phone. He feels the tightness in his shoulders. He hates this. He hates that you’re angry. He hates that he’s angry. Most of all, he hates that he can’t stop himself from pressing harder.

The final blow comes during a boardroom meeting. One of the department heads starts talking in circles, and Nanami—already at the edge of his patience—starts to cut in. “We already—”

“I think it’s important to clarify the terms,” you say smoothly, before he can finish.

Nanami’s gaze snaps to you. His eyes narrow. “There’s no need to clarify anything.”

“Just making sure,” you say, flashing him a bland smile.

Nanami closes his laptop with unsettling calm. You start gathering your papers. His hands curl into his lap. “If you want to manage everything,” he says quietly, “I’ll stop bothering to give input.”

You look at him; your eyes are ice when you say, “Maybe you should,” and walk out without another word. Nanami watches the door shut behind you. He clenches his jaw so hard, it begins to hurt. This is untenable, he thinks.

Nanami hears the clock ticking.

It’s past midnight, and the city outside the office windows glows faintly beneath the dark sky. The only light in the room comes from the soft, sterile glow of your laptops, casting cold shadows across the polished table. His tie is loose around his neck, and the sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows. Across from him, you sit with your laptop open, eyes fixed on the screen. Your hair is slightly disheveled. There’s an untouched cup of coffee beside you, gone cold hours ago.

It’s quiet, except for the sound of typing and the low hum of the air conditioning. Nanami reviews the document in front of him, trying to concentrate, but it proves to be a difficult task when his gaze keeps drifting towards you. He observes—the tightness in your jaw; the slight furrow of your brow; the way your fingers tap a little too hard against your keyboard. He knows you’re frustrated. You’ve been frustrated for weeks. So has he.

He hears the sound of a key sticking, followed by an annoyed exhale. “Fucking hell,” you mutter under your breath.

“You should take a break,” he tells you.

“I’m fine,” you snap.

Nanami sets his pen down. “You’re not fine. You’ve been working non-stop for—”

“I said I’m fine.”

He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “Yes, clearly. That’s why you’ve been rereading the same page of that draft for the past thirty minutes.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m sorry, are you the CEO now?”

“Are you trying to sabotage your own company?”

“Oh, fuck off, Nanami.”

“Gladly,” he bites out, closing the folder in front of him. “Maybe then you can stop wasting my time.”

Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor as you push back from the table. “I’m sorry I’m such an inconvenience,” you say sharply. “God forbid you actually have to work for a change.”

Nanami’s expression darkens. His hands press flat against the table as he stands. “It’s not about the work. It’s about you actively making it harder for yourself—and for me.”

“And here I thought handling me was part of your job description.”

“I don’t mind doing my job,” he says icily. “I mind when you refuse to let anyone help you and then act surprised when things don’t go your way.”

“Then why don’t you quit?” you say, chin lifting. “If you hate working for me so much, why don’t you just leave?”

“Maybe I should.”

You suck in a breath sharply, shoulders tense, mouth tightening. Nanami knows he’s gone too far. He sees the flicker of hurt in your expression before you smooth it away.

“Do it, then,” you say coldly. “Walk out. It’s not like anyone’s forcing you to stay.”

You are, he wants to say. Because you are, whether intentionally or not. Nanami finds himself drawn to you, like a moth circling a very bright flame. If he was a sunflower, he thinks you’d be the sun. Nanami doesn’t say any of that. He steps towards you, walking around the table until he’s right in front of you. “Don’t—”

“Or what?” You smile, sharp-edged and bitter. “You’ll finally stop pretending to care?”

Nanami’s hands curl into fists. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” you demand, turning away from him and bracing your hands on the desk. The papers underneath your hands crumple. “Stop trying to make sure my company doesn’t go fucking bankrupt, or stop—”

“I’m trying to help you—”

“No,” you say, breathless with rage. “You know asking for help means I can’t handle everything myself, and—”

“You’re so stubborn,” he says, finally. His heart hammers against his ribs. “You’re impossible to work with right now.”

“I am under pressure!” you yell, whipping around to face him. “You think I’m being difficult on purpose?”

Nanami stares at you, breathing hard. His hands brace against the table to keep from shaking. “Then what the hell is this?”

Your hands are trembling. Your eyes shine with something dangerously close to tears, but you don’t let them fall. “My parents are pressuring me to get married. And on top of that, I’m trying to close a deal with my ex’s company because of my stupid board of directors—never mind the fact that the Zen’ins engage in borderline illegal practices—and I have to sit across their representative and pretend I don’t know Zeni’in Naoya once tried to steal intellectual property from me. And the only person I trusted to be able to help me out has been treating me like a fucking liability.”

Nanami’s breath catches. “I’m not—”

“Then do something, Nanami,” and you sound pleading when you say it, and Nanami’s chest tightens.

You’re an anomaly in Nanami’s perfectly-structured, perfectly-planned out life. He has known this for a while, only he never acknowledged it until now. The thing is, Nanami thrives on order; on logic; on neat, clean lines and predictable outcomes. He works best when things make sense, when he can anticipate every possible outcome and adjust accordingly. He’s built his life around that certainty—disciplined and unwavering.

But there’s you.

You, who he can’t predict. You, who challenges him in every conversation, who barreled into his life with no premonition. You, whose moods shift so easily—stern one moment, playful the next, always just a little out of reach. You, a hurricane in the body of a woman. You, you, you.

You are the only thing in his life that doesn’t fit into a box. And yet, somehow, you’re the only thing he doesn’t want to let go of. You barreled straight through his rib cage and settled deep down inside his unsuspecting heart, and he does not think he could pry you away, now.

Nanami breathes hard. His pulse is a frantic, erratic thing beneath his skin. It echoes in his ears as he stares at you—eyes flashing, chest rising and falling.

You’re close—close enough that he can see the tremor of your hands where they’re braced against the desk. Your mouth is parted and your breath is unsteady. There’s a flush creeping up your neck, and your eyes—God, your eyes—burn into him like they’re trying to carve him open from the inside out.

Nanami should step back. He knows this. He should take a deep breath and turn away before one of you says something you can’t take back. But his feet feel rooted to the ground. You look at him—really look at him—and whatever thread of control he’s holding onto snaps clean in two.

His hand moves before he can stop it, fingers brushing along the line of your jaw. Your breath hitches. You don’t pull away. He tilts your chin up, his thumb resting just beneath your lower lip, and your mouth opens slightly beneath his touch. His palm is warm, and then his hand slides to the back of your neck.

And then you’re moving—closing the distance between you without hesitation. Your mouth crashes against his, rough and desperate, and Nanami’s hand tightens at the nape of your neck as he kisses you back, hard.

It’s messy. Too fast, and too much. Your teeth catch against his bottom lip, and he exhales harshly, his other hand sliding down to your waist and yanking you forward until there’s no space left between you. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt; you tug him down to you. His lips part against yours, and you deepen the kiss, all gasping breaths and frantic movements.

Nanami’s head spins. His hand slides beneath your blouse, finding the bare skin at the small of your back, and you shudder. You press closer, and he feels the quick, uneven flutter of your heart where your chest is pressed against his.

You break away first, just barely. Your breath ghosts against his mouth, shallow and ragged, before you lean in and kiss him again—slower this time, softer, but still aching with urgency. Nanami’s hand slips into your hair, his thumb pressing gently behind your ear as your lips part beneath his. You sigh into him.

Nanami knows he should stop. He knows he should pull back before this spirals out of control. But you breathe his name against his mouth, quiet and pleading, and Nanami’s resolve shatters.

He kisses you deeper.

Nanami doesn’t think—he’s past the point of rational thought. His hands slide down the curve of your waist, settling at your hips as he walks you backward, step by step, until the edge of the table presses against the back of your thighs. You’re breathless, flushed, lips swollen from his mouth. He watches your chest rise and fall, watches the slight tremor in your hands where they curl into his shirt.

His hands are on your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the polished surface. Papers scatter beneath you, forgotten, as his mouth trails down the column of your throat. His lips are soft, his breath hot against your skin, and you gasp when his teeth scrape lightly over the sensitive spot under your jaw. His hands are firm at your hips, sliding beneath the hem of your skirt as he coaxes your legs apart.

Your hands find his shoulders, clinging. He drops to his knees in front of you. His gaze lifts to yours, golden in the low light of the room. His hands slide down your thighs, spreading them wider, and his mouth curves slightly when he sees the way your breath shudders.

“May I?” he asks, a little bit hoarse.

You nod. “Yes,” you breathe out.

That’s all he needs. His mouth presses to the inside of your knee, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin of your inner thigh. Your head tips back when his lips brush higher, his breath hot against the lace between your legs. He pulls your underwear aside with a tug.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along your inner thigh. His breath hitches as he watches your slick shine between your folds, already glistening with arousal. His thumb traces the line of your slit, parting you with a slow, teasing drag. “So wet for me already.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours. “Did you need this that badly?”

You open your mouth to answer, but you shudder when his thumb presses against your clit, rubbing a slow, lazy circle. A broken sound escapes you, hips twitching towards his hand. Nanami hums in approval, and says, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

The first stroke of his tongue is slow, like he’s savouring the taste of you. Your thighs twitch, but his hands find purchase beneath them, anchoring you firmly against the table as his mouth works against you. His tongue flicks over your clit, and your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against you as his lips close around you and suck.

“Oh, my God—Nanami—”

He hums against you, pleased. His tongue slides down, dragging through your folds before pressing back up to your clit. He’s focused, the same way he is with everything else—this time, though, his only goal is to make you feel good. His fingers flex against your thighs. Your hips jerk, but he presses you down with a firm hand. His mouth leaves you for half a second, just enough time for him to say, “Stay still.”

Then, he’s back on you, tongue sliding over you in slow, wet strokes. His lips close around your clit again, sucking softly before flicking his tongue over it until you’re gasping. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but his hands keep you pinned open.

“Nanami—Nanami, I’m—”

His mouth seals over your folds, tongue curling against you just right. Your back arches, a broken moan slipping from your lips. You sag against the table, breathless. Nanami presses one last kiss to your thigh before standing. His mouth glistens.

“Come here,” he tells you, and this time, he’s the one who sounds pleading.

He kisses you, hard and hungry, and makes sure you taste yourself on his tongue.

Nanami’s breath is ragged when he pulls back. His hands slide down your sides, steady even as his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. He undoes his belt with one sharp pull, the metallic jingle ringing in the quiet room. The sound makes his cock twitch, already painfully hard from how wrecked you look beneath him—forehead beaded with sweat, lips swollen, legs still trembling from the way he just made you come.

He draws himself out, cock slapping against his abdomen. He wraps a hand around the base, and strokes himself once, slow. His cock is thick and flushed, the head glistening with precome. His jaw tightens. He’s already so close, but he wants to take his time. He wants to savour this—savour you.

“Are you on the pill?” he manages to ask.

You nod, desperate and frantic. “Yes, yes—fuck, please—”

“Bend over,” he says, voice low.

You hesitate for a second, blinking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. But his hands are already on you, guiding you up and turning you until you’re facing the table. His palm slides down the curve of your back, pressing your forward until your chest is flush against the cool wood. His hand lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he leans over you.

“You’ll let me have you like this, won’t you?” His mouth brushes against the shell of your ear. “Spread your legs for me.”

You do, and Nanami’s breath stutters. His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there as he pulls you open. His gaze drops to where you’re still slick from his mouth, the sight making his cock ache.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath.

He lines himself up, dragging the flushed tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself with your arousal. He rubs the head against your entrance, teasing—but he’s barely hanging on himself. His cock throbs, and his grip on your hips tightens.

“Nanami—” you gasp out.

He sinks into you in one slow thrust. The stretch makes him moan, the tight heat of you wrapping around him inch by inch. His forehead drops against the back of your shoulder. He bottoms out, his hips pressing flush against you. “God,” he breathes, voice strained. His fingers curl against your skin, hard enough to bruise. “You’re so—”

He pulls back, almost all the way out, and then thrusts back in. You shudder beneath him. Nanami groans low in his throat. The sound vibrates against your skin as he sets a steady pace, hips rolling into you with each thrust. Each drag of his cock against your walls makes him see white behind his eyes.

“So tight,” he mutters, more to himself than you. His hand slides up your spine, spreading his fingers between your shoulder blades to press you down. His other hand grips your hip hard, holding you still. His cock stretches you open so perfectly that he can barely think straight.

He watches the way you take him—how you flutter around him each time he pulls back, how your legs shake when he thrusts deeper, how your eyes close and your lips part with pretty moans just for him to hear. He wants to see more. He slides a hand down to your front, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs quick circles, and the way you clench around him makes him hiss through his teeth.

“Nanami—” Your voice is wrecked, gasping, breaking.

“I know,” he says through gritted teeth. His thrusts quicken. His chest presses to your back as he leans over you. His mouth finds the side of your neck, and he sucks hard. “Let me—”

You come with a sharp cry, and the way you tighten around him makes his rhythm falter. His cock throbs as he fucks you through your orgasm, dragging out every last tremor. Your walls flutter around him, slick and hot and perfect. Nanami groans against your skin. His thrusts grow shallow and uneven, his breath ragged.

He comes with a low, guttural sound, hips pressed deep as he spills inside you. His hand stays on your hip. He presses his mouth to the back of your neck, groaning.

His breath is still ragged as he carefully pulls out, the feeling of his cum slipping out of you making his chest tighten. He slides a hand down your back, smoothing your hair away from your face as he leans over you.

“Stay there,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your shoulder. His voice is soft now, almost tender. “Let me take care of you.”

He tucks himself away, smoothing down his shirt before his hands return to you—lifting you gently from the table and letting you lean into his arms. “Nanami,” you say.

“Yes?”

“We’ve ruined all the contract papers.”

The office feels too quiet the next day.

Nanami sits at his desk, but his mind isn’t on the stack of reports in front of him. His pen hovers over the paper, unmoving. His thoughts drift back to last night. To you.

The way you looked beneath him, flushed with heat and trembling. The way your breath caught in your throat when he touched you. The sound of his name falling from your lips, breathless and perfect. Nanami exhales, trying to clear his mind. He pinches the bridge of his nose, but the memory clings stubbornly to the edges of his mind. His hands curl into fists. He should not be thinking about this—about you.

But it’s impossible not to. Especially when you’re right there.

He hears your voice before he sees you. He hears you let out a quiet laugh from across the room, the sound tugging at his attention like a thread pulled tight. His eyes lift automatically and he finds you standing at your desk, flipping through a folder with that little crease between your brows you always get when you’re focused.

You glance up, your gaze meeting his. Neither of you move, until you give him a small, polite smile and look away.

Nanami grits his teeth. His pen presses hard against the paper as he looks down, trying to will his pulse back to normal. Pathetic, he thinks.

He should be able to handle this. He’s an adult. A professional. He has handled far more serious situations with more composure than this. Every time you walk past his desk, his gaze follows you. Every time you speak, his attention hooks onto your voice like it’s a lifeline. His fingers itch to touch you—to brush a hand along your arm, to tip your chin up and steal a kiss.

It’s getting unbearable.

It’s not just the memories of last night that haunt him—it’s the aftermath. Because you’re acting… normal, and that’s the problem. You greet him the same way you always have. Your smile is the same. Meanwhile, Nanami is fighting for his life every time you walk within ten feet of him.

This morning, you’d handed him a report with your fingers brushing over his. “Morning, Nanami,” you’d said, bright and sweet.

His hand had twitched. “Morning.”

You’d walked off while he sat there, wondering how a simple touch could make him feel like his entire nervous system was short-circuiting.

But the worst part is that he’s not subtle about it. Not at all. It’s a problem.

Like when you walked into the office this afternoon, holding a cup of coffee, looking pretty in your blouse and trousers. Nanami had glanced up for half a second—and in that half-second, he’d managed to knock his pen holder off his desk.

“Are you okay?” you’d asked, setting down your coffee and crouching to help him.

Nanami had stared at the mess on the floor. “Fine.”

You’d smiled at him, amused. He’d looked away quickly, feeling heat creep up his neck.

Or earlier today, when you had stopped at his desk to ask about a meeting. “Did you get the email from Gojo?” you’d asked, leaning slightly over his desk.

Nanami had blinked at you, his mind immediately spiraling back to last night—the feeling of your body beneath his hands, the way you had gasped when he—

“Nanami?”

“Hm?”

“The email?”

“Yes. Yes, I saw it.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

You’d looked at him for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly. Then you’d shrugged and walked away. Nanami had exhaled once you were out of sight, rubbing a hand over his face. He’s being so obvious, and that’s unacceptable.

“Nanami, could you grab those papers from my desk?” you ask that evening, glancing over your shoulder as you pack up your bag.

“Of course,” he replies, already standing. His legs carry him towards your desk before he can think better of it.

Your desk is neat, everything in its place—except for the book. It’s placed on the edge, slightly worn from use. He recognises it instantly. It’s the one he bought you at the flea market weeks ago, when you’d read out a few sentences in an attempt to “woo” him. He hadn’t expected you to actually read it.

Curiosity tugs at him. His hand drifts towards the book. The spine gives under his touch, loose—like it’s been held too many times, thumbed through on quiet nights. It falls open easily. There’s a dog-ear marking a specific page. Nanami reads the passage beneath the crease:

‘It hit him all at once, like the sun breaking through the clouds. That the way his chest ached every time he saw her smile was not fear of confusion—it was love. Had always been love. And how foolish he’d been, not to have known it sooner.’

Nanami Kento freezes. His fingers press lightly against the paper. He thinks of the way you smile at him; of the soft, half-lidded look you give him when you’re tired; of the way you always seem to find him first in a crowded room. He thinks of the warmth in your laugh, and the way you lean towards him when you talk, like you don’t even realise you’re doing it.

How had he not known?

His heartbeat stumbles. His gaze lifts to you, across the room.

You’re still packing up, tucking a notebook into your bag. Your brows crease slightly in concentration, the corners of your mouth tugging down. You push a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Nanami swears he forgets how to breathe.

Had you known before he had? Is that why you marked this passage and left it there for him to find? Or had you dog-eared it for yourself—because you had some sort of silly, idiotic hope that it was true?

You look up. Your eyes catch his. You smile—small and soft, easy as breathing. Nanami’s throat tightens. His chest aches in that quiet, unbearable way that’s starting to feel familiar. He sets the book down. You zip up your bag and turn around to the door. His gaze follows you without thinking.

Oh, he thinks, heart pounding. How foolish of me.

It hits him that night, when he’s in bed and thinking about you. You’d said that Zen’in Naoya had stolen your intellectual property once. His eyes widen, and he sits up straight, reaching for his phone that’s charging on his nightstand. He dials in your number.

You pick up after two rings. “...Hello?”

You sound sleepy. When he looks at the time, it’s almost midnight. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“Yes, but—” he hears you yawn— “it’s fine. I should savour the occasion, actually. It’s rare that you call me first.”

“Yes, well.” Nanami’s cheeks burn. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go on.”

“That night— The night we—” Nanami feels his entire face heat up. “The night we argued,” he settles on. “You mentioned that Zen’in Naoya stole your intellectual property.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. He hears you shift, the rustling of sheets punctuating the silence. “That was a long time ago,” you say quietly.

“What happened?” he asks.

“It’s… complicated.”

“I have time,” he says, settling back against the headboard. His hand presses over his mouth, his thumb resting just below his jaw.

“It was when I was still with Naoya,” you say carefully, like you’re trying not to give away too much. “I was working on a pitch for an international partnership. It was something I’d been preparing for months. And I—I made the mistake of showing it to him.

“He said he just wanted to look it over. But then he brought it to his family as his own work. Word-for-word. Even the phrasing in the executive summary was identical.”

“And no one said anything?” Nanami questions.

“People noticed,” you reply. “But it’s the Zen’in family. No one wanted to stir the pot, you know?”

“What happened with the pitch?”

“It tanked. Naoya didn’t bother to prepare for the follow-up meetings. He couldn’t answer half the questions that came up. It was humiliating—for both of us—but I was the one who took the fall. No one was going to take my side over Naoya’s. His uncle’s practically running the whole board. It was easier to let me look incompetent.”

Nanami feels his teeth press together. His free hand curls into a fist against his knee. “You should’ve told me.”

You huff out a laugh. “I didn’t know you at the time, Nanami. All this happened while I was working for the Zen’ins—before my dad retired and handed me his company.”

The Zen’ins hadn’t been circling your company. No, it had been Salt-and-Pepper who brought them in. The timing had been suspicious. The Zen’ins’ reputation is tainted—financial mismanagement, aggressive acquisition tactics, borderline illegal practices. The last thing you needed was to be tethered to a sinking ship.

But Salt-and-Pepper had managed to convince over half of the board of directors. Wire-Rimmed Glasses had been on his side from the start. So had Charcoal Pants and Nepotism Baby, albeit reluctantly.

“This isn’t just a business deal. Right?” he asks you. He understands, now, why you’d made negotiations with Balding Man—Zen’in Industries’ representative—so difficult. You’d tried to drag it on for as long as you could, trying to stall the deal from going through.

You stay quiet on the other end. Nanami takes that as confirmation.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Okay. We can figure this out.”

“What are you thinking, Nanami?”

Salt-and-Pepper’s financials. His holdings. Any private deals with Zen’in Industries or overlapping investments. Nanami has access to all of it—board records, meeting minutes, even expense reports. If there is a paper trail, he would find it.

“Do you think,” he says, “you can handle a meeting with Legal tomorrow?”

It happens quickly after that.

Past papers are uncovered. Shady deals surface. It’s almost too easy. Nanami knows how these things work—no paper trail is truly invisible, no backdoor negotiation is as airtight as it seems. People talk, especially when the money starts moving.

Nanami digs through your company’s internal records the next day, tracking down the original licensing agreements for the software framework. The timeline doesn’t add up. Zen’in Industries’ supposed “internal R&D” was completed two months before the initial product proposal had even been drafted. That’s not just suspicious—it’s impossible.

He finds the buried reports: Memos from Salt-and-Pepper’s office, quiet requests to “streamline” the internal approval process. He finds—perhaps most damning of all—a forwarded email chain from Wire-Rimmed Glasses to Balding Man.

Need to close this by Q3. Zen’in Industries’ team will take over full oversight post-merger.

The date on the email reads for two weeks before the first joint meeting had even been scheduled.

He goes to the Accounting department next, via the internal compliance office. Someone from accounting had flagged a discrepancy in the financial statements weeks ago, but it had quickly been buried. There were payments made to an offshore account—small enough to be overlooked at a glance, but steady and consistent. It was linked to a shell corporation in Singapore.

A shell corporation owned by Zen’in Industries.

Nanami doesn’t hesitate. He sends the information to your private office line under encryption. The paper trail is too neat. This wasn’t just about a merger. It was a quiet takeover.

Salt-and-Pepper had gotten sloppy. He had to convince the board to sign over proprietary assets through the collaboration over the new product. Let Zen’in gut the tech. Then quietly dissolve the partnership and walk away with the intellectual property rights. Your company would be left holding the framework—and the financial fallout.

Salt-and-Pepper would walk away with his cut.

You’re surprised to see him when he walks into your office. His tie is askew. His shirt is rumpled. He is not the usual, put-together man he is. How could he be, when your own board of directors was secretly conspiring against you?

“Nanami?” you ask, setting down your bag.

He slides a folder towards you without a word.

The next day, the partnership with Zen’in Industries is called off, and Salt-and-Pepper is stripped of his position. (Translation: He was fired.)

When Nanami Kento officially decides to ask you out—because he has, officially, let the fact that he’s in love with you sink in—it is supposed to be methodical. He had planned out the worst-case, most likely, and best case scenarios in his head, as he always does.

Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You say yes immediately, without even pausing. He takes you to that quaint French place he knows you like, and the waiter winks at him approvingly because you’re clearly out of his league. You’re charming (you always are), and he’s witty (for the first time in his life). At the end of the night, when he walks you to your door, you kiss him. It’s perfect. Birds are singing. Angels are weeping. The stock market hits a record high the next day.

Most Likely Scenario (Fortunate and Expected): You blink at him, and then laugh—a little nervous, a little delighted—and agree to go out with him. He takes you to a good restaurant. You order something a little too expensive, but he doesn’t complain. You’re charming (you always are), and he is… passable. He doesn’t embarrass himself. He even manages to make you laugh once or twice. Instead of kissing him at your doorstep, you punch his arm lightly and say goodbye. He fist-punches the air like a teenage boy when you close the door.

Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You reject him. You say you only think of him as a friend and nothing more. He blacks out for approximately five seconds. You stop bringing him melonpan. He stops walking with you to the elevator. He will probably leave the company. Years later, he hears you’re married to someone who’s the complete opposite of him (probably a racecar driver). He dies alone.

(He’s accounting for margin of error, obviously.)

Nanami reviews his options with the same level of focus he usually reserves for quarterly reports and balance sheets. He weighs the pros and cons, considers timing, and factors in your general mood over the past two weeks. You’ve been in good spirits since Salt-and-Pepper’s departure. An excellent sign.

Still, when he finally stands outside your office, his heart is pounding hard enough to disrupt his thought process. Which is utterly ridiculous. He’s a grown man. A professional. He’s closed million-yen deals under pressure, right by your side. There is no reason he should be standing here, debating whether to knock.

The door swings open before he can decide. “Nanami?” you say, blinking at him.

His mouth opens. His mouth closes. He’s completely blank.

You tilt your head. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says, except it sounds completely unconvincing. “I wanted to ask you something.”

You give him a curious look, stepping back to let him in. He follows you inside. His heart rabbits inside his rib cage. This is fine. He’s prepared for this.

“You look serious,” you say, sitting on the edge of your desk. “Is this about work?”

“No.” His hands are in his pockets. He takes a breath. He needs to rip the bandaid off. “Would you—” He stops. Closes his eyes. Starts again. “Would you like to have dinner with me? As a date.”

You don’t say anything—not right away. Instead, you snort.

Nanami’s eyes snap open.

You’re covering your mouth with your hand, but it’s not enough to muffle the sound of your increasingly uncontrollable laughter. Your shoulders are shaking with the full-body kind of laughter.

“Are you…” Nanami feels like his brain is short-circuiting. “Are you laughing?”

“Oh, my God,” you wheeze, tipping your head back. “You— You’re asking me out?”

“That is… generally how this works,” he says stiffly. His cheeks prickle with heat.

You dissolve into another fit of giggles. Nanami’s heart sinks. He’s about five seconds away from accepting defeat and leaving the country after changing his identity.

But then you slide off the desk and point an accusing finger at him, still laughing. “Nanami Kento,” you say, breathless, “do you have any idea how hard I’ve been trying to get you to notice me?”

“...What?”

You groan, wringing your hands together. “I have been trying to get you to notice me for months. You are literally the most oblivious person on the planet.”

Nanami opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His brain is working overtime trying to process the implications of what you’ve just said.

You hold up a finger. “First of all—the book.”

“The book?” Nanami echoes, very intelligently.

“Yes, the book. The one you bought me at the flea market? You didn’t have to, so I figured you might feel the same way ‘cause you do a lot of the stuff I ask you to do, even though you don’t have to, and no one’s forcing you to. And the time you came over because I was drunk and I called you up and you made me tea and stayed until I fell asleep. And here I was, overthinking everything because I like you so much—too much, probably, and—”

Nanami steps forward, closing the distance between you in two long strides. Your eyes widen slightly as he places his hands on your waist, steady and warm. His thumb brushes the hem of your shirt.

“You,” he says, “talk too much.”

Your mouth opens—to protest, probably—but Nanami leans down and kisses you before you can say another word.

Your breath hitches, and then your hands curl into the front of his shirt. You melt into him. His lips are soft and sure, and the way you sigh into the kiss makes his heart stutter. He feels you smile against his mouth.

When he pulls back, you’re breathless, a little flustered. But your eyes are bright and happy, and that, Nanami thinks, is always good.

“Oh,” you murmur. “Was that the best case scenario?”

“Birds are singing,” he says. “Angels are weeping.”

“Stock market?”

“Remains to be seen.”

You grin and pull him down for another kiss.

Nanami’s apartment is quiet in the way he likes best. His bedroom is dark, save for the small pool of golden light from the lamp on the nightstand. His bed is warm, and so are you—curled beneath the blankets, your hair spilling over his pillow.

The book he bought you is sitting on the nightstand. There’s a new crease in the spine and a bookmark tucked partway through because he’s been reading it. He never used to care for fiction, but you’d smiled so brightly when he picked it up that now he finds himself reading it when he gets the time.

The mug of honey and ginger tea warms his hands. You blink sleepily when you see him, sitting up when he approaches the bed. Your hair is mussed, and you have a mark on your cheek where you’d turned into the pillow. His heart does that foolish, undignified thing where it stumbles in his chest.

“Tea,” he says, handing you the mug. “Drink.”

You smile when you take it. He sits down on the edge of the bed and watches you lift the mug to your lips. His hand finds your hair almost without thinking, fingers threading through it.

“We’re meeting my parents this weekend. You remember, right?” you ask, resting the mug on your knee.

“Are you turning into my secretary now?”

“No,” you say, and tilt your chin up defiantly at him. “Just so you know, I’m marrying you whether my parents approve or not.”

“Noted,” Nanami says.

“Good.”

“Why are you asking me?”

You shrug, a tad playful. “I don’t know. Thought you might’ve come to your senses.”

He makes a quiet sound—something like a laugh, though softer. “That would be difficult.” His thumb brushes the curve of your cheek. “I lost them a long time ago.”

You smile like that means something. Nanami leans back against the headboard, his arm resting across your shoulder as you tuck yourself into his side. The book is still sitting on the nightstand, waiting for him. He’ll pick it up later, after you’ve fallen asleep. For now, he lets himself breathe you in—warmth and honey and ginger.

“We have work tomorrow.” He tilts his head, and his lips brush against your hairline when he says it.

You laugh under your breath, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. “I am your work, Kento.”

Nanami smiles. He kisses your head again. His heart feels unbearably full.

Thus, he thinks, the courtship affairs of a common man have come to a very satisfying close.

⇢ a/n: as per usual, thank you to the inimitable @mahowaga for listening to me ramble about this fic & helping me out whenever i got stuck. this fic is pretty much dedicated to her. thank you for reading & i hope you have a wonderful day!

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rafecameronssl4t · 11 months ago

Note

hey! could u do a rafe x reader with kinda the grumpy and sunshine/ mean to everyone but me trope? like the reader is super girly and a total sweetheart like wouldn’t hurt a fly and no one expected rafe to be able to pull her? maybe like other guys have made moves on her but for some reason she only wants him

Untouchable || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: THANK U FOR THE REQUEST!!!!! (the gif above is what I envision Rafe's appearance to be in this fic)

Warnings: none :)

Word count: 1,178

MASTERLIST

Divider by @yoonitos

"Oh look, Rafe's here," Chelsea leans in to whisper to all of you girls. All heads turn to where she is subtly pointing. Rafe Cameron, with his buzzed hair and brooding expression, strides through the country club, his presence commanding attention.

You can't help but notice how your friends’ eyes widen, their expressions a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Kaycee sighs, shaking her head. "It's such a shame he's so grumpy and mean all the time. He's good-looking, but that attitude just ruins everything."

A few of the girls agree with her words, their eyes still on Rafe. You're about to respond when you catch Rafe’s gaze from across the club. His intense blue eyes lock onto yours, and to your surprise, he starts walking toward your table. Your friends' chatter fades into the background as he approaches, and you can feel the tension rising.

"Guys?" Kaycee whisper yells, her eyes darting nervously between you and Rafe. Before you can answer, Rafe is standing beside you. Without a word, he wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you close.

Your friends silently watch as he plants a soft kiss on your lips. The world seems to pause for a moment, the only sound your heart pounding in your chest. When he finally pulls away, he gives you a smile that’s reserved just for you. "Hey, babe," he says, his voice low and intimate. You smile back, feeling a warmth spread through you. "Hey, Rafe."

Your friends are staring, their mouths open in shock. Kaycee looks like she might faint, and Chelsea's eyes are so wide they might pop out of her head. You can practically hear their thoughts racing. "Hi ladies," Rafe nods his head to your friends as they all stumble across a response.

Rafe chuckles, clearly enjoying the reaction. "I'll see you later yeah?" he murmurs as you hum in response, giving you one last squeeze before heading to his own table. As he walks away, your friends erupt into a flurry of whispers and exclamations. "Are you serious?" Lily asks, her voice a mix of disbelief and excitement. "You and Rafe Cameron?"

You shrug, attempting to play it cool but failing miserably. "Yeah, we've been seeing each other for a while now." Kaycee shakes her head, still in shock. "I can't believe you didn't tell us! All this time, we thought you were just committed to your single streak."

Jada's eyes practically sparkle with excitement. "Not gonna lie, I've been rooting for you two since our days at Kook Academy." You laugh. Across the club, you see Rafe sitting with his friends, who are equally stunned by what they just saw. They keep glancing over at you, clearly trying to piece together how their friend who was notorious for not doing relationships end up with you.

Rafe catches your eye and gives you a wink, his usual grumpiness replaced with a rare, genuine smile as you smile back.

As Rafe walks away from your table, the whispers and gasps of your friends gradually fade into the background. You watch him stride confidently across the pool area, his usual brooding expression softened by a small, private smile. He reaches his table, where his friends are already in various states of shock and confusion.

Kelce is the first to speak, his voice a mix of disbelief and curiosity. "Dude, what was that?" He leans forward, his eyes wide with surprise. "You're telling me you bagged Y/n Y/l/n?"

Rafe drops into his seat and picks up his drink, taking a long sip before answering. "Yeah, we’ve been together for a while now." His tone is casual, but you can see the satisfaction in his eyes as he lets the news sink in.

Topper, who has been silent until now, finally finds his voice. "How the hell did that happen?" he asks, still staring at Rafe as if he's grown a second head. "She’s turned down just about everyone on this island who’s tried, and that includes me!"

Rafe chuckles, clearly enjoying the attention. "That's just cause you guys aren't me" he says with a cocky smirk. "Or maybe I just didn’t give up." The table falls silent for a moment as his friends process this new information. Then, one by one, they start to bombard him with questions.

"How long have you been seeing her?" asks Kelce, still trying to wrap his head around the idea. "Why didn’t you tell us?" adds Topper, his tone a mix of hurt and curiosity. "And how did you even get her to go out with you?" another friend chimes in.

Rafe leans back in his chair, his demeanor relaxed and confident. "We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months now," he begins, glancing over at you with a soft smile. "I didn’t tell you guys because we wanted to keep it private. Didn’t want everyone in our business, you know?"

Topper raises an eyebrow. "And how did you manage to win her over? She’s not exactly known for giving people a chance." Rafe laughs, a deep, genuine sound that surprises even himself. "Honestly, it wasn’t that hard," he admits with a grin.

"I had my eyes on her for a while. She’s smart and doesn’t put up with any bullshit. 'S what I like about her." He glances over at you again, mesmerised by how radiant you looked, giggling at something your friend said.

His friends exchange looks, a mix of admiration and incredulity on their faces. It’s clear they’re seeing a side of Rafe they never knew existed. "Wow, man," says Kelce, shaking his head with a grin. "I never thought I’d see the day when Rafe Cameron is all soft and in love." Rafe playfully rolls his eyes, "You guys are idiots."

Topper claps Rafe on the shoulder, a wide grin on his face. "Good for you, dude. Seriously. If anyone can handle your grumpy ass, it’s her." Rafe laughs again, the sound blending into the ambient noise of the country club. He glances back over at you, catching your eye once more. You smile at him, a warmth spreading through your chest as you see the genuine happiness in his eyes.

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amara-scott · 2 months ago

Note

helloo!

i hope you're having a great day!

i want to make a request with mattheo? reaaaaally fluffy everything?

like, yk he gets into fights. lots of fights. and so, he and reader are like acquaintances, until she sees him fighting with someone in a corridor, and she tries to break the fight then takes him away to take care of his wounds and everything. after his fights, like he goes searching for reader to clean up his wounds. one day he gets into a fight and reader asks what this one was about and he said that he simply got angry at someone, later on, reader overhears the person speaking that mattheo beat them up because they wanted to take reader out. so, they discover their feelings (idk, maybe you can do that part real cheesy with some angst?)

anyway, that's all, ik it's really long, but if you can do it, i'd be so grateful

have a good day and sending the best regards and love!

Wounded heart.

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Ravenclaw!female Reader

The first time you saw Mattheo Riddle after one of his fights wasn’t a deliberate encounter—it wasn’t supposed to be anything at all. You hadn’t been looking for him; you’d just wanted a quiet spot to read, a moment of peace in the midst of the chaos that was Hogwarts. But then you found him, slouched against a bookshelf in a quiet corner of the library, his knuckles bloodied and bruised, his jaw cut open with a fresh wound, as if the world itself had thrown him into a battle.

You froze. He hadn’t even noticed you yet, too caught up in trying to wrap a torn piece of cloth around his hand with shaking fingers, biting his lip in frustration. The sight of him, usually so confident and untouchable, looking vulnerable like this—something about it made your chest tighten.

Without thinking, you stepped forward.

"Let me help."

Mattheo didn’t flinch or react at first, but when your hand brushed against his, he looked up. His eyes, stormy and unreadable, flicked to yours for a brief second. There was no sneer, no smirk—just that unsettling calm.

"You’re going to help me, sunshine?" His voice was rough, but it had a dangerous edge. "Why?"

You ignored the bite in his tone. “Because you’re clearly not doing a very good job of it yourself.”

He didn’t argue further, though his lips pulled into a tight line. You took his hand gently, carefully undoing the makeshift bandage. His skin was raw, scraped in places, and blood still oozed from some of the cuts. You felt a surge of something—anger, frustration, maybe something deeper—but you didn’t let it show. You simply took out your wand and murmured a healing charm.

It took a moment before Mattheo finally spoke again, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “You don’t have to do this.”

You didn’t look up, focusing on his hands as the cuts healed, knitting themselves back together. “And yet, here I am.”

The silence stretched between you, but there was an undeniable tension, a crackling energy in the air that neither of you acknowledged. When you finished, you let go of his hand and stood back, eyes finally meeting his. He didn’t move, still sitting against the bookshelf like some kind of wounded king, his posture relaxed despite everything.

"Let's not make a habit of this," he muttered, his voice softer now but still sharp in its own way.

You raised an eyebrow. “What, you getting into fights?”

His lips twitched, almost like he was fighting back a smirk. “You're right, doesn't sound very likely.”

And then, without another word, he stood up and left, his figure disappearing into the shadows of the library.

—

It became a pattern. Not a routine, not a friendship—not even a connection. Just moments where, after every fight, Mattheo found his way to you. Always in a quiet, hidden place where no one would see him in such a state—bruised, bleeding, looking like he had something to prove. And every time, you found yourself healing him. You’d never had a real conversation with him before, not one that went beyond the usual sarcastic remarks or terse exchanges. You weren’t even sure why he came to you. Maybe it was the way you never asked questions, never pried. You just healed.

But you couldn’t deny the way his presence lingered afterward—the way he would lean against the wall, his dark eyes watching you like you were the only thing worth seeing in that moment. His usual smugness wasn’t there. It was just him. And you. And the tension that hummed between you.

The first time you truly understood why Mattheo Riddle kept getting into fights, it wasn’t something you figured out on your own. No, it took someone else to unravel the truth, a truth you had been too blind to see all along.

It was another late evening, just after dinner, when one of his friends was asking for you. Again. Lorenzo, quite disheveled, came running down the table in the great hall and told you to follow him. It's because of Mattheo, he said. With a sigh you followed him into the dungeons, entering the Slytherin common room for the first time. And there he was, sitting on the edge of a couch, bloodied knuckles clutched tightly at his side, his face bruised in places you hadn’t seen before. He looked like he hadn’t even tried to hide it this time, not bothering to wear the usual mask of indifference. Lorenzo was pulled away and left you to it.

"Mattheo," you muttered, your voice a mix of frustration and concern, "you really should go see Madam Pomfrey."

He shook his head sharply, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "I don’t need her," he said, his voice tight with the same defiance you had grown accustomed to. "I only need you."

Your heart skipped a beat, but you tried not to let it show. Instead, you knelt beside him, setting your bag down and pulling out your wand to heal the worst of the damage. His gaze never wavered from you as you worked, the silence between you thick with unspoken words. You weren’t sure what kept pulling him back to you, but you weren’t going to question it now. Not when he needed you.

After a few moments, his wounds were mostly healed, but he didn’t seem to want to get up. He slumped back against the couch, staring at the ceiling with a faraway look in his eyes. You stepped back, about to ask if he wanted anything else, when you heard the soft click of the door opening.

Pansy Parkinson walked in, looking somewhat flustered, her eyes immediately locking onto Mattheo. She walked over to him quickly, concern flashing across her face when she saw the state he was in.

"Mattheo!" she hissed. "What the hell is wrong with you? You need Madam Pomfrey now—stop being stubborn."

Mattheo didn’t respond, his eyes still focused on you. Pansy’s gaze flickered between the two of you before she sighed, clearly exasperated. She crossed her arms, looking at him with a mix of disbelief and annoyance.

"I don’t know why you keep doing this," she muttered, more to herself than to him, but you caught the words. There was a strange undertone to them, something you didn’t quite understand.

As Mattheo finally stood, his movements slow, he winced, but he didn’t flinch. His hand brushed past yours in the faintest of touches, and you watched as he made his way to the stairs leading to the boys' dorms. Pansy followed after him, pausing to give you one last, lingering look. You had just finished packing away your things when she suddenly spoke again, this time more pointedly.

“You really don’t know, do you?”

You blinked, confusion settling over you. "Know what?"

She sighed, a mixture of pity and exasperation in her eyes. "Why he keeps getting into these stupid fights. Why he’s always so reckless."

You felt your stomach twist. “What do you mean? I thought he was just... angry. But I’ve never heard him really talk about it.”

Pansy’s gaze softened, and she leaned in closer, lowering her voice. "It’s because of you, dumbass."

You blinked at her, your mind spinning. “What?”

"Mattheo doesn’t do this for fun," she continued, the words slipping out as if she had been holding them back for too long. "Every time someone even looks at you the wrong way, or tries to get too close, he fights. Not because he’s angry, but because he’s possessive. He's trying to keep everyone away from you—because he wants you."

Her words hit you like a slap to the face. You tried to process them, but it was too much, too sudden. "No," you managed to say, shaking your head. "That can’t be it."

Pansy raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk tugging at her lips. “You really don’t get it, do you? Mattheo has been into you for ages. I don’t know how you didn’t see it. He doesn't care about getting hurt. He just doesn't want anyone else touching what he sees as his. It’s not about the fights—it's about you."

The world around you seemed to slow as you processed her words, each one ringing in your ears, louder than the last. It’s about you. The weight of it crushed down on your chest. You hadn’t understood the pattern, the constant tension that had been building between the two of you. It wasn’t just the way he came to you, the way he let you take care of him—no, it was much deeper than that. Mattheo wasn’t angry because of some random skirmishes. He was angry because you were the one thing he felt he had to protect, even if it meant tearing apart anyone who dared to get too close.

For the first time, the puzzle pieces clicked into place.

You exhaled shakily, your mind a swirl of confusion and disbelief. "Why didn’t he just say something?"

Pansy shrugged, her expression softening. "Mattheo’s never been one for words, especially not about feelings. But trust me, he’s made it pretty clear. If you wanted him to stop fighting, you’d have to stop letting him fight for you."

You stood there, staring after Mattheo, still processing the revelation. There was a certain heaviness in your chest now—one you hadn’t expected. And as you walked out of the room, still reeling, you couldn’t help but wonder what would happen next. Because if Pansy was right... then this was just the beginning.

—

Your heart pounded as you stalked down the halls toward the library the following day, having had plenty of time to contemplate confronting Mattheo. On thursdays he usually spent some time in a corner where you also encountered him for the first time. Rounding the corner you see him. He didn’t even flinch when you entered, but you could feel the tension rise between you.

“You beat people up—because of me,” you said, voice cold with something sharp, something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel before.

Mattheo didn’t blink. “They deserved it.”

Your hands curled into fists. “You can’t just—”

“Because that git thought he had a chance with you?” Mattheo interrupted, his voice lowering, standing up and stepping closer to you. “Because he didn’t know you were already—mine?”

The words hit you like a curse. Mine. The possessiveness in his voice made your stomach drop, but you didn’t back down.

“I—I’m not—”

“You are,” he said, cutting you off, his eyes narrowing, lips curling into that smug grin you knew so well. “You just don’t know it yet.”

The space between you two was suffocating now, the tension so thick you could almost taste it. And before you could think better of it, before you could let logic override the impulsive urge, you grabbed him. Your fingers fisted in the collar of his shirt, and with a sharp tug, you pressed your lips to his, shutting down any protest he might have had.

It was rough. Desperate. His lips moved against yours like he had something to prove, his hands coming up to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him. You didn’t know if it was anger, frustration, or something else entirely that made it feel so real—but in that moment, it was everything. And when you pulled away, breathless, Mattheo’s forehead rested against yours, his grin back in full force.

“Took you long enough,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of teasing and satisfaction.

You rolled your eyes, but there was no hiding the smile that tugged at your lips. “Shut up, Riddle.”

He only laughed. “Not a chance.”

And from then on, the fights didn’t stop—but the aftermath did. Now, his bruises didn’t just end with your hands tending to him. Now, they ended with him holding you close, your lips pressing against the cuts and scrapes, the tension between you both still simmering, but now with an unspoken understanding. He was reckless, but you were his—whether he admitted it or not.

And maybe, just maybe, that made you feel like you were the one who was holding him together.

#imagine #harry potter #slytherin boys #imagines #fanfiction #mattheoxreader #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle x reader

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inklore · 10 months ago

Text

does it feel good?

— qimir x f!reader

premise: he is your beginning, the whole reason you have made peace with the darkness inside your head, and you know someday he may become your end. whether by his saber or by him finally consuming completely. you welcome both.

contents: established master x acolyte dynamics, shared force bond, unprotected p in v, foreplay, light choking, biting, scars and burn marks mentioned, death, teasing, over stimulation | wc: 2.7k+

note: i love that we all saw the water scene and went yeah that's for the smut writers. glad we are collectively going insane over this man.

The moons paint the water in a shimmering light that bathes its surface in sapphire that fades to the deepest of blacks the longer you stare into it. The waves that hit against the ragged stones are like a siren call to your aching body.

Your muscles are still tight and coiled from earlier. Your molars grind together when you lift your arms to pull off your ruined and stained clothes. A burning sensation felt through your body as the fabric covering your torso moved against every burn, cut, and bruise you had acquired tonight.

You didn’t stop by a reflective surface to check how many battle scars you’d earned. Badges of honor. More wounds worn like metals placed on your neck by a pleased master. Wounds, he’ll help you heal, stitch up, seal with the press of his palm to the tattered skin—stolen supplies from planets you can’t remember the name of with faces you can only remember the dead eyes of, used on the ones that don’t close up right.

The moonlight makes them look less serious. The illumination colored the dried blood and tissue into something misty. Almost tantalizing to the eye. Unlike the light of day, where you’re sure it will look less glamorizing. The ugly truth of the way your skin is going to bubble up and mold over to protect itself once the healing process begins is less glaring in this hue.

Your toe dips into the water. It’s always warmer than you think it to be. Always welcoming you in like it’s been waiting for you to return. Waiting to wash away the grim and blood that seemed more permanent on your skin than your own flesh.

You wade at the edge for a bit, pushing around the water with your feet. The water wading at your ankles.

The ringing hasn’t stopped.

It rarely does until you’ve closed your eyes and settled it. Until your body is less taut, muscles released from the on switch of fight. The power inside your veins thrumming like a wasp trying to free itself from the tissue of your bones.

As if it had gotten stuck in there and couldn’t find its way out. Refusing to settle down or leave until you’ve maimed, avenged, and proved yourself—leaving your body and muscles in their current state.

You’re not worried about something being in the water. If there were, you would have been able to feel it. Sense it’s beating heart and the danger of allowing it to keep beating. You’re alone as you walk further into the water, sinking into it’s depths until your body is completely engulfed. Your neck and head the only things going untouched.

The freshly made badges on your skin burn when you scrub your thumb along the edges of them. Specks of dried blood float along the surface of the water before they’re lost to the darkness below.

Amongst the ringing in your head, you can hear the screams of anger that tore from your lungs when the Jedi had gotten the upper hand. The green of his saber leaving red against your skin. Making your moves turn from confident to something rage fueled.

Somewhere among the ringing, you know his scream is in there. Amongst the many cries for help and cracking bones.

They always linger. Always hold on like a power pack to your dark side.

You know your body won’t fully relax until you’ve stopped the ringing, though. You didn’t believe in blessings or curses. Bad fortune or good. Everyone’s life ended the same way. If you did believe in the farce, you would think the ringing that goes from the base of your skull to the drums of your ears was a curse.

A quiet mind is a blessing.

The buzz of the force within you too heady when you're in the throes of battle. War. Darkness. It’s always been like that. Even before him.

It’s only gotten worse with him beside you. Like the bond the two of you had opened too much too deep and you feel everything more clearly. More unfortunately.

He taught you how to silence it. To reign it in after the adrenaline and pace of your heart slowed.

There were still things you had to learn. Things you were kept from knowing by your old master, the one who only saw one way to wield your power. A cowardly excuse for a master whose burial you wish you could have witnessed.

It’s aggravating, almost. Anger inducing for sure.

Someone not believing you are capable of knowing the truth about the power you wield. It’s criminal to not allow someone to be their true self all because of a set of rules that only benefited one group of people. One way of living, when there were so many.

Your aggravation has faded by now. The anger is still there and buzzes through you. But you no longer feel like a part of you has been held back. Stunted and aching like your chest had for years—as if a rock had found itself in the base of your heart and took up rent there—until Qimir showed you the way.

Your true self.

Your full potential and all you were capable of.

All that had been inside of you, held back for so long.

Filling your lungs with air, you sink yourself under the water and hold yourself there. Eyes closing as you center yourself. Slow the wasp in your marrow to something dull. Stop the ringing in your ears until all you can hear is the hum of the water hitting the rock above the surface.

Just you and the force.

Just you and the water.

Until you feel him.

Until he’s there inside your mind.

Until you feel a hand at the base of your skull, fingertips brushing at the nape of your neck to let you know he’s not just in your head. He’s beside you.

Your eyes meet once you’ve filled your lungs with air again, and you wipe the water droplets from your lids.

You watch him splash water against his neck, running the palm of his hand along the dirt and grime that clings to his skin. Cleaning himself of any traces of the deaths the two of you have left in your wake tonight.

His calm demeanor always pulls you back from the edge. Always brings a calmness to your blood. To the beating of your heart. Even when shit has gone haywire, his demeanor never switches up. Never slips into something that could be labeled as sloppy or driven by anything other than who he truly is. What he’s made of.

His calm seeping through your shared bond until you have no choice but to relax.

The handful of times you’ve seen that calmness turn into something animalistic, it’s made you envious, on the same hand, it’s made the space between your thighs burn.

“You did well tonight.”

“The smell of my burning flesh still clinging to my senses says differently.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in amusement, “you did well.” He repeats. Ducks his head forward to wet his hair. His fingers running through the strands, droplets falling down his face. Your eyes follow them all the way down the column of his neck to his chiseled collar bones.

It doesn’t take one wielding the force to know what your mind is projecting. Doesn’t matter that the two of you share a part of your brain. The thoughts of past nights spent together, Qimir teaching you the ways desire can be wielded and used to your advantage—or disadvantage, depending on how you look at it.

Your face turns from him. Eyes moving up to the moon.

Trying to hold back your thoughts the way he taught you. Even if it is futile against him.

“How do you feel?”

Has the ringing stopped, Is what he’s really asking. Do you need another lesson? Are you still weakened by that ailment? That curse?

Except he wouldn’t be as dramatic as that. Not with this. Not ever. Especially when it came to your power. Your capabilities. The perfect little acolyte he’s trained you to be.

“Fine.” Your answer clipped, honest. Because you are fine, and your stubbornness will not allow you to let this turn into another lesson about you not being able to be as calm and collected as he is. No shadows of doubt lingering over who he truly is. His purpose. His wants. His desires. His darkness.

He’s always been able to read right through you, though. Even without taking up space in your being. The force has little to do with that fact.

You were never afraid of the darkness that lived inside of you. Never afraid of the power you could wield and the lives you could take.

The only time you’ve felt true fear is being seen.

Accepted.

The potential to let someone of importance down and not withhold your end of a deal you’ve inked your name in blood just to be beside. To prove yourself to someone who’s your equal. Another half of your very being.

His face shows nothing but that calm amusement when he wades behind you. His fingers moving against your skin in an act to rid you of the spots of dirt you’ve missed on your neck and shoulders.

Swallowing hard when his fingers scrape against past scars, he lingers there for a beat. Running the pad of them against the raised skin. A whisper in your head.

You heal beautifully.

It’s a softness you’d never thought him to be capable of when you found out who he truly was. The man behind the mask. Even if the unmasking had been done unintentionally.

It’s not softness you feel from his touch, though. No, his touch eases the strain in your muscles, only to gather itself in your belly. Your body burning with anticipation, knowing how this goes.

How you’re rewarded when you impress him.

When you do as you are told, your master is ever the generous one.

“You’ve proven yourself tonight.” His lips brush against the tip of your spine, “killing without a weapon, not stopping until you were the last one standing. Freeing yourself from the ones who held you back for so long.” Your breath hitches in the back of your throat when his mouth presses down on that same spot at the beginning of your spine.

A hand snaking around your throat, his palm wet and warm against your collarbones as he pulls your neck at just the right angle to have you looking at him.

“Did it feel good?”

“Yes.” You swallow, wrap your fingers around his wrist. “It always does.” You whisper, your eyes flashing down to the upturn of his lips.

His nose runs along your cheek to your temple, his eyes closed, inhaling you. “I can always smell it. When you let yourself become one with the darkness. Right before you take a life.” His thumb runs a circle against the vein, which tells him the pace of your heart has picked up. As if he’d need it to know, as if the two of you don’t share something that links you completely to the other. “It still lingers. It’s distracting.”

It’s not a question, but you nod. Your eyes flutter when he pushes his hips forward, and the hardness of his cock moves against your ass.

He doesn’t ask permission, the two of you knowing you’re past such kindnesses, when his hand cups your mound. He knows what your body needs right now. What it wants, what it’s expecting. He can feel it too. His index and middle fingers spread your pussy, giving him access to that pleasure point on your body that only he knows how to stroke just right to have you pliant and singing for him.

As if you were not already devoted to him. As if he were not your reason for being.

He’s your beginning, and you have no doubt he will be your end if it comes to it.

The pad of his finger circles your clit in that slow way that lets you know he’s going to take his time with you. Going to drain every last bit of strain and tightness from your muscles, pushing that buzz between your legs and making him the only sound in your head—until he thinks you have had enough.

Until your reward is good enough for him to be satisfied with how you took it. Until he knows your mind is back where it needs to be—here, with him.

His mouth meets the hand at your throat, his teeth sinking into the parts his fingers aren’t pressing into. “You’re everything I could have hoped for.” His tongue laps against your pulse.

Perfect.

You may never know if he actually means the words; you can only feel what he allows you to feel through your shared connection. He’s better at blocking than you. But he knows you need to hear these praises. Knows how good and pliable it will make you. His words stoke the fire inside your soul that burns through your darkness. That allows you to become completely consumed by him and the desire to be on this side.

Of being free.

What he does allow you to feel lets you know there is some truth somewhere in there. You can feel it in how hard his cock thrusts against your ass when your body pushes back into him. You can feel it in the way his thoughts stream through your mind.

So obedient.

Your cunt’s so greedy for me.

You’re mine.

The skin on your fingers stings from gripping the rocks in front of you. The pain you should feel from the heel of your palm digging into the jagged stones, lost in the haze of pleasure consuming your body.

Qimir consuming every last part of your being.

Taking over every dark corner of your mind and not letting you feel or hear anything but him.

Your moans become more shaky, your chest heaving as you pant and curse. The weight of the finger on your clit grows heavier, faster, deliriously good the more you near your orgasm.

Your lips are moving in inaudible words. Words he understands, making him grin against your jaw.

“You want my cock tonight?” You know he’s read your mind, or rather, your body. Know he can feel what you desire and crave. What your minds begging him for. “Hmm, do you think you’re deserving of that big of a prize? You spill a little blood, and suddenly you’re greedy.” He hums, “you did well. Do you think you deserve it, though? No?”

Heat burns your cheeks; his chuckle makes you sob into the night air. The stubbornness to please and be as perfect as your counterpart wants you to be is not in favor of the mounting pressure that’s building in your pussy right now.

“I already think you’re perfect; don’t push it.” His foot pushes easily at your ankles. Your thighs spread enough for the head of his cock to press against your entrance and thrust inside.

“Mmm,” you whine at the stretch. Your eyes fluttering closed at your swollen walls being filled. Walls that tighten around him as he sets a fast pace. Matching the rhythm and stroke of his fingers. Sending your body on an overwhelming precipice of a carnal need to come.

The heaviness of his breath as he says your name against your skin—the quick flashes of the pleasure he feels from being inside of you—is what finally sends you over the edge.

Your orgasm rocking through you like a storm. Your body shaking against him, walls fluttering and squeezing around his cock, making him groan. Your throat raw and scratchy from the noise that’s pulled up from your lungs when everything in your body is set completely aflame.

Your hand falling from the rocks, and pressing your nails into his wrist, trying to pull his hand from between your thighs. The over-stimulation of his finger moving against your clit even after your orgasm has passed makes you cry out and ripple the water around the two of you as you squirm.

The tip of his cock hits that spot inside you that makes your vision go white. That falters your fight against his torment.

“You can do better than one. You deserve it, don’t you?”

#qimir x reader #qimir x you #the acolyte x reader #qimir smut #the stranger x reader #star wars smut #star wars x reader #laur writes star wars

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jasmineoolongtea · 10 months ago

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it turns out, gojo satoru hates silence. to be more accurate, he hates the sound of total nothing when it comes to you.

that's not to say that he wants you to scream at him like all hell's breaking loose but he just wants something from you, good or bad he doesn't care, over this suffocating silence. you don't even look at him; instead, you focus on attempting to secure the sterile white bandages on top of his injuries. you pretend like you don't see the crimson red of his blood seeping through them as you do.

"baby..." his voice is barely above a whisper, a rare occurrence for someone who's always been the loudest in any room he's in. he gets no response from you, only the sight of your jaw tensing up as you grit your teeth. satoru tries and fails to meet your eyes.

"baby. please, talk to me." he pleads softly, using his other unoccupied hand to reach out to you. you freeze slightly at the feeling of his fingertips upon your arm.

a small sigh of defeat escapes him. "see? i'm fine, nothing's gonna hurt me alright? it's just a scratch, that's all." as if to emphasise his point, he raises his arms up in a show of goodwill, swallowing the harsh wince of pain that threatens to escape his lips.

for what feels like the first time in forever, you look back at him, your eyes meeting his cerulean ones. "that's not the point, satoru." you state, finishing up your bandaging of him. "what if one day you do get hurt badly?" the clang of your tools hitting the metal tray table echoes within the walls of the infirmary.

he brushes off your concerns with a wave. "that's not going to hap-"

"okay, but what if it does?" you cut him off bluntly. your expression is serious, deadly serious with your unwavering gaze and slightly furrowed brows, to the point where he's rendered speechless for the first time.

"have you ever thought about what would happen to the people you leave behind... about me?" your words trail off at the end of your sentence, your voice faltering slightly as well. maybe it's a trick of the light but satoru swears that tears are welling up in the corner of your eyes.

his chest tightens with an uncomfortable squeeze, his gaze falling to the floor. no one dares to speak for a moment, whatever words and phrases of reassurance satoru would typically throw your way now suddenly seem shallow and lack any sort of weight behind them. the air is tense around the both of you.

you don't even need him to respond to know the answer to your own question as it would be a resounding no. for most of his life, satoru lives and breathes like he's untouchable, detached from most things including other people. being someone who has been leagues above everyone else since birth does that to a person.

however, it seems that this has caused him to forget that others around him don't share his fate and that no matter how detached he still believes himself to be, there are still ones who crave his connection and see past his facade of godhood and more as the human he truly is underneath it all.

"...i'm sorry, baby." he murmurs under his breath as he looks back up at you, sincerity and raw vulnerability evident in his expression. "i promise that i'll be more careful next time." he brings your hands to his lips and presses a soft kiss against your skin, letting himself bask in the warmth, your warmth, that is radiating off of you.

"there shouldn't be a next time." you huff half-heartedly, trying to stand strong in light of his previous behaviour which led to this moment but you feel your knees start to turn into jelly the moment his lips graze your hands.

a faint laugh escapes him. "i'll make a promise on that too." he adds, spreading his legs slightly just so he can pull you against his chest and into his arms.

gojo satoru is used to living only for himself but now, he has to remember that he has someone to come home to and he's going to make sure that he starts living like he did. only a shame he didn't see this earlier.

#dividers by cafekitsune #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk drabbles #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen drabbles #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk headcanons #jjk angst #jjk fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #‧₊˚ ⋅ 🍵 writes #a short drabble while i'm fighting my battle against sickness rip 🪦🪦🪦

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mainstreamangel · 1 month ago

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CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT

P. Bueckers x Fem!Reader

Summary: You love your girl, your girl loves you.

Genre: Fluff

Warning(s): for the sake of this fic she's on the dw team but the uconn players if that makes sense?

WC: 1.6k

Reporters called your name. Microphones were shoved in your face, some asking about rumors and allegations, other asking about your career.

You kept your head down, holding onto Paige's hand as she walked in front of you, trying her best to push the paparazzi out of your guys' way.

"Paige, how does it feel to date a snake?"

"Paige, do you have any words for the media?"

A few reporters called your name.

"Where have you been the last year? You completely disappeared from the media."

"Rumors speculated that you were cheating on Bueckers. Is that true?"

"She didn't cheat and she won't ever cheat." Paige answered that one and made it crystal clear about her opinion.

You had disappeared off the media for a while after receiving bad backlash for your opinions on a certain male celebrity.

You weren't sorry for your opinions though. They were yours and you would go to the grave for that.

"Paige, what do you have to say about the rumours?"

Finally, Paige held the door open to your studio and security held the horde off.

"Thank you P."

"Anytime, ma."

My castle crumbled overnight. I brought a knife to a gunfight. They took the crown, but it's alright.

"Singer and songwriter [Name] continues to lie and damage her reputation. But with fizzled efforts, she continues to receive hate, his status seemingly untouched." You read.

"What a dick."

"I didn't even do anything wrong. They just hate when a woman threatens his legacy with just a few sparkles and a witty mind." You scoffed.

"It's going to be alright, you're going to come back from it."

"I hope so."

Paige grabbed your hand and rubbed it slightly.

"I love you."

You smiled and returned her love before reaching for your guitar.

"I'm almost done with my new album I just need one last song. Luckily I have my own personal muse that I can take inspiration off of." You smirked and Paige laughed.

All the liars are calling me one. Nobody's heard from me for months. I'm doing better than I ever was.

You tuned your guitar and started thinking of lyrics for the bridge.

"I have to say your song, 'So It Goes' is probably my favourite."

"Yeah just cause it's about you."

Paige smirked and you threw a pillow at her which she caught and hugged against her.

"You're amazing you know that? Your true fans will see right through that son of a bitch." Paige reassured.

You smiled and nodded. You knew this comeback was going to be intense.

You had felt anger and frustration throughout your time off, but Paige always made you come out of that state and she reminded you that revenge wasn't the answer. It would just prove the media right.

So you decided for your next album you were going to write a few songs addressing the rumors and the media but focus mostly on the love that you shared from your friends, family, and importantly, Paige. You wanted to address the gratitude you felt from those fans who stuck around, those who never listened to the hate.

'Cause my baby's fit like a daydream. Walkin' with her head down, I'm the one she's walkin' to.

Taking a guitar pick you started finding the right chords for the song and getting used to the movement.

So call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to. My baby's fly like a jet stream. High above the whole scene, loves me like I'm brand new. So call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to.

You sang. Your voice filled Paige's ears as she listened to you.

You laughed as you sang because she stared so intensely at you with love and adoration, you knew that you guys were endgame. Unless stated otherwise by her, you knew she was it for you.

"Paige, what do you have to say about your girl's leak of her new album?"

"Paige, what can we expect from her when she comes back to the public eye?"

"Paige! Paige! Paige!"

Paige looked down and continued walking, her hair flew beside her, giving her some coverage from the cameras. She didn't want to answer any questions that weren't related to just her or her basketball career.

"Paige, we heard that your girl is going on tour when she drops the album. Do you think it'll be a flop tour?"

Paige finally got inside the gym and greeted her team.

"Hey P." Azzi greeted with a quick hug.

"Your girl alright? Got some nasty questions from the press on the way over here." Ice asked shooting baskets from different angles of the court.

"Yeah, sorry about that guys." Paige sighed.

"Nah, no worries, hope she's well. I know if I was her I wouldn't last a second."

"Yeah, she's definitely stronger than I am." KK laughed, mindlessly dribbling the ball.

"We don't believe those rumours though. She'd never do that."

"Thanks guys." Paige said, warming up.

All my flowers grew back as thorns. Windows boarded up after the storm.

You walked out onto the streets ignoring the press again, security doing their best to block the people off. You just wanted to go watch your girl's practice, but the public was making that very difficult.

Someone called your name. It was a mother with her young daughter.

"Can we have an autograph? Or a picture? My daughter really loves your stuff and it would make her so happy."

You smiled and bent a bit so that her mom could take the photo. After, you take the vinyl of your last album '1989', and sign your signature in black sharpie.

Adding a little heart you hand it back and say your farewells before heading into the court.

The sound of sneakers squeaking on the floor and the loud reverbs of basketballs entered your ears.

You put your sunglasses on top of your head again and sit off to the side.

She built a fire just to keep me warm. All the drama queens taking swings. All the jokers dressin' up as kings, they fade to nothin' when I look at her.

Sure being a public figure was hard. Both of you knew that. But everytime you looked into her eyes, you only saw her. It made you feel... regular. Like you lived a domestic life with Paige and didn't have to worry about judgmental creeps who always had something to say.

You got out your notebook and a pen trying to come up with your last song's bridge.

Your name was called and you looked up.

"Hey babe." You stood up and fell into her arms. Sure she was sweaty, but damn was she hot.

Her hair was slicked back into a ponytail and her jersey hung loosely on her figure.

"What're you doing here?"

"Needed inspiration so I came to stare at you." You half joked.

"Mrs. Bueckers!" KK joked.

The team always said Paige and you were like the parents of the team. Paige was the fun mother who always followed your lead and you were the mother who had run this game for a minute.

"Hey KK. Nice shots."

"Thanks."

Paige continued to talk for a bit then headed back to practice some more. You sat back down and continued to stare at the blank portion of your song.

I'm laughin' with my lover, makin' forts under covers. Trust her like no other, yeah, you know I did one thing right. Starry eyes sparkin' up my darkest night.

One reporter's voice stood out to you on your way here. "How does that make you feel?" It was perfect. You started to scribble something down and before you knew it you had come up with the perfect bridge. That would tie the song off and hopefully you and Paige.

"Can I see?" Paige had been so excited after you told her you finished your last song and inevitably the whole album.

"In a minute, I wanna run it by the producer before I confirm it."

"I can't wait, ma."

"I know P."

My baby's fit like a daydream. Walkin' with his head down, I'm the one he's walkin' to. So call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to.

"Sounds good. You did a good job." Your producer said.

"Thanks, worked hard on this one."

"I can tell, now go celebrate, we'll release your album at midnight."

You stared at the screen. The promotion banner would be released everywhere at midnight. Then your album shortly after.

HERE LIES [NAME]'S REPUTATION.

My baby's fly like a jet stream. High above the whole scene, loves me like I'm brand new. So call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to.

"Can I hear it now?" Paige begged.

You nodded and got your guitar out.

I want to wear her initial, on a chain 'round my neck, chain 'round my neck. Not because she owns me.

Paige's initial necklace hung around your neck. It had been an anniversary gift, a token of her love.

But 'cause he really knows me. Which is more than they can say, I, I recall late November, holdin' my breath, slowly I said:

"You don't need to save me, but would you run away with me?"

You sang your heart out, feeling the music and the emotion you conjured from simple lyrics and a simple lover. You closed the song with the final verse and Paige tackled you into a hug.

"This album is going to be so great, ma." You smiled and hugged her back.

Call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to.

#wbb #wnba #paige x reader #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers

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erodasfishtacos · 5 months ago

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You Belong With Me | pilot!h |

Prompt: YN and Harry are enemies until they’re not. YN doesn’t need another relationship but neither does Harry. It doesn’t go smoothly.

Word Count: 19k+

Warnings: discussion of miscarriage

author's note:

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There are currently 400 + pieces available to read

Tier I - $3 USD where you get access to main stories, everything except the mini one shots.

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you can check it out here!

there is more pilot!h on patreon

click here for a chance at a free month of my writing.

—-—

It isn’t love.

At least not a first.

YN cannot tell you the moment she fell in love with him.

However, she can tell you the moment that she knew.

YN had never had a casual hookup, she’d always been in committed relationships, and had pretty vanilla sex that almost always took place in a bedroom without much excitement.

For a long while, she never thought anything of it and deduced that maybe she just was not one of the people who had a wild adventurous sex life or was bold - it was just fine with her boyfriend in the past, it was never anything to write home about.

She definetly never thought that she would find out that she did in fact have a wild side at work of all places.

YN reveled in not rocking the boat, she’d never do anything unprofessional at work, and she was always one of the best employees - some whispered that she was a kissass or a try hard, YN just wanted to do a good job and hope that most people liked her.

YN had just gotten out of her longest relationship so far - she’d been with Noah since her first year of college and had broken it off after nearly six years of being together just about five months into her new job.

It wasn’t working out any longer, if they were honest, they hadn’t been working out for quite sometime.

YN doesn’t know exactly when she had fallen out of love with Noah but she had.

It was a rocky breakup.

They wanted different things.

YN wants a ring.

Noah didn’t want to get married.

Even though it wasn’t the worst breakup ever, YN really was struggling with all the stress it had put on her because her whole life had changed now that she was a flight attendant.

She had to let Noah keep their two dogs which really felt like she gave away custody because he could be home every night to take care of them while YN was never home for more than a few nights at a time.

Noah had owned the house they lived in which meant YN moved into an apartment that wasn’t that bad but it really wasn’t anything special, it didn’t really matter because she wasn’t home often enough and packed boxes lay untouched for a long time.

YN decided that being single was best right now, it would be near impossible to find a relationship that would work with her hectic hours and she wasn’t going on a dating app to have mediocre sex.

It only takes one person to flip her whole life around.

And that is a fucking understatement.

It officially marked her seventh month at the company and her second of being single - both were going somewhat well in her eyes.

Her parents wanted her to find someone, wasting no time in pestering her because they wanted her to have a wedding, to give them grandchildren.

Honestly, YN’s has not been looking.

At first, the breakup with Noah went fine, pleasant even but just a few weeks ago, it had turned completely sour after Noah had told her she wasn’t able to visit their two dogs anymore.

When YN was home, she’d swing by at least once a week to spend some time with her two fur babies whether in his backyard or taking them to the local park for a hike.

However, he’s found a new girlfriend and has stated that it’s no longer a good idea for her to come see the dogs but also said she’s not allowed to take them either which means she has completely lost them.

Noah: It’s nothing personal. I just don’t want my new girlfriend getting the wrong idea, you know? Sorta a buzzkill to have my ex and me sharing dogs like they’re kids or something. I hope you understand, maybe I can send pics

“YN, hello?” Her friend Elaina waves her hand in front of her cellphone screen to break her gaze from Noah’s text message.

“Sorry,” YN mumbles as she locks her phone and puts it on airplane mode.

They were waiting in the employee area for their flight to be ready, a little lounge that was a bit too humid and the coffee was always out.

“I was saying that today is Pilot Styles’ first day with Paradise Airlines after moving from Coastal,” Elaina explains to YN and the few other women that were huddled on the worn couches.

YN’s brow furrows at that, “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

She had heard rumors that a new pilot would be joining their team, be their captain as Paradise Airlines were unlike other companies - they tended to keep crews together on the same flights to build a good coworking relationship.

All the girls look at her like she had a second head, Justine speaking up first, “How do you not know who he is?”

YN doesn’t quite know how to answer that, shrugging her shoulders, “I don’t remember anyone ever saying anything about that captain to me. Why is it a big deal that he is changing to our airline?”

Perry jumps in, excited that she gets to spill some gossip, “Well, we’re surprised you don’t know him because of the amount of shit that the stewardess’ bitch about him. It’s a big deal that he’s coming to our airline because every attendant I know hates him.”

YN wasn’t expecting that for the reason that he was so well known.

“I mean most pilots are a bit grouchy,” YN responds as she sips her coffee that has enough espresso to get her through the next ten hours, “They all seem a little miserable if I’m honest.”

Elaina laughs at that, leaning forward, “He’s not just a bit grouchy. He’s a straight up asshole. He’s probably the most unfriendly, unwelcoming person that I’ve ever met and I’ve heard from others that it’s the same. He treats everybody like they’re less than and is demanding, like everybody needs to bow down for him.”

“You’ve worked with him before?” YN asks Elaina, it sounds like she was speaking from personal experience and there was still annoyance in her tone as she recounts how she knows the captain.

“Unfortunately, I worked at Coastal Airlines for a few years before I moved here. Styles is probably around forty years old so he’s been here quite a while now. I didn’t have many experiences with him but I swear he made at least one attendant cry each flight.”

“Did he make you cry?” YN responds because that seemed to be what Elaina was insinuating as her friend picked at the foam of her cheap coffee cup.

“Once,” Elaina nods with a pursed smile, “I accidentally turned off the seatbelt sign right before major turbulence which was totally on me but Harry lost his shit on me, he wrote me a formal warning, told me that if i can’t do something as simple as button control that I should be working somewhere ‘more my speed’, and when I started crying - he fucking laughed at me for and told me I was being childish.”

“Maybe he was just having a bad day?” YN tries to justify because why would someone be so cruel for no reason, it didn’t make sense unless he was perpetually miserable.

Justine finally jumps into the conversation, “He has a bad day everyday. He usually sits down at the hotel bars for an hour or so after check-in. I’ve watched stewardess’ try to hit on him, get him to take them back to his room because even though he’s a dickhead, he’s fucking hot. A lot of the time, he just turns them down but sometimes he’ll toy with them. He’ll flirt, buy them a drink, and then laugh at them because they thought they had a chance with him.”

It’s official, YN already hates this Captain Styles, he sounds like a chauvinist pig and she hopes that she can just manage to keep a safe distance from him.

YN misses the social cues of the situation, she misses the way the other girls tense up, she misses the warning glances that they’re trying to silently give her, she misses the way their eyes widen at the doorway.

YN’s back was turned toward the door so she couldn’t see who walked in, didn’t even hear anyone, and shakes her head with a soft chuckle, “I don’t care how good looking Captain Styles is, he can fuck off if he thinks he can be an asshole to me. I’m not in the mood.”

And she was expecting some type of response from her fellow coworkers but instead they are absolute dead silence, sitting stock still, and looking down at their laps.

“Is that right?” A deep voice asks from behind her, it nearly sent chills down her spine at the tone, cool and collected but the sharp, authoritative edge was not going unnoticed by her.

YN squeezes her eyes shut for a long moment, already having a sinking feeling that it was none other than the captain, her new boss, behind her and had just heard her brave declaration.

She stands up, straightening out the pleats of her freshly ironed dress, and turns towards him.

YN feels her breathing stutter when she finally comes face to face with the man who no one has had anything good to say about and she feels a weird flip in her stomach.

They said he was hot.

But that really didn’t do any justice to the man standing in front of her.

He was hot, sure but he was devastatingly, intimidatingly handsome.

She’d never been so intimidated by someone based on their appearance alone, he was so beautiful that it was startling as he stared her down with a bored expression.

He was tall, lean but not in a scrawny way, it was obvious that he had lithe muscle on his body that was hidden away under his uniform, and said uniform fit him like an absolute glove.

Captain Styles had cropped brown curls with individual gray hairs scattered within, mostly near his temples which was the one of the only signs of his age, his eyes were a piercing green surrounding by dark lashes, and his lips were puffy, pouty, and currently in a frown.

YN realizes that he’s expecting a response and in that moment, despite his good looks, she decides that she’s not going to let herself be treated like shit because she has had enough of that from other men in her life lately.

She knows it’s only appropriate to apologize but she’s not going to grovel for his forgiveness, he could hate her because she already disliked him, and so she swallows her pride for the moment.

“I apologize, Captain Styles,” YN says clearly, not letting once ounce of anxiety slip into her tone, “That was inappropriate and uncalled for. It won’t happen again. I look forward to working with you.”

He narrows his eyes at her, studying her face and not letting the scowl leave his, its like he’s trying to look at her soul with how intent his stare is, and then he’s replying, “Unfortunately, I cannot say the same. It doesn’t seem like such a pleasure to work with you. However, I am hopeful you’re not as unpersonable with customers as you are with your superiors.”

YN’s has to stop herself from letting her mouth drop open at the harshness of his words, a ball of red hot fury beginning to build in her as she drops the faux smile from her face.

“I don’t think you have much room to talk about being unpersonable, Captain Styles,” YN tells him, making sure the words sound soft and just casual conversation even though it’s anything but - she can feel the eyes of her coworkers bulging at the confrontation.

Harry smiles brightly, his bright white teeth flashing almost dangerously at her words, “Even though it’s adorable, the attitude won’t last long. Not if you want to keep your job.”

YN doesn’t let that worry her, she could always find a job with another airline, there’s always a need and for some reason, she decides that she wants to pick a fight with this man when she’s never done something like this before.

“I’m good at my job and I’m friendly,” YN shrugs like she’s unbothered, she catches Harry’s fist clench tightly at his side in annoyance but it’s the only sign of it in his body, “I think you may be able to take some lessons from me because the latter seems pretty difficult for you, Captain.”

Harry’s eyes are dark, laser focused on her and no one else in the room, and her words don’t change his facial expression, he simply states to the room at large, “Change of plans for the flight to Heathrow,” He takes a minute to look at her name badge, “I would like Perry and YN to switch positions on today’s flight. The plane is boarding in fifteen minutes, please be prepared to board and prepare for takeoff.”

With that, he’s turning on his heel and striding right back out the door.

“Are you fucking crazy?” Elaina hisses as she smacks YN’s arm, “What the hell were you thinking?”

YN doesn’t really know what got into her, that man just brought something out in her that made her want to fight, to be a little be feisty, and get under his skin when no one else could.

“I wasn’t really,” YN admits with a nervous laugh, flopping back down on the sofa, “He’s just so arrogant, cocky. Men like that get on my nerves and I’m not going to let him treat me however he wants.”

“I have to say I’m relieved I’m no longer on cockpit duty but I’m sorry for you, it’s going to be a long flight,” Perry sighs as she sits up to throw her empty drink away.

Fuck.

“Of course,” YN shakes her head in annoyance, “Of course, he’s going to make me wait on him hand and foot now.”

“Depends, sometimes he really keeps to himself. Especially on the long flights but when he’s on a rampage, he’ll make the whole flight awful. Thanks for that,” Justine snorts but doesn’t actually seem that mad, like she knows YN is going to get the brunt of it.

“Lucky me,” YN responds sarcastically, it was about time they headed out to board.

Paradise had the nicest planes in the game, newest and most expensive, an average seat on board cost no less than a thousand dollars, and everyone had pods instead of normal seating.

It was for long flights, international which YN didn’t mind - she liked getting out of the country, sometimes she got to experience the cities for a day or so, not always.

The cockpit attendant was exactly what it sounded like, they were responsible for communicating with the pilots and then passing that message onto either the passengers or other employees.

They would ask the stewardess to check on things, give them drinks or prepare their food, and give them any updates that may be necessary for them to know.

Most flight attendants want the cockpit because it tended to be the easiest spot, didn’t have to deal with the unruly passengers much, didn’t have to be at their beck and call, and most pilots were pretty low maintances and kept communication to a minimum.

However, everyone seemed to want to face the customers for a ten hour flight than even have to talk to their pilot which wasn’t what YN had considered - it just shows how awful he is and she just subjected herself to it.

Takeoff is smooth, after a few minutes, Captain Styles’ voice filters through the intercoms where he discusses the flight, the weather, the time, and cursing altitude before wishing them a good trip.

He doesn’t bother YN until three hours in, pressing the button that signals to her that she is needed in the pit which she punches in the code and sticks her head in where Harry and his co-pilot are.

“Yes, Captain Styles?” YN uses her most professional tone because she truly wasn’t trying to get fired.

“Club soda with lemon,” Is all he responds without looking back, no please or courtesy - it was demand because he could.

“Yes sir,” YN has to make sure it doesn’t come out as sharply as she wants it, he’s already creating an itch under her skin, and its making her want to tell him off again.

She takes her time preparing the drink, no rush to be back which she’s hoping annoys him, and when she steps back into the cockpit, attempting to hand him the beverage - he doesn’t reach for it.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’d actually prefer a raspberry la croiax,” He again doesn’t make any effort to look at her and she swears she can see the slightest smirk at the corner of his lips.

“I’ll take the club soda,” The other man shrugs, taking it off of her hands so that it doesn’t go to waste, oblivious to the obvious tension in the small space.

YN knows that he’s doing it just to fuck with her, its unprofessional and immature but that shouldn’t surprise her with how much people have been warning her about him, right?

She again drags her feet and inhales deeply before reentering, hands out with the drink, and this time Harry reaches for it - she tries not to startle when their fingers brush momentarily, one of his rings bumping her.

“Miss. YN, I know I switched you position last moment,” Harry hums like he’s thoughtful, it actually makes her more irritated than when he’s blunt and cold, it like he’s playing a game right now, “But I think cockpit attendant is most likely the easiest job on this plane. If you cannot even get beverages in a timely manner than maybe you need some additional training or an even easier job.”

YN is absolutely staring daggers into the back of his head, she knows that this is usually when the other women cry or back away with their tail between their legs but YN wasn’t going to do either of those things.

She was going to kill him with kindness.

“Abolstuely, Captain Styles. I apologize for any inconvenience, I know you have such a hard job and I’m making it difficult. I’ll try better in then future, thank you for your feedback,” The fake enthusiasm is dripping into her voice and it’s obvious how much acting is put in to her demeanor.

She preens a bit when she realizes that it catches him at least a little of guard, his smirk faltering for a moment before his eyes narrow again and his nostrils are flaring, “Get out my pit.”

And YN has to contain her giggle, overjoyed that she’d managed to irk him, and it seems to do the trick as he doesn’t request anymore beverages for the rest of the flight and doesn’t interact with her nearly at all.

YN can at least give it to Captain Styles that it was a smooth flight, as they were landing and finally able to exit the aircraft - all the girls looked at her with wide eyes, most likely expecting it to look like she had cried recently but she hadn’t.

It was a tradition to dine together when they landed in a new country since Paradise made them a team and always paired them together, they were also at the same hotel which worked out for them to hang out.

Elaina, YN, Perry, and Justine were all sat in the hotel restaurant gossiping about different attendants and recounting atrocious customers when out of the corner of her eye, she sees Harry walk into.

He had changed from his uniform into a pair of loose black slacks and fitted black t-shirt as he headed straight toward the bar, he didn’t glance around to see his surroundings and slid onto a stool.

“He has no right to be that attractive when he’s that much of an asshole,” Justine grumbles, crossing her arms dramatically, “Almost every pilot sleeps around. Why is he the only one who doesn’t?”

“You don’t think he’s ever slept with one?” YN asks curiously because she doesn’t put it above Harry to do one night stands and then act like the girl didn’t even exist the next day.

“I think he was married at some point,” Perry shrugs, “And from what I know he didn’t cheat on his wife like most pilot’s do. I don’t know what happened but Brandy said she heard Harry tell one of his copilots that he was single a year back or something. So they must have gotten a divorce.”

That surprised YN, she knew that many people who worked for airlines and travel constantly tended to do quite a bit of sleeping around because they weren’t home often with their significant others.

There was a lot of cheating in this line of work.

So once again, it did throw YN through a loop that he wasn’t known as one of the serial cheaters like most pilots are - that’s not saying he didn’t cheat on his wife, he could have done it much more secretly but it’s hard to keep it that much under wraps.

“I’d divorce him too. I can’t imagine he treated his wife too well,” Justine adds in with a sip of her margarita and a chuckle, “Despite how handsome and charming he can be, he seems like a bit of a loner.”

YN was not going to feel bad for him.

The rest of the dinner goes well, Harry doesn’t turn to look at them once but he has to know they’re there - Perry and Justine got a bit rowdy towards the end of the night and their giggles were echoing through the room.

When they file out, YN glances at Harry which she doesn’t know why, and is startled to see that he’s staring at her through the mirror opposite the bar, only for a moment before he purposefully looks away.

“Fucking shit,” YN curses loudly in the empty bathroom, she’d only been back from dinner for not more than fifteen minutes and was about to hop in the shower when dropped her hairdryer right on the top of her foot as she unpacked her toiltery bag.

It was already showing signs of discoloration and there was a nice sized abrasion across the top - it was absolutely throbbing and the shower was forgotten.

She had showered before the flight and wasn’t too dirty which meant she was just going to wait until the morning.

Instead she slips into her pajamas which consisted of a plain black tank top and a pair of cotton shorts that had sushi rolls all over them - a gift from Elaina after a girls night of bad sushi which resulted in food poisoning in Japan.

YN had a bad habit of walking around barefoot, it didn’t matter whether it was her house, the woods, the hotel hallways - she’d grown up in the country and it was just a habit to not wear shoes when she didn’t have too.

She grabs the ice bucket from the countertop to go fill it with ice, she could wrap some up in a towel and ice her foot - hopefully to prevent it from swelling too much.

They had a flight back to the states tomorrow and it was another ten hour trip, they were required to wear a specific kitten-heel shoe and she knew a swollen foot would feel awful in it.

It was nearly eleven at night, she didn’t think there would be many people patrolling the hallway, and wandered out of her room down the corridor - following the signs that guided her to the ic machine.

She passes the elevators and continues down the row of room when she hears it beep and the heavy doors open, she doesn’t bother looking back because she’s sure it’s just someone going to their room.

Of course that’s not the fucking case though.

“It’s pretty disgusting to be walking around barefoot in a hotel,” A voice from behind her states with clear disdain in his low tone, “Then you get into a clean bed with filthy feet?”

YN internally groans because of course it’s him.

“Mind your own business, Captain Styles. We’re off the clock,” YN retorts back with more bite than she’s had all day as she continues to walk albeit at a slower than usual pace.

“Why are you limping? You weren’t limping earlier at the resturaunt,” Harry asks pointedly, his voice hasn’t softened and it’s like he is literally demanding the answers out of her, not asking.

Huh.

He was paying attention to her earlier.

Interesting.

“I dropped my hairdryer on my foot. I’m going to get ice for it,” YN can’t help the low but audible gasp that leaves her mouth when she steps down and a sharp pain shoots up through her already tender foot but then she feels the ice bucket being ripped out of her hand, “Hey! What the hell-“

“Quiet the fuck down, will you?” Harry hissed as he steps in front of her, cutting off her path, there was still quite a long way to go until the ice dispenser and she’d like to get this over with so she can rest her foot, “Go back to your room. I’ll bring the ice to you. What room number are you?”

He doesn’t sound like he’s doing it because he feels bad for her, his tone is making it seem like she’s being annoying and an inconvenience and if he gets her the ice then she won’t be such a bother to him - his facial expression isn’t saying anything different than that either.

“I can get my own ice,” YN tries to reach for the handle but he jerks it away childishly.

“I didn’t ask you whether you could or not. With how long it took you to bring me a fucking drink by the time you hobble back to your hotel room, the sun will be rising. Don’t make me ask again, what room number are you?” Harry grits out because he’s definitely annoyed but YN doesn’t know whether he has another state of being besides that.

“Three twenty seven,” YN mumbles defeatedly, she wasn’t going to stand in the hallway and argue any longer about a stupid bucket of ice, it pains her but she manages to say, “Thank you.”

Harry stares at her for a moment longer, frown etched onto his face, and he looks like he’s about to say something nice but then his eyebrows furrow once again and says, “Be more careful. I don’t want to have to deal with a new stewardess because you can’t walk and put some fucking shoes on.”

Then he’s sauntering off without waiting for her response and she can’t help but just look at his broad back for a moment in disbelief at what an asshole he is but there is at least some type of kindness underneath….maybe she’s imagining things because she’s tired and in pain.

There’s a knock on her door a few minutes later, she thought he’d be back with the ice sooner and she started to believe that he was purposely taking long because of what she did with his drinks on the flight earlier.

So when she swings open the door, she already has a major attitude as she snatches the bucket of ice out of his hand and scowls at him, “I know I took a long time with your drinks earlier but I’m actually in pain, its really rude of you to -“

Harry extends his hand, showing that he has a bottle of aspirin in it, “I went down to the little shop in the lobby and got this for you, didn’t know if you traveled with it but should help the swelling and pain for tomorrow’s flight.”

And YN actually feels bad because that was nice of him to do and so she sheepishly takes it, “I’m sorry I know we got off on the wrong foot. I just thoug-“

“I’m not going to be your fucking friend, save the apology or whatever you’re about to say. I do not care,” Harry shakes his head as his hands go back to his sides, “I’m looking out for my crew, nothing more.”

YN thinks she’s starting to see past his tough guy exterior even if she’s only known him for a few hours at this point.

“You bring every stewardess aspirin?” YN shoots back with a raised eyebrow.

Harry grits his teeth, jaw clenching, “I haven’t met one as clumsy or unbearable as you before.”

“It’s an honor to be the most unbearable one you’ve met in all your years of being a pilot,” YN flutters her eyelashes at him but there’s so much tension between them that she can almost taste it, she’d never felt this with someone before, “I look forward to living up to my title.”

It surprises her when Harry steps forward, their chests nearly touching, and he is looking down at her, “I’m not someone you want to fuck with, do you understand me? Listen to your little friends when they tell you about me, it’s all true.”

“I’m not scared of you,” YN shakes her head defiantly, crossing arms and bumping his chest just barely in the process but he doesn’t move back yet.

“I never said anything about being scared of me,” Harry responds almost conversationally, if he leaned forward just a bit more their lips would be connecting and….

And what the fuck.

No, YN, No.

“I don’t understand why you’re such a miserable asshole,” YN responds tightly, trying to reign in her thoughts, “But you’re going to have a hell of a time trying to make me fucking bow to you.”

Harry doesn’t like that, not one bit because he nearly snarls, and bites out, “You’re not going to last long on my crew. I’ll make fucking sure of that. I won't fire you but by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging to quit.”

YN finally snaps at that, this arguement clearly going no where, and she would have thrown the aspirin back at him but she actually did need it so as she reaches for the door handle to close it, she makes sure to let him know, “Fuck you.”

Harry's face transforms into a sickeningly sweet smile, dimples popping in his cheeks as he steps out of the room and into the hallway, “It’s been a lovely first day working with you, Miss YN. If you want to be intimidating, you might want to try it when you’re not wearing pajama shorts with sushi rolls on them.”

And with that, he’s disappearing down the hall.

As expected, the next day YN’s foot was swollen which made getting her feet into the kitten heels exceptionally hard this morning, her foot was already pulsating in pain by the time they got to the airport.

When they’re in the staff room, checking any updates for the flight, there’s a collective sigh of relief when positions are posted before they all look over at YN, she doesn’t even have to look to know what they’re thinking.

“You really pissed him off,” Elaina states as she frowns at her friend, “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Styles put the same attendant on cockpit for two flights in a row.”

YN was relieved in all honesty because she was going to be able to sit more than the others and she’d rather not be on her feet for hours on end with her bruising in the just the very beginning of the healing phase.

“It’s because I’m not going to take his bullshit,” YN responds with another sip of her strong coffee, “I can see why he makes people cry, he’s a jerk but I'm not going to let him win with me. He gets on my last nerve so I’m going to make sure to get on his.”

“And if he fires you from his crew?” Perry asks and it’s clear that she’s trying to tell YN to cool it with the attitude because they really don’t want to see their friends lose her job.

YN almost spills about the conversation her and Harry had last night, how he doesn’t want anybody new on his flights which makes her somewhat confident that he won't get rid of her easily but she wasn't going to tell her friends about that interaction.

Instead she tries to come off as nonchalant as possible when she shrugs her shoulders, “So be it. I’m not going to kiss his ass for this job.”

Elaina and Justine are giving her the same disapproving looks like they don’t want to see the Rama unfold which will most likely end in YN getting the boot as it was much easier to replace a flight attendant than a pilot.

It must be tradition for Harry to come into the staff room before the flights to let them know that boarding is happening soon and if there’s anything that they need to be aware of.

When he walks in today, he notices how the others straighten up and sit more proper than they were before, giving the captain their full attention and YN can’t help but roll her eyes.

She knows it's outwardly rude but she doesn’t put her phone away when he begins to speak about the potential weather hazards and turbulence that may occur on the upcoming flight.

YN wants to smile because she can feel the daggers that Harry is boring into her as he speaks and she blatantly lets him know how uninterested she is in what he has to say.

After he is done speaking, he asks if there’s any questions or anything that the staff needs and they all respond pretty much in unison saying ‘ no Captain’ everyone except YN.

YN has never, not once been so insubordinate at work, she fucking thrived on being a model employee and for the life of her, she could not explain the brattiness that Harry brought out in her.

She was having fun making him angry and she’s never been that type of person, it was like she was also enjoying his attention even though it was negative but YN wouldn’t admit that.

It seems pretty easy to rile him up, get him on-edge, his bullshit tolerance was seemingly low which made it easy for YN to succeed.

“Miss YN, I’d like to see you privately. Now,” Harry orders with no budge, he hasn’t raised his voice but the words are distinct and pronounced.

“She’s just having a bad day,” Elaina, always the good friend, tries to justify because she’s definitely afraid that YN is about to get fired, “She doesn’t usu-“

“Did I ask you?” Harry snaps at the women, his eyes fiery now with confrontation, “Did I ask for your opinion? I think I can do my job just fine without your input, stewardess.”

He managed to make the job title seem less than or demeaning in the way it came out but Elaina’s eyes go wide in surprise and she instantly quiets back down.

“If you find it necessary to try to tell me how to manage my crew, you can start looking for another airline to work for,” Harry threatens but his gaze is already back on YN, her heart absolutely sinks when she hears Elaina start to sniffle to hold back tears.

That was the normal effect that he had on others, a few really harsh and threatening words would make them cry because they were scared of him and his wrath.

YN pats Elaina’s thigh, in a silent ‘thank you’ for trying to stick up for her but she pushes herself off the couch, quickly hiding the grimace when her foot reminds her it’s injured and grabs the handle of her heavy luggage.

“Fifteen minutes,” Harry tells the rest of them before he’s going back out the door but this time with YN in tow, again slower than usual as she’s trying to manage this bruised foot in heels.

Harry doesn’t take her far, just down the hall to an empty conference room and shuts the door - she wants to smile with how angry he seems to be but she also hates how handsome he was when he was like this.

His jaw was clenched but it showed off how defined and cut it was, his puffy lips were pouty and a bit swollen from biting them, and he made his shoulders as broad as possible like he was trying to puff up in defense.

“I think it’s a fucking record,�� Harry almost growls as he crosses his arms, putting his hat on the table, “I don’t think I’ve ever despised a stewardess as quickly as you. How have you gotten anywhere in life with that spoiled attitude?”

“I could ask the same,” YN raises her eyebrow because he doesn’t have room to talk on attitude, “I’m not normally like this. You just bring out the absolute worst in me.”

“Good to know I have such an effect on you,” Harry smiles smugly, his teeth gleaming and those same dimples popping, “That I can get you so worked up.”

It definitely had a double meaning laced in those words.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” YN laughs like he’s told the funniest joke, “You’re not as great as you think you are. I’m not impressed.”

And bingo.

That must strike a nerve with him.

YN can already tell nobody ever tells him that.

His teasing smile drops into something stormier, “Cut the bullshit now. When I’m talking, you listen and pay attention, you’re not some silly little teenager who can’t take a moment away from her phone. I know what you’re doing. I’m not going to be disrespected so blatantly in front of my crew.”

YN’s insides sorta twist at that because when he lays it out like that, it was really fucking rude of her and just because they’re having issues doesn’t give her the right to be so outwardly disrespectful in front of the crew.

She actually means it when she says, “I’m sorry and it won’t happen again.”

Harry’s eyebrows raise like he’s surprised that she sincerely apologized but it relaxes him a bit after the apology, shoulders dropping just the slightest, and YN’s mind starts to drift on what his broad shoulders look like underneath the perfectly pressed uniform…

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

But god, even if YN couldn’t stand his personality, she really couldn’t deny how fucking attracted she was to him, it would be hard not to with how beautiful he is.

It helps to know that he doesn’t sleep with people he works with which means that she could fully keep this a fantasy.

“See you can be an obedient little puppy,” Harry lets the condescending tone lace through his words.

YN has to clench her fists by her side to avoid smacking the ever living shit out of him.

“Go fuck yourself,” YN hisses because he’s now managed to completely piss her off, “I take back my god damn apology. You absolute douchebag.”

Harry smiles again, eyes twinkling under the fluorescent lights because he got the reaction he wanted out of her, and watches in amusement when YN grabs her luggage handle and though she can’t storm out of the room as she’d like with her foot, she exits without another word.

When she’s a bit down the hall, she stops, leaning against the wall as removes her shoe, massaging at the tender skin that was already pulsing from being in the heel.

It felt good to have it off for a moment but of course, Harry decides to come the same way down the hall which makes YN cut her rest short and slip back on her heel without looking at him.

As she starts back down the hallway, almost like yesterday night, the handle of her suitcase is pried from her hand by none other than Harry as he strolls down the hall, “What the fuc-“

“Keep your voice down,” Harry chides sharply, taking the duffle off her shoulder and swinging it over hers, “We’ll never make it to board on time with you limping around like this. C’mon, I don’t like being late and you’re going to make me.”

YN’s argument dies on her tongue because it’s actually very nice of him to be lugging her suitcase and duffel which they don’t say anything else but when they get inside the plane - Harry tucks them away for her too.

She’s relieved none of her friends are on board yet because she knew they would have a ton of questions if they saw what just happened.

And YN would not have a fucking clue how to explain it.

The next three months go on basically the same since being on the same flight crew with Harry, they would constantly go at it before flights, Harry would drag her into a private room and they’d argue a bit before he’d take her luggage to the terminal for her.

They never interacted at the hotel restaurant or bar but they happened to bump into each other a lot as YN made it a habit to get ice at night around the same time and they both never mentioned how Harry was magically coming up to his room at that time and would walk to the ice machine and back to her room together.

As time went on, the night walks with Harry, there wasn’t always much conversation, occasionally bitching about an unruly passenger or an idiot staff member, quite a bit of jabbing and poking at each other but it didn’t seem so filled with hatred anymore.

It wasn’t a pleasant relationship at all, they were both pretty awful to each other and YN typically ended every conversation they had with a ‘fuck you’ or some variation of it but now there were some not so hostile moments mixed in between them.

They weren’t friends, not even cordial really but YN knew that she had a closer relationship to Harry than anyone else on the crew and she’d had kept that hidden from her friends.

She didn’t want them to get the wrong impression, she knew they would jump to the conclusion that they were hooking up or that she liked him in that way - it was better to keep it on the down low even if there really wasn’t much to report.

It had been a late flight in, everyone had eaten one of the lackluster meals on the plane, and headed up to their hotel room the moment they landed to go to sleep.

YN was on the same boat, not bothering to get the unnecessary ice tonight, and she’s just stepped into her room when her phone buzzes with a text message from her friend back home.

Micah: What a dick. I didn’t even know he was in a new relationship, let alone that serious. [image attachment]

YN opens the conversation to a screenshot from Noah’s instagram, she’d blocked him after he refused to let her see the dogs anymore, and it was a picture of his most recent post.

He was holding a girl she didn’t recognize, her legs wrapped around Noah’s hips and her left hand held up to their face where they’re kissing, and a prominent diamond sat on her finger.

The caption was something sickeningly sweet about her saying ‘yes’ and how excited he is for the rest of their lives together.

They hadn’t even been broken up for an entire year yet.

One of the main reasons that they broke up in the first place was because after six years, YN was ready to settle down and get married but he said that he just didn’t want that right now and he wasn’t sure if he ever really wanted to get married.

It turns out that he just really didn’t want to marry her.

God, she was over him but the rejection still fucking stung.

She deletes the photo from the conversation so she doesn’t have to look at it any longer and she can’t go back to hyperfixate on it later but she felt like a bus just hit her suddenly as she sat in her empty hotel room.

YN wipes her eyes roughly, refusing to let herself cry over it, and instead, she does something she typically never does while she’s traveling for work - she slips on her shoes and heads right down to the hotel bar to get drunk.

The flight the next day wasn’t until noon so she didn’t have to roll out of bed super early and she just wanted to feel numb right now which alcohol had a great way of doing.

It was a bit busy for a weeknight, quite a few businessmen scattered around the lounge, a few couples, and a few lone people like herself when she sits down on a bar stool and orders Long Island.

YN wasn’t a light weight per se but it really didn’t take her much to be feeling good and by her third one, she was feeling warm and fuzzy, not as awful as she felt an hour earlier.

She was drunk, not to the point of blacking out or being belligerent but enough that she was ready to curl into bed and have a night long sleep and pray not to have a nasty hangover.

YN’s just ordered her fourth, a bit surprised that the bartender allowed it but she wasn’t showing any sign of being smashed, and then someone slid up beside her, close to where their shoulders brushed.

It was stupid but momentarily she wished it was Harry, thought it would be him but she frowns when it's one of the businessmen from the lounge that is grinning at her.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks even though he can see that she has a completely full one right in front of her.

“I’m good, thank you,” YN tells him without much kindness in her tone to let him know that she’s not interested in whatever he wants from her but that doesn’t seem to deter her.

“C’mon, just one? It’d be a crime not to buy a drink for someone so gorgeous,” He lays it on hard, he wasn’t sitting and he was too much in her space for her liking.

“I said no,” YN replies firmly, it was obvious in her body language that he was making her uncomfortable but he really didn’t seem to care.

“Are you married? What’s the big fuckin’ deal? I don’t see a ring on your finger, just have a drink-“ The man pushes, angrier as he realizes that he’s being rejected, YN ignores the wedding band on his finger.

“Is there an issue here?” A startling loud voice states from behind them and YN slumps in relief when she realizes that it was Harry.

“Who the fuck are you?” The businessman retorts, puffing up his chest and posturing like he was ready for a fight.

“Her husband,” Harry lies easily, he’s not as worked up as the man he’s confronted but he doesn't need to be - his presence and the way he holds himself is ten times more intimidating than the other man.

The businessman looks between the two of them before rolling his eyes, snatching his freshly ordered beer off the counter and going back to the table with his friends.

“Thanks for that,” YN tells him as she goes to take a sip of her drink.

Harry doesn’t allow her, intercepting the glass and putting it back on the bar, “You’re drunk. I think you’ve had enough to drink. It’s time for you to get to bed.”

YN frowns at the full drink, she can’t help the spoiled whine in the back of her throat, “But I want it.”

Harry surprisingly lets out a soft laugh, his hand coming to her shoulder and his thumb rubs a circle for a moment before he’s pulling back - realizing what he did but doesn’t lose his smile, “I know you do, seem to be really enjoying them but I think it’s time for you to get back to your room.”

“Mm, a few more sips,” YN coos which isn’t her normal behavior but she was drunk, she couldn’t be blamed for being a bit flirty with the prettiest man she’d ever seen, “S’good and sugary, make me forget.”

Harry’s brow furrows, “That’s an awful reason to drink. What are you trying to forget?”

YN shakes her head as she begins to pull out her wallet, grabbing a few bills but she stops when Harry directly hands the bartender enough to cover it.

“You didn’t have to do that,” YN mumbles because she doesn’t know why he was being nice to her.

“I know I didn’t, come on,” Harry replies, he gently holds her shoulder as she clumsily gets off the bar still and when she stumbles, Harry wraps his arm around her waist but just barely touching her to guide her, “You’re a sloppy drunk, aren’t you?”

YN pouts at that as they leave the bar, “I don’t drink a lot. I don’t think I’ve gotten drunk in the last year or two.”

“Why now?” Harry asks as he presses the button up when YN starts to tilt - the hand on her back finally moves to her hip, gripping her with more pressure to keep her standing.

YN snorts unattractively, her eyes were getting bleary and heavy, she was getting tired which happened when she drank liquor.

“Like you care why I’m sad,” YN scoffs as they’re stepping into the lift, he leans forward to press the number to their floor.

Harry pauses for a moment, he doesn’t tell her he cares but instead repeats more firmly, “Tell me what’s going on. I’m sick of asking.”

“My ex just got engaged,” YN whispers and fuck, she feels tears begin to prick at her eyes as she say it out loud.

“He’s your ex for a reason, why are you upset?” Harry responds but he doesn’t seem judgemental but curious.

“I was with him for six years. We broke up two months into this job. He said he didn’t want to be tied down, he didn’t think he ever wanted to get married, and he didn’t want me waiting around for a ring and babies,” YN swallows as she wipes at her cheeks, mascara was definitely starting to rub, “Less than a year later, he’s already proposed to a girl he barely knows. I don’t know why I wasn’t good enough for him. I was a good partner.”

Harry’s silent as the elevator goes up, his hand doesn’t leave her hip even though she’s not swaying but she appreciates it's ground her and makes everything seem a little less worse.

“I’m sorry,” Harry finally says and he doesn’t sound like he’s being condescending - it actually sounds like he means it, “I cannot imagine what that feels like to go through. I can’t imagine why he would do that. You’re smart, intelligent-“

“Don’t act like you don’t hate me, Harry. Just to make me feel better,” YN butts in because she doesn’t need him to butter her up when she knows he doesn’t mean those things.

“I don’t hate you,” Harry’s voice is deep but quieter than it usually is, “You get on my nerves nearly every fuckin’ second of the day but that doesn’t mean that I don’t see how smart, quick-witted, beautiful you are.”

YN bites her lip because she didn’t realize that she needed to hear that, it’s been a long while since she’s got a compliment, and in about the year leading up to ending her relationship with Noah - he’d never say anything nice like this.

“Thank you, I-I haven’t heard anything nice like that in a while,” YN tells him as she continues to swipe away tears and look down at her feet because she can feel Harry’s eye watching her and she’s embarrassed she’s responding this way.

“You should be hearing those things everyday,” He sighs and squeezes the plush of her hip kindly, guiding her again when the elevator at or door opens, “I know it’s a bit ironic considering our style of communication but I do mean those things.”

YN tells him her room number and they begin walking down the left of the hallway, her mind is fuzzy but feels a little more clear after their conversation, “It’s fine, I’m just as bad and I started it for the most part. I don’t expect to hear those things from you.”

As they wind up at her door, Harry steps back and puts his hands into his pockets, “I should be nicer to you but I hate to admit I enjoy getting under your skin and making you angry. You’re quite pretty when you're pissed at me.”

And YN’s mind goes to insecurity right away because she knows that Harry doesn’t like her even though he said he doesn’t hate her, he has no reason to be this nice to her and even though they’ve had moments through the past months of niceness …

She doesn’t know what makes her blurt this out and she wishes she could swallow it as soon as it came out of her mouth.

“Are you trying to be all nice to sleep with me or something? Then you’ll be a dick again once you get what you want?” YN’s words are just a bit slurred but hold a somewhat curious, somewhat accusing tone as she watches him.

The small smile that had been on his face for their conversation drops and in its place was a frigid scowl and before he even spoke, she knew that she had offended him but the way his shoulders tense up and he takes another step back from her.

“You know what’s fucked up? I finally try to put myself out there just the littlest bit for you and all you can think is that I want to fuck you? You think that lowly of me?” Harry’s soft whispers were gone and back was the cold, emotionless bravado that echoed off the empty hallway walls, “That I was just trying to use you?”

“I-Harry, I didn-no, I didn’t,” YN begins to stumble because unlike their usual back and forth arguing that dissipates in meaningless banter, this wasn’t that - she had actually upset him and that was never her intention.

“Save it your bullshit apology,” Harry replies to cut her off, shaking his head like he’s disappointed in how idiotic he’s been, “I’m done trying if this is where it fucking gets me. I knew it wasn’t fucking worth it.”

And with that, he’s storming away from her without another word and he doesn’t look back as she stares after him dumbfounded at what the fuck just happened.

The flight the next day home, Harry puts her back on the back crew which was the further position away from the cockpit who dealt with the consumers in the back of the aircraft.

Her friends congratulate her on getting away from the pit because they didn’t know anything about how Harry and hers relationship has developed but all she could feel was anxiety about how much she’d fucked up.

He doesn’t come into the staff room before takeoff and is already in the pit when the stewardess’ board, YN doesn’t see him until the crew is heading off the plane.

Harry makes it clear he’s looking for no interaction as he hustles through the terminal with long strides.

They have a three day break and during that time, YN isn’t even thinking about Noah and his new engagement that originally had her so torn up in the first place.

All she could think about was Harry.

She had a wishful thinking that the time off would heal the wounds and they’d be back to normal but she knew that wasn’t the case when Harry put her again on the back crew.

She did not see him throughout the flight once again and stayed behind while the stewardess got off the aircraft when they landed which meant YN knew she wasn’t going to see him.

He makes a habit of this for the next three flights as well before YN can’t take it anymore, knowing that he’s actively avoiding her because she’d hurt his feelings.

He didn’t come to the hotel bar, he didn’t meet her in the hallway for their ice run, and it was more devastating than YN though which made her come to the frightening revelation that she might have a crush on the man she’d been mostly enemies with for over six months now.

She missed interacting with him, she missed fighting with him.

She missed the way his jaw clenched when she made him irritated, the way he looked like he wanted to reach out and manhandle her when she purposely ignored him when he called for her on flights and he had to come out of the pit, or the way he would squeeze her wrist lightly sometimes as a thank you when she would bring him a drink.

YN didn’t want to admit to herself that she felt something, maybe it wasn’t full blown feelings but just a smidge of fondness for the grumpy bastard.

And maybe part of it was that she felt special, Harry didn’t soften for anyone else but her and even though she didn’t tell her friends about it - she knew they were suspicious that YN was constantly on pit duty or that she hasn’t gotten fired after how sassy she can be to her captain.

After the fourth flight of no sign of communication, YN decides that she needs to take matters into her own hands because she didn’t know what she wanted with Harry but she didn’t expect it to suck this much when he didn’t engage with her.

They’re in Milan and when Harry doesn’t show up at the hotel bar, well YN wasn’t expecting him to at this point, and she needed to figure out what hotel room he was in.

She’d normally never be so deceptive but she was desperate, she walks straight up to the front desk and tells a bold-face lie to the young receptionist.

“My boss left his phone at the bar,” YN lies, flashing her own phone quickly, “I completely forgot what room he said he was in. Would you be able to tell me?”

The girl doesn’t think anything of it as she looks up the information, letting YN know what room and YN is thanking her before walking determinedly to the elevators.

It’s late by this point, nearing eleven and she was praying that he wasn’t asleep as she stepped up to his door, her heart was pounding out of her chest at the mere thought of being rejected.

It takes a good three minutes before she finally musters up the courage to knock on the door a few times - god, she didn’t even know what she wanted to say to him.

There’s a bit of rustling behind the door, YN wonders if he’s going to open it - there’s no peephole on these ones and her breathing freezes when he swings open the door.

He was in a pair of gray joggers that were low on his hips, the band of his underwear peeking over but the main thing was that he was shirtless and he had tattoos everywhere.

Her brain couldn’t tell if it wanted to focus on memorizing the black ink on his skin or the definition of his stomach, a trail of sparse hair leading from his belly button into his underwear.

Harry doesn’t give anything away from his face, blunt and cold, “Can I help you?”

“I want to say I’m sorry,” YN decides that is the best place to start, “You were kind to me that night and before that even, it wasn’t right over me to insinuate you were doing it for an inappropriate reason.”

“I don’t need a fucking apology, I don’t care,” Harry bites out and YN knows that his guard is a hundred percent up by the way his posture is uncomfortable and defensive.

“You do care,” YN replies surely, “If it hadn’t bothered you, you wouldn’t have been ignoring me for the three weeks. I hurt your feelings and I’m sorry because it wasn’t my intention.”

Harry doesn’t deny it again but he doesn’t admit to it either, instead he grits out, “It doesn’t matter either way.”

“It matters to me,” YN argues back, now getting defensive.

“It shouldn't,” Harry’s voice is back to being louder, firmer.

YN bit her lip for a moment, deciding on how vulnerable she felt like being with the man who showed absolutely none himself, “I’ve missed you these past weeks. I miss fighting with you on the flights, I miss our nightly ice machine walks, and you giving me a hard time in the staff room before takeoff.”

Harry’s lips twitch before he’s pulling them in a tight line, “I accept your apology.”

“Are you done ignoring me?” YN presses because this doesn’t feel resolved and she’s never had the urge to want to touch someone so much.

“For now,” Harry’s lips barely tilt into a smile.

It’s quiet between the two for a long pause, staring at each other, and YN doesn’t know what she wants but she feels like she’s just standing there like an idiot, “Well, goodnight. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

Harry’s eyes dart back up to hers, she realizes that he’d been checking her out, and he doesn’t show any shame in being caught before nodding, “We are. Goodnight.”

YN turns towards her room, the door closing softly behind her but she pauses after a few steps because she’s never been adventurous, she’s never been bold, and she might be making a mistake but fuck, she has to just try.

She’s retracing her steps, knocking on the door harshly, and it was like Harry hadn’t gone back further into the room yet because he opens it up quickly.

They don’t say anything before YN steps forward, heart pounding in her ears, and leans up - pressing their lips together and letting her hand rest on his cheek.

It flips a switch in him because he’s pulling her into his room, shutting and locking the door before walking her right into the entryway wall - his lips were persistent and taking over as he coaxes her mouth open to lick into it.

He knocks her hand away from his face but only so he can take hers between his hands, cupping her jaw on each side tightly as he moves her head how he wants to deepen the kiss.

YN’s never been kissed like this in her life, she’d never been more aroused either.

Harry presses his hips forward until their pelvises are pressed together, he wants her to feel how hard he’s getting as pressed against her and bites at her bottom lip.

YN whines at that, her hands coming up to roam over his chest, it was so defined and muscular, not what she was used to - Harry was hard and firm where Noah had been soft and plusher.

When she thumb brushes over his nipple, his pec twitches and she has to do it a few more times until she gets her fill.

He wasn’t shy when he sucked on her tongue, licked at the roof of her mouth, and made her feel like he wanted to feel every single part of her as he moved down to the hem of her shirt.

He pulls back with his lips a delicious bubblegum pink, swollen and shiny from their spit, “What do you want? Do you want me to stop?”

That’s the last thing she wants.

YN shakes her head, “Don’t want to stop, please.”

Harry smiles at her, it’s a softer expression than she’s ever seen from him and he leans forward, nuzzling her cheek for a moment before dragging her in for another long kiss.

“Can I undress you then, pup?” Harry murmurs against her lips as he starts to bring up the bottom of her shift but slowly enough that if she told him no, he would stop.

“Please, just want you,” YN agrees breathlessly when she tries to move to the button of her jeans, Harry knocks her hand away with an annoyed grunt and glare.

“Let me do everything, I just want you to enjoy it. Don’t worry, you’ll get all of me. I’ll give you anything you fuckin’ want,” Harry tells her as he sheds her top, then bra.

He looks torn for a second like he can’t decide whether he wants to play with her chest or continue until she’s fully bare but he decides against the latter, cursing as he pulls down her pants, “Knew you’d have the cutest tits.”

“You’ve thought about this?” YN questions as he moves to discard her underwear.

“Of course I fucking have, it’s all I’ve thought about for the past month. No, I wasn’t doing any of those things to get in your pants but it didn’t mean I didn’t want to fuck you,” Harry’s voice is getting deeper and raspier as he’s gets more and more turned on, “On the bed.”

Noah’s the only guy that YN’s ever been with.

It was uncomfortable to have such a devastatingly attractive man standing in front of her when she didn’t feel anywhere as sexy as him.

The worry only stays for a moment because when she’s spread out in the middle of his bed, he’s tracing every inch of her skin, and moans loudly as he moves to squeeze himself once, “I think this is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. God, you’re like a little angel, aren’t you?”

“Come here,” YN whimpers, reaching out for him because she needs to touch him and he obliges eagerly, he’s tugging off his joggers but keeping his underwear on as he crawls over the bed and on top of her.

Harry finds her lips again, dropping his hips to grind against her center, and it feels so fucking good, just this contact through two layers of clothing and it all like a new experience to her - she never felt this with Noah.

Harry’s mouth moves but he’s not just kissing, he’s licking at her, sucking, and biting all over her jawline then neck until he gets to her chest where he lets a pleased hum when he cups them.

“Puppy, how are you this perfect, hm?” Harry coos as he leans down to graze his teeth against her hard nipple, “Pretty little thing coming to my room, begging for me to touch her, and then you show off this body? Maybe I should ignore you more often.”

YN turns her head and bites meanly at his hand which makes him chuckle and kiss the curve of her breast in apology before he’s wrapping his lips around one, fingers coming to pinch and roll the other one.

“Fuck,” YN gasps because he definetly knows how to use his mouth and her back arches involuntarily, pressing herself further into him, and trying to grind her hips up against where he’s hard, wishing he could slip between her folds like this.

Harry leaves them wet and hard as his lips continue down the center of sternum, down on her belly and she’d never thought it would feel good to have someone nip and suck at her plush but it did.

When he starts to move even further down, closer to her pubic bone, she freezes which Harry can tell right away by the hand on his shoulder tightens and her legs still from where they were restless.

“What’s wrong? Do you want to stop?” Harry asks with concern as he sits up more on his elbows to make eye contact with her - she didn’t know how he managed to look so cute and so obscene at the same time with worried eyes and puffy lips.

“You-I just,” YN stutters and she wants to smack herself for being an idiot because she should have known that it would lead like this but softly, she says, “You don’t have to…you know, do that.”

“Do what?” Harry replies with confusion, his fingers were still tracing mindless patterns on her tummy, thumb smoothing at the skin.

YN groans in embarrassment, she could feel her face getting hot, “You know…I’m just saying you don’t have to…,” Her eyes dart down to her lower half so that maybe he gets the hint.

“What? Eat your cunt?” Harry clarifies and of course he’d be this fucking crass in bed, she shouldn’t have expected anything less, “Do you not want me to? If you don’t want me to, I don't have to.”

“It’s not that,” YN wants to crawl into a hole and die.

“You’re acting like it would be a chore to me. I am one hundred percent sure that I’ll get just as much pleasure from tasting you on my tongue, getting my face in your perfect little cunt. Now what’s the issue?”

“You’re going to laugh,” YN mutters and she wishes she would have just kept her stupid mouth shut at this point.

“Tell me now,” He’s gone demanding again, his fingers pressing harder into her skin now.

“I’ve just never had it done to me before,” She admits finally, flopping back onto the bed and throwing an arm over her eyes to hide the absolute embarrassment of it all.

Harry crawls back up on top of her, forcefully moving her arm until they’re making eye contact, “I thought you were in a relationship for six years?”

“I was,” YN sighs as she curls her hand around his neck, “He said that men didn’t really do that often and he told me that he didn’t want to put his mouth on me and I never wanted to make him uncomfortable so we never did that.”

“Your ex is a selfish little prick,” Harry rasps against her lips, his hand moving down until he has his thumb pressed snug up against her clit which makes her twitch, “You get this excited from my thumb? You better not tell me he didn’t give you fingers either.”

“He didn’t want to do that either,” YN mewls when he starts a slow circular motion on her nerves.

“If it was possible, I’d have my mouth on your cunt and you riding my fingers every fucking day of the week,” Harry rumbles as he moves back down her body, “He’s a fucking dickhead who didn’t deserve you for a million different reasons. Do you want me to or no? I will understand either way.”

“Want it, Harry. I want it,” YN nearly slurs with how fucking turned on she is, her hips squirming again, and Harry gives her a dazzling fucking smile as he scotches down the bed.

He’s shouldering her thighs apart even further before he’s gripping the meat of one to keep her knee crooked and open as he groans like he’s getting pleasure from simply looking at her.

“God, I don’t think I’m going to survive this. I’ve never seen something this breathtaking before,” Harry says as he thumbs her folds apart, admiring her for another moment before he’s ducking down to bury his tongue tight up against her clit.

And holy shit.

She didn’t realize that this was what she had been missing.

Her legs try to close around his head but he keeps them spread and his other hand comes down the rest around her middle to keep her hips down.

He knows exactly what to do as he laps fat strokes of his tongue up from her core to her clit, over and over while YN is still relentlessly is trying to grind her hips up.

Harry pulls back which makes YN whine but he simply says, “Should have known what a brat you’d be in bed with how you are at work. Stay still now and let me do what I want to you. I promise it’ll feel good, baby.”

And his voice is so strict, demanding that she does finally relax into his hold which he rewards with fucking his tongue into her.

“M’close, Harry. Feels s’good,” YN moans as her stomach clenches.

“Come on, pup,” Harry coos against her, “Give me what I’ve earned, yeah?”

She’s almost disappointed she feels her orgasm coming because she doesn’t want to be over but Harry’s mouth is practiced and self-assured, he keeps the same pace throughout her orgasm which makes it longer by a few seconds.

YN melts into the mattress, body feeling loose and tingly as she comes down for her high, and her brows furrow when she sees Harry push down his briefs and begin to stroke himself with intent.

YN weakly kicks his thigh with a pout, “Don’t.”

Harry doesn’t stop but he slows down which gives YN a look at just how well endowed he is and to no surprise, mouth-wateringly beautiful.

“Don’t get myself off?”

“Fuck me,” YN breathes out, surprising herself with her boldness.

Harry’s hand stops, “Yeah? You’d let me get you on my cock, puppy? I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you.”

And….

YN wants to preen at the compliment, after feeling like she didn’t deserve anything to hear Harry say that made her stomach flutter even if it was just dirty talk.

“How do you want it?” Harry asks as he comes closer again, ducking down to kiss at her knees, thighs, and he peppers kisses over her mound which feels wildly more intimate than anything she’d ever done with Noah.

“However you want,” YN murmurs shyly because her only experience is Noah and they had a vanilla sex life to say the least, a whole lot of doggy and her riding him so he didn’t have to do any work.

Harry laughs at that, lips vibrating against her belly, “I’ll take you anyway you’ll let me. What do you like most? What makes you come hard?”

YN doesn’t have an answer to this because she’s never had an orgasm from penetrative sex before without her own fingers rushing to get her there so he doesn’t finish first and leave her hanging.

Harry is obviously experienced and so it doesn’t make her proud to have to feel inexperienced at this moment.

“Shut the fuck up,” Harry huffs out even though she didn’t say anything, he takes a moment to nip at her hip, “You’re telling me this fucker never got you off? Please tell me this is a joke.”

YN tries to cover her face again but he wraps his hands around her wrist and pulls them away, “This is so embarrassing.”

“It is,” Harry agrees easily, “For him. Can’t believe you were with him for six years and he couldn’t even make you come. You’re telling me she was neglected this whole time,” Harry frowns as his thumb comes back to her clit, “Should be a crime.”

“I mean I did get off but I had to….get myself there,” YN starts to wiggle again, wanting to chase the friction from his movement.

“I’d love to watch you do that sometime but tonight, you’re not going to have to lift a finger,” Harry tells her confidently before he’s positioning himself above her, lips brushing hers but not quite kiss as he lines himself up and she wraps her legs around his narrow waist, “I like this position. I want to see how gorgeous you are when you come.”

YN brings a hand up to his curls, knotting her fingers in the strands, and brings his lips fully against hers as he pushes in, it doesn’t hurt but it definitely takes a minute to adjust as Harry was much more blessed in the department than Noah was and she hadn’t had sex for over six months.

“Wait wait,” YN pants out, pulling back, “I -I’m on birth control but are you clean?”

Harry smirks at her like she’s asked something funny, “I’m clean. I got tested after my last partner.”

“Me too,” YN replies, relieved that they don’t have to stop.

Harry resumes kissing her but when he’s finally all the way in, his breathing stutters and he lets out a low whine that makes YN throb - like she felt so good to him that he couldn’t stand it.

“Harry, you feel so good,” YN mewls as he starts a slow but powerful rhythm, she was turned on to the point where she could hear it as he thrusted in and out.

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever felt, pup,” Harry praises and she doesn’t know whether it’s just the dirty talk, it most likely is but it still makes her feel empowered, sexy.

It becomes to much when he starts to pick up the pace to continue kissing, every other breathe out of YN’s mouth was a moan and he moves down to wrap his lips around her nipple and his hands came under her bum - positioning her more upwards so her backside was off the bed and he could slide in perfectly.

The change in position made him hit a spot she’d only heard about in her body, on every odd motion he would nudge it, and she was going to come again without any stimulation on her clit.

“Ha-Harry,” YN moans louder than she’s ever been and he pulls back from her breasts as he’s staring at her now, eyes studying her face.

“Oh baby, are you close f’me? Am I doing a good job?” Harry’s voice isn’t as steady as before either, there was a bead of sweat on his temple, and his chest was pink with arousal.

“Yeah, I’m close-“ YN doesn’t even get to finish her sentence before she’s squeezing around him, shaking as he keeps his pace to work her through it, and she’s a little dazed that she misses when Harry stills inside her - letting out his own filthy noises and praises as he comes down too.

YN didn’t know what to expect but it wasn’t for Harry to collapse his full weight on top of her and nuzzle his face into the crook of her neck for a moment, kissing her pulse point before rolling off.

She doesn’t want to assume that she can sleep here, she still needs to take off her makeup and she doesn’t have pajamas, and she feels anxiety creeping in which makes her get off the bed.

Harry lays on his back, one arm above his head, stomach flexing as he catches his breath, unashamed as he lays on full display because he has to know how beautiful he is.

“Where are you going?” Harry frowns as he watches her gather her scattered clothes.

“Um…back to my room? I have to take off my makeup, change,” And she didn’t want to mention showering because she wasn’t going to sleep after he'd come inside her.

“You don’t have to, I don’t want you to think that I’m kicking you out,” Harry sits up more, reaching for his briefs before his joggers and standing up to go over to his luggage to rummage for a shirt, “Let me walk you back at least.”

“Walk of shame,” YN half-jokes as she pulls her top over her head, bra crumpled in her hand because she didn’t feel like putting it back on.

“There’s was nothing shameful about how fucking well you took it,” Harry gives her a cheeky smile as he grabs his keycard, her room was only a few doors down.

When she unlocks her door, she turns around with her hand on the handle, and doesn’t know what to say but Harry’s leaning down to kiss her softly this time, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

And when YN steps inside her room, closing the door behind her, she knows she’s royally screwed because that was the best sex of her life and now she knows for sure she has a fat fucking crush on Harry.

The first month after their original hookup was filled with more sex, it wasn’t every night but at least every other time they had to stay in a hotel - Harry would find his way into YN’s room and they’d have amazing sex each time.

He had her constantly on pit crew and they still bickered back and forth but it wasn’t as heated and it turned more into teasing than actual fights anymore which YN surprisingly didn’t mind.

YN felt like she’d gotten to know just bare minimum about Harry while she’d be pouring her heart out when the right moment hit, and he didn’t stay the night but he’d hang around for a bit before leaving her room.

It was also the month that YN realized that she didn’t just like vanilla sex and Harry had made her realize that very quickly because before him, she’d never had sex anywhere but in bed and a few times in a shower.

It had been an evening flight out, their flight had got delayed due to a gnarly thunderstorm which meant they would be stranded at the airport for another three hours before their plane came in.

Harry never spent time in the employee lounge, pilots had their own area which was rumored to be substantially nicer than the one that YN was currently sitting in.

They still have two hours until takeoff when she receives a text from Harry.

Harry: Come to the pilot’s lounge. Third floor near gate b32.

YN’s heart rate spikes as she gathers her luggage, her friends looking at her curiously, “I think I’m going to walk around a bit, maybe find a new book to read.”

“Want us to come?” Elaina volunteers but doesn’t seem eager to move from where she’s splayed on a overstuffed chair while playing Candy Crush.

“I think I’ll be fine,” YN replies as she heads out the door, it was actually good luck that all three of her friends appeared to be in a lazy mood because usually at least one of them would want to tag along with her.

YN knows other staff are not prohibited in the pilots lounge and so she’s nervous as she finds the long hallway that leads to the tucked away space that he’s referring to.

He’s waiting outside the door with his normal unreadable expression, his uniform perfectly fitted and pressed - the thrill of her being able to take it off of him makes her start to get wet without him even doing anything.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” YN tells him even though it’s obvious.

That makes Harry crack a grin, a wolfish tilt to his lips, “I’ll sneak you in.”

Harry opens the door with a special keycard, guiding YN into the lounge, it’s empty in here but it’s a million times nicer than the one that she’s used to with luxurious comfy seats, a pristine kitchen, and big flat screen televisions.

Harry moves to hold her wrist, tugging her along until they’re in the back corner, and Harry’s pushes open another door - to a single stall bathroom that looked like it could be out of a movie with shining tile floors and floral wallpaper.

“Harry,” YN warns because she knows with this is going and she doesn’t want to get in trouble.

“It’s fine, pup. There’s no one in here,” Harry soothes as he locks the door, he is predatory as he stalks towards her, his eyes dark and his movements slow but precise.

“Someone could come in at anytime,” YN points out desperately, she wants to do this but she wants to be assured that there’s no way that they’re going to get caught, even though he can’t guarantee that.

“Better keep your pretty noises to yourself then,” Harry rasps, YN has noticed how much scratchier and deeper his voice gets when he’s turned on, it’s unfairly hot.

She doesn’t have time to reply because he’s picking her up from under her bum and seating her on the sink countertop, his mouth moving to hers, and bringing her into a kiss that’s already filled with desire.

YN is nervous, she’s knows it’s dumb, and she doesn’t want Harry to make fun of her because of it but she’s never had sex somewhere this….risky and this is all so new.

Harry can tell by the way she’s kissing, distracted and in her own mind which makes him pull back, his thumb coming to rub at her bottom lip, pulling it down a bit.

“Do you not want to?” Harry checks as he watches her face, “We don’t have to, baby. We can wait until we get to the hotel. It’s okay with me either way. I should have check-“

YN cuts his off with another kiss before she pulls back, fingers coming to graze along the collar of his uniform, dipping underneath and caressing the skin as much as she could.

“I want to. I’m just nervous, I’ve never had sex anywhere but in a house,” YN’s face is heating with embarassment, admitting how fucking vanilla she is to someone who obviously isn’t.

Harry’s smile is nearly fond, “Tell me if you want to stop at any point, okay? M’going to show you that you deserve to be fucked whenever and wherever you want. I don’t know how your ex never did it outside the house. I thinking about fucking you everywhere, the hotel pool, over the edge of the bar, on the balcony.”

YN’s thighs clench and she presses their lips together to shut him up because sometimes his dirty talk is so sincere and downright filthy that she’ll combust if she hears anymore of it.

They don’t get caught but fuck it gets YN addicted because it’s not the only time it happens.

The second month, things had evolved even more.

Harry started saying that he was much too tired to walk back to his hotel room that was right down the hall and YN never kicked him out, he started staying after every time they hooked up.

YN would ask about Harry’s life outside of work but he really never divulged much which made YN remember each time that this was simply casual for him - there was no interest in a relationship and he didn’t like her like that, didn’t want to get to know her or open up about himself.

It made things harder, when he would kiss her so sweetly and tell her every time that she’s the best he’s ever had, it was hard to comprehend that he didn't have feelings for her either.

Especially on nights where he didn’t even get off.

He was too exhausted from a long flight but YN wasn’t, how he’d eat her out or give her his fingers as he kissed her softly, goading her sweetly to come so they could go to sleep.

He’d do nice things outside of the bedroom too.

On days where they didn’t have to be at the airport until noon, Harry would order breakfast to her room, he had arranged a massage for her, and then once a spa day when they had a day off in Toronto.

They still hadn’t hung out without having sex until almost three months into their casual arrangement.

YN didn’t feel good when they landed in London.

When she’d gone to her hotel room, she’d thrown up everything she’d eaten that day, and it felt like she’d been hit by a truck as she showered before laying in bed.

She hadn’t gotten sick again but she could tell that something she’d eaten had upset her stomach.

Then around ten, there’s a knock at her door.

YN groans because her body protests when she pulls herself off the bed to open the door - just in a big shirt and underwear because she already knows who it is.

Harry steps into the room, going to cup her jaw, and lean in for a kiss when she pulls back much to his displeasure - a frown gracing his face as she denies him.

“I don’t feel good, I’m sorry. I don’t feel like having sex,” YN tells him, hoping he doesn't mind too much - she remembers how upset Noah would get if she turned him down, “Maybe tomorrow morning but I got sick-“

Harry’s frown deepens as he guides her towards the bed, “We’re not doing anything if you don’t feel good. Don’t worry about the next time we are going to. We’ll find time when you’re feeling better.”

“But…” YN hates that she feels like she has to ask, “Are you mad?”

Harry looks a bit devastated at that question, his voice soft as he pats her bum as she crawls back in bed, “Why on earth would I be mad, pup?”

It’s the first time he’s called her that outside of sex.

He’d call her other things like baby, darling but that nickname hadn’t been spoken before in this context.

“Because I don’t want to have sex tonight,” YN wants to look away but he holds her gaze so intently.

Something clicks and Harry realizes that this insecurity must come from her last relationship.

“I wouldn’t be mad even if you never wanted to have sex with me again,” Harry assures her and he sounds sincere as he sits next to her, “I fucking love doing that with you but if you didn’t want to tonight or whenever, I’d never be upset. I respect whatever you want to do.”

“Thank you,” YN smiles weakly, she wanted a cuddle and it didn’t feel like she could because they didn’t do just that.

Harry nods, squeezing her thigh before standing back up.

“Have a goodnight,” YN tells him as he turns his back to her.

He whips around with confusion written all over his face, “You want me to leave?”

YN is just as confused, “I thought that’s what you were doing.”

“I was just going to turn off the floor lamp,” Harry nods to the light still on in the far corner, “But I can go if you don’t want me here-“

“No!” YN says too quickly, “I want you to stay. I just, we haven’t done this without you know…having sex.”

Harry’s face relaxes as he realizes he’s not being kicked out but he does move to turn off the lamp before stripping down to his briefs, he doesn’t respond to her last sentence but instead says, “Put on a movie.”

She does and he brings her into his chest and now that becomes a thing.

By the middle of the third month, they spend every night together when they’re traveling, and even when they’re not having sex, they go to bed cuddled up at night.

Harry doesn’t even bother with false pretenses and stops putting his suitcase in his own hotel room.

YN still finds frustration in how closed off Harry is, he’s attentive and at least acts interested when YN talks about herself and her life but he rarely gives anything out.

She’d been dying to know about his ex-wife, if what his friends said was true and he was married but he doesn’t ever mention an ex-wife or anything much for that matter.

It starts to feel like YN wants this more than him which isn’t fair to him because he never said that he wanted a relationship with her and she knew she fucked up by falling for him.

One night though, something changes and it begins to give YN hope that this wasn’t all in her head that he might like her too.

They had gone out onto the balcony of the hotel, they were in Madrid, and it overlooked the city as they laid on the lounge chair, YN in between his legs, and the warm air had a light breeze.

“I’ve never been to the Maldives, never been lucky enough to get a flight there,” YN hums as she plays with the rings on his finger, his hand resting on her belly, “But I’d say that’s my dream vacation. Always have wanted to go. Have you flown there?”

“I haven’t had a flight there, working wise. I had my honeymoon there,” Harry replies and his voice is tighter, more vulnerable than it was just mere minutes ago.

“Oh,” YN doesn’t know what to say.

“It was beautiful. The water was amazing, it just looked like you were living in a magazine,” Harry continues but he sounds strained like it’s hard for him to even talk about it.

“That’s why I want to go,” YN keeps her voice upbeat, giving him the opportunity not to elaborate if he didn’t want to.

“I was married for five years,” Harry tells her with hesitation.

“When did you get divorced?” YN can’t help but ask, hoping it doesn’t make him close back up.

“We didn’t,” Harry says but there’s no sharp edge to his voice, “She passed away.”

YN’s heart absolutely sinks into her stomach.

“I am so sorry to hear that, Harry,” YN squeezed his hand, bringing it up so she could kiss his palm and he allowed it.

“We…we were separated at the time and had filed for divorce,” Harry continues with a shudder, “We hadn’t been getting along for the past two years of our marriage. We got married right out of college, we’d only known each other for six months before we eloped. We were stupid and young. Once the honeymoon phase was over, we realized we had nothing in common or even really liked each other. We tried to make it work but we couldn’t.”

“I…uh, I didn’t want to be with her anymore but I still loved her,” Harry’s voice is shaky, “Not so much as a lover but she was still my friend. I…It was hard. She was in a car accident coming home from work, she was working the night shift as a nurse at the hospital. Drunk driver.”

“That’s heartbreaking,” YN feels herself getting upset for Harry, tears falling down her cheeks at what he had to go through, she couldn’t even imagine.

“Don’t cry, S’okay. I’m okay now,” Harry soothes as he leans forward to thumb at her damp cheeks, “I’m okay. I got counseling, I’ve worked through my grief.”

“I should be comforting you, I’m sorry,” YN apologizes but she’s taken by surprise when he leans forward and kisses her firmly, it’s not sexually charged but there’s so much feeling as he holds her to him.

It feels like more than just friends with benefits.

It has to be.

Harry was on a rampage at work, YN had never seen him so infuriated in her life as they were up in the air, five hours into a eleven hour flight, and he was more pissed than even his worst fight with YN.

The ground crew hadn’t fully fueled the aircraft, they weren’t going to make it to their destination on what they had left to work with, it wasn’t something that often occurred but it has happened occasionally in the past.

However, it meant that Harry had to work with staff on the ground to figure out what airport he needed to land out to refuel while figuring out the logistics of changing the course and time of the flight.

He hadn’t lashed out at YN but he’d chewed out nearly everyone else on the crew at least once but poor Perry got shouted out at least three times and she had cried two of them.

At the end of the day, the eleven hour flight took nearly fourteen, and by the time YN and Harry were in their bed, it was late, and they were both tired as they turned on a movie.

YN isn’t sure about how the topic went to their previous relationships but she answered anything Harry had asked about Noah, YN felt like she could do the same now that he had opened up about his wife.

“What did your family think of you getting eloped six months after meeting each other?” YN was curious, figured it wasn’t a crazy question to ask at all but Harry visibly tenses.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Harry throws up his guard instantly and usually YN is understanding but quite frankly, it is starting to piss her off now.

“Of course you don’t,” YN scoffs with an annoyed edge.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Harry shoots back, sitting up straighter and looking over at her.

“That you will never open up to me! I share everything about me with you and you give me absolutely nothing. You shared about your wife that one night but beside that, you’ve never let me get to know you!” YN points out as she sits up too, anger rising in her chest.

An expression that YN doesn’t recognize flashes across his face for a moment before he’s covering it with a scowl, “I don’t have to share anything with you, YN. We’re not dating, we’re not in a relationship. It shouldn’t fucking matter if you know me.”

And ouch, that….that really fucking hurt.

YN could feel herself getting more upset than she’s been in a long time because this was her getting rejected officially.

Because if this is all he wants, YN doesn’t know if she can be okay with that anymore.

“Get the fuck out of my room,” YN finds herself huffing out, ripping the covers off of her legs and standing up - she feels a wave of naseous run over her as she bolts to the bathroom, slamming the door and doubling over the toilet.

Harry opens the door, moving to pull her hair away from her face, and rubs at her back as she heaves into the bowl, moaning at how gross she feels before flushing - he takes a step back from her.

“Thanks,” YN mutters as he gives her room to walk over to the sink to brush her teeth, “My stomach’s been sensitive to food lately while we’ve been on trips.”

“I know,” Harry replies simply because this isn’t the first time he’d held her hair as she got sick.

“I don’t think we should do this anymore,” YN tells him and at the same time, her heart is completely ripping into two.

This is the moment she realizes how irrevocably in love with Harry that she is and she’s fallen so hard that it feels impossible to dig herself out of the hole she’s dug.

If she couldn’t have all of him then she knew she was hurting herself in the long run because she’d never get what she wanted from him and sex just wasn’t enough for her even if it was for him.

“YN,” Harry’s voice is smaller than it’s ever sounded, shocked by what she’s saying and his eyes are wide, pleading, “Don’t. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I shouldn't have said those things. Today hasn’t been a good day, I didn’t -”

“Don’t apologize, Harry,” YN shakes her head, voice steady and firm,“It’s okay. I’m not mad at you. I just…this isn’t working for me. I can’t just be a hookup for you, I don’t want that. I want to know you, I want more than what you want. It’s just better if we stop while we’re ahead.”

“YN, please just-“ Harry sounds like he’s begging but YN’s made up her mind and nothing has ever hurt more than this.

“Harry,” Her voice is stern, “Please just leave.”

He bites his lip because he wants to argue more, he honestly looks like he’s near tears but YN doesn’t know if that’s just her imagination as he exits the bathroom to gather his clothes into his suitcase - digging around for the keycard to his own room he threw carelessly somewhere.

YN didn't sleep that night, eyes hurting from how much she’d cried, cheeks raw from where she had continuously wiped away the traitorous tears because this hurt worse than anything she’d ever gone through with Noah.

YN does exactly what Harry had done to her in the past.

She hides away before flights because her friends have told her that Harry has been coming in looking for her and she switches positions with someone else so that she’s not in the pit.

She ignores Harry when he knocks at her hotel door one night, ignores his text messages asking for them just to talk, and lets the food he sends up from room services go cold.

It’s only been a week since the incident but YN hasn’t felt any better with her stomach issues as she settles back at home after another flight - she’s restocking her toiletry bag for the next day when she realizes that she didn’t need to refill her tampons.

YN’s heart sinks into her stomach when she realizes that she can’t remember the last time that she had a period but there is absolutely no fucking way that she’s pregnant because she was on brith control and took it regularly.

She was googling frantically the statistics of birth control not working and that the pill is ninety-one percent effective which means there’s only a nine percent chance it’s not.

But there’s a chance.

YN digs in her cabinets for an old test that she knew she’d shoved somewhere after she’d broken up with Noah and had sworn off sex, and she was shaking as she waited for the results.

Her phone chimes with a text from Harry.

Please, can we just talk?

Don’t shut me out. Please.

YN, can you just give me a chance to explain myself?

Please, YN. I can’t stand this. It’s killing me. Please.

And YN ignores them, hyperventilating as her alarm sounds, and she flips the plastic stick - a digital reading across the screen and in clear bold letters, it tells her what she didn’t want to fucking see.

Pregnant.

Holy fucking shit.

“No,” YN whimpers as she blinks at it, “No no no.”

She was responsible with her pill, how was she part of the small percentage?

It never happened with Noah, why now?

Why was it with the person who didn't want her like this?

YN feels lightheaded, stumbling to her bed, and burying herself in the covers because she doesn’t know what to think or do or feel because she’s pregnant with Harry’s baby and he doesn’t even want a relationship with her.

YN calls off work for the next two weeks because she doesn’t know what else to do, she had vacation time to use, and she couldn’t face Harry right now as she figured out what she was going to do or how she was going to tell him.

She’s still violently sick nearly everyday, feeling worse as the days go on, when her two weeks was up - she didn’t feel any better about going to work.

Harry hadn’t stopped texting her, trying to call her but she couldn’t even read them because it hurt too much.

YN is in love with him, she had a baby in her stomach that is half him, and he didn’t want any of that.

On the day that she returns to work, they’re going to London again.

She’d been having awful cramps all morning, getting sick twice in the airport bathroom, and felt like she was striking a fever as she boarded the plane.

Harry was out of the cockpit, standing right outside of it, and his eyes flash in concern when he sees YN, “Are you okay? I haven’t heard from you -“

“I’m fine,” YN brushes him off, lying through her teeth as she stows her bag away before retreating to the back of the aircraft despite his eyes on her the whole time.

YN lets her friends convince her into going to the hotel restaurant that night despite feeling like death, the cramps hadn’t stopped, her head was now pounding, and she still felt overheated.

Her food was untouched as her friends giggled and gossiped around her but suddenly she felt like she was going to pass out.

The stomach cramps turned into a sharper pain, something she’d never felt before.

It was indescribable and she knew that she needed to go to the hospital.

And all she can think about is the baby.

That this isnt’ good.

“Oh…Oh my god,” YN gasps as she pushes her chair back, “I- I need to go to the hospital.”

All three girls jerk their head with wide eyes, immediately confused and worried, Justine who was sitting next to her, “What’s wrong?”

“Cramps, I’m having cramps. They’re….fuck, they’re bad,” YN groans as she moves her hand to her stomach, feeling like she may just double over in pain.

“Do you think that it might just be your period?” Perry asks as she begins looking for a staff member.

YN shakes her head sharply, “No-no because I'm pregnant.”

All three girls gasp in surprise, moving into action as they flag over the waiter to call the paramedics - the pain in her stomach was starting to overwhelm her.

“Call Harry,” YN shoves her phone at Elaina, “Please.”

“He’ll understand, YN. Don’t worry about work right now,” She tries to assure her.

“Elaina, call him,” YN says firmly, giving her a look, and that when all three girls register what she is implying - they try to hide the absolute shock as Elaina presses his contact information.

YN zones in and out of consciousness for a while, barely remembers when Harry arrives but he’s brushing her hair out of her face, murmuring things to her, and patting a wet rag on her forehead that someone gave him.

He clambers into the ambulance with her and she starts to come back to reality for a little while the paramedic begins to ask her questions about her health history.

She doesn’t know how it didn’t get communicated from her friends about what was going on but the EMT asks, “Do you have any idea why you’re having this pain?”

Harry’s hand is gripping hers tightly, he’s confused and has no idea what is going on but he’s shaking as he watches her.

“I’m-I’m pregnant,” YN manages to spit out and squeezes her eyes shut because she doesn’t want to see Harry’s reaction to that news.

His hand leaves hers.

“Baby, oh my god,” Harry gasps in surprise but he’s getting up from the seat, leaning over, and pressing kisses to her sweaty forehead, “You’re pregnant...”

“Your baby,” YN nods as she tenses as a cramp fleets through her body, “I’m sorry, I didn’t- I took my pills I promise, I don’t know how-“

“Sssh,” Harry soothes instantly, lips peppering kisses all over her face now as he strokes her hair, “S’okay, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay. I’m here and I love you so much, pup.”

YN blinks up at him blearily, “You love me?”

Harry nods, there’s tears in the corner of his eyes, “I’ve been trying to tell you for the last weeks but you wouldn’t talk to me. Of course, I fucking love you.”

“I love you too,” YN tells him but has to grit her teeth when another pain shoots through her and everything goes dark for a while.

YN wakes up in a hospital bed, there blinds are drawn shut and it’s dark in the room, she can tell it’s still night as there is no sun seeping through the cracks of the sills.

She feels substantially better than when she was being transported here but her side is still aching and as she blinks her eyes open, she sees Harry sitting right next to her bed with his head slumped against the edge of the mattress.

He was asleep and looked to be in the most uncomfortable position, sitting up in a chair with his back hunched at an awful angle, his one hand resting on his thigh but the other was holding tightly onto hers.

She could fully admit that her heart soared with love as she watched the man beside her sleep - it may sound creepy but she loved watching him like this because all his frown wrinkles were smoothed, he was relaxed with his puffy lips parted, his eyelashes long against his cheekbones.

Her free hand comes to his hair, carding her fingers through the curls, and lightly scratching her nails against his scalp.

It takes a minute but he finally stirs, a sharp intake of breath as he sits up with wide eyes, there was so much anxiety in his expression that YN had never seen before this night.

“Pup,” Harry rasps, his voice thick from sleep but he brings her hand up to kiss the back of it, avoiding the IV, “How long have you been awake?”

“Just now,” YN tells him and she knows, she knows she needs to ask what happened but the sinking feeling in her stomach tells her that she no longer has a baby growing in her stomach.

“I love you,” Harry breathes out quickly like he’s worried she’ll kick him out of the room, “Pretty much from the beginning I think. I should have let you in, I wanted to. I just…if I have you that means I could lose you. I’ve been through that and I don’t think I could handle it if that happened to you. I hadn’t been with anyone since my wife passed. It’s been ten years and I’m scared.”

“I love you too,” YN whispers sincerely, leaning over slightly and Harry meets her the rest of the way to lay a gentle kiss on her lips, thumb coming to brush under her cheekbone, “The baby..”

Harry bites his lip, jaw clenching but not from anger this time but YN’s absolutely alarmed when he starts to cry, “Our baby is healthy and stable.”

“Wha-What?” YN stammers out in disbelief, she had fully prepared herself for the news that she had miscarried, “The stomach pain, I-You’re lying. Please, don’t- I can’t.”

“Baby, no,” Harry coos soothingly, standing up and leaning over her, pressing his forehead against hers, “It’s wasn’t anything to do with your pregnancy. Your appendix ruptured. The baby was never at risk, they’re okay.”

“I had appendicitis? No-not a miscarriage?” YN clarifies because she doesn’t feel like she’s awake right now, she had prepared herself for the worst news possible.

“Yes, they removed your appendix. They checked on the baby. Everything is fine with you and our baby,” Harry assures her as he peppers kisses all over her face like he did the night before, “I heard their little heart beat, YN. They’re already growing and so strong. Fuck, I’m so in love with them and I just found out.”

“I took my birth control everyday at the same time,” YN begins to explain as she watches Harry’s hand drift down to her stomach, there wasn’t any sign yet maybe a little pudge she hadn’t noticed but he still laid his hand there protectively, “I don’t know why it didn’t, I’m sorry-“

“Do not ever apologize to me about this,” Harry replies firmly, his voice serious and deep as he pulls back to look at her, “Of course, this isn’t what I was expecting but I want it. I want it so fucking badly. I never- I never thought I had kids after you know…what happened.”

“I don’t even know anything about you,” YN sniffles as she pulls him back down, digging her face into his shoulder for comfort as his hand comes to cup the back of her head.

“We have about six months for you to learn every single thing about me,” Harry murmurs with a wet chuckle, “I’m done having walls up. I was trying to tell you that for the last month. I am so fucking in love with you I can’t think straight. I want you to know all of me.”

“I want that too, I want you in every way,” YN presses her lips to his shoulder, tears making his shirt damp.

“You have another night in the hospital,” Harry tells her, “For observation. I think I’d like to start now.”

“Okay,” She nods quietly, moving over with a wince until Harry can squeeze into the small hospital bed with her.

“I grew up in this shitty little apartment above a Chinese restaurant…” Harry starts his story, YN had never heard him speak so much but for the rest of her hospital stay, aside from naps, Harry doesn’t stop sharing.

And he never stops again after that.

#harry styles writing #harry styles masterlist #update #harry styles #harry styles fluff #harry styles fic rec #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot

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le-fruit-de-la-passion · 4 months ago

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Say my Name, As if it’s Drowning in the Tide - Jayce x Reader (Chapter 1)

Summary: But Jayce is weak. So unbelievably weak. And the voice of temptation in the back of his mind insists you will never want him the same way he does you. It’s cowardly, and it’s spineless, and it goes against everything he’s ever been taught to value. Yet none of it seems to matter when he looks at you, bare in front of him, hair wet and sticking to your skin in heavy curls like a siren in the stormy sea. He’d sell his soul if it meant having you, and in more ways than one, he is.

Pairing: Jayce x Reader Modern AU, one-sided Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 6K

Warning: Explicit

Tags: Hate Sex, Emotional Roleplay, One-sided Attraction, Grinding, Dry-Humping, Premature Ejaculation, Coming Untouched, Switch!Jayce, Rough Kissing, Biting, Shower Sex, Angst, One Bed

Notes: I love my pathetic son Jayce, so I needed to make him just a bit wetter and sadder for… reasons. This is a two-parter, because it was looking too heavy as a one-shot and the second part still needs a bit more attention. I need to stop having too many multi-chapter projects at the same time before I go insane. Anyway, enjoy ❤️!!

(Chapter 2/End)

You tap your fingers on the wooden countertop, trying to remain calm despite the growing pressure inside your skull.

“And you're sure there's not a single other room left ?” you ask with a tense smile, your teeth grinding against each other almost audibly.

The receptionist gives you yet another blank stare. She's hardly older than seventeen, probably helping out her parent's business, and clearly not paid enough to care about whether or not you stay or go.

“No, ma'am, there are no other rooms available for the duration of your stay,” she repeats robotically. It's as if you've been stuck in the same dialogue tree for half an hour with a badly programmed NPC. “We're a family-owned business, and we only have ten rooms available at once. Your reservation was for a single bedroom, not two.”

The exaggerated sound of her slowly chewing gum is driving you insane. “She's just doing her job’, you have to remind yourself. It's not her fault, you know that; plus, if there's anybody to blame, it's Jayce.

You turn towards the culprit in question, large shoulders slightly slumped and eyes escaping your glare. Pathetic.

“Seriously, Jayce?” you state in disbelief. “I asked you to do one thing for the trip.”

Jayce visibly takes offence to that, raising one stupidly large hand in objection:

“That's not fair, I was also taking care of bringing the prototype!”

“And I signed us up to the conference,” you hiss back. “I prepared our lecture. I got our bus tickets here and back. I made our itinerary for the whole three days. I even wrote down where we could go to bring back souvenirs for Sky and Viktor!”

You point an accusing finger at him, tapping it against his chest:

“The only thing I wanted you to take care of was the fucking motel. And you couldn't even do that right!”

He throws up both hands in exasperation, rolling his eyes. If there wasn't a minor in the same room, you'd have no qualms about punching him.

“Fine, alright, I messed up, what do you want me to say? ‘I'm sorry I'm such an idiot'?”

You exhale in frustration, throwing him one last resentful look before turning back to the receptionist: “Yeah, that would be a good start”, you scoff under your breath.

He makes a dramatic groan of annoyance behind you, like this entire situation isn't his fault.

The Academy barely gives you enough budget to attend two national mechanical engineering conferences a year. You had originally planned to go to this one with Viktor, specifically because of its location: nice and remote, the air fresh and relaxing, the few roads leading to the major cities surrounded by millennial trees and mountain peaks. The perfect place for a spark of romance to ignite between the two of you.

Unfortunately, Viktor had already scheduled a weekend seminar on the exact same date as the conference. Sky, your fourth and youngest lab partner, wasn't equipped enough to help you present all the complex features of the university's mechanical arm project. Only one other person could.

Jayce fucking Talis, and his magical ability to never do anything right.

“We'll just get our money back and find another place to crash,” he argues, walking up next to you to the counter, resting his weight against it; it creaks disapprovingly. “It doesn't have to be a whole thing.”

“I'm sorry sir,” the teen flatly interjects, still smacking the gum between her brace-clad teeth. Squish, squish. “But we require cancellations to be made 24 hours prior to the reservation. We cannot reimburse you as per the politics you have agreed to on our website.”

You'd probably get more interactive answers from a chatbot. Jayce kneads the lines on his forehead, his practiced megawatt smile starting to crack from fatigue. The girl stares at him with neither sympathy nor sadness; she brings her lips together to form a small pink bubble, letting it burst after a few seconds. Pop.

“Okay, you know what,” Jayce sighs in defeat, “I'll pay for our rooms somewhere else. It's on me. As an apology.”

This would be an excellent time to not subtly sneak in a remark on how he's always using his parent's money to get himself out of the messes he's created, but the teen speaks up again before you get a chance to:

“Sir,” she adds with her irritatingly nasal voice. “You should know the only other motel in the area only accepts new reservations until 9 pm.”

She nods pointedly towards an old grandfather clock on the wall, and the two of you look at it in sync: it's 9:06.

Now you're genuinely hesitating between strangling her or Jayce.

“You really know how to make a guy feel better, huh?” Jayce attempts with a weak laugh, the plastic smile crumbling a little further.

She only gives him a vacant gaze.

Your legs are aching from the long ride in the overcrowded bus, and the arduous walk to the motel with half the disassembled prototype on your back. You've been dreaming of laying down on a bed for the last three hours, and even if another inn was open nearby, you doubt you'd have the will to carry everything there.

“I don't care anymore,” you sigh, massaging the side of your temple to relieve some of the built-up tension. “I'm exhausted, and we need to rest if we want to be any good tomorrow morning. We'll just figure it out upstairs.”

Jayce makes a non-committal sound of agreement; if you had more energy, you'd angrily ask him if he has any better ideas he'd like to share. But you don't, so you just focus back on the unexcited receptionist. Ironically enough, the letters on her cropped shirt spell ‘GOOD VIBES ONLY’.

“We'll take the room,” you conclude, worn out.

The teen barely blinks as she inputs something into her old computer, the vintage monitor buzzing unpleasantly before she hands you two scratched keycards mechanically.

“Room 207. We hope you’ll enjoy your stay at Grizzly Country Motel,” she deadpans.

You mumble a thank you, but she either doesn't hear or chooses to ignore it in favour of going back to her cell phone, like your entire interaction had been nothing more than chasing away a couple of flies.

Jayce at least has the decency to grab both your luggage and his before you both head towards the stairs; if he’s got all those muscles, he might as well put them to use. You feel a pang of annoyance at how easily he carries the bags that you struggled to hold the entire day.

“Don't you think it's weird when they say ‘we’?” he mumbles pensively as you go up the stairway. “It's like everyone who works at a hotel is in a hivemind.”

You can't even find the will to look back and glare at him.

“No, Talis, I was actually thinking about how I'd fix all the problems you've created,” you reply drily.

You reach the second floor, knees buckling. Room 201, 202, 203…

“You'll just take half the bed and I'll take the other half,” Jayce pipes up from behind you, grunting as he pulls the last bag up. “We'll put a pillow in the middle. It'll be like nothing even happened.”

Oh, to be in the mind of Jayce Talis, where the universe is so fucking simple and accountability is a myth.

You hate how he always has an answer for everything, like it’s all so easy for him. You've fought hard to reach this point — to earn your place in the Academy, to be seen as a true scientist, breaking through barriers in a field where women remain the minority. It’s taken blood, sweat, and tears, years of effort that people like Viktor and Sky understand and respect.

Room 204, 205, 206…

But for Jayce Talis, it’s all sunshine, rainbows, and candy-colored skies. His family owns one of the largest metallurgy companies in the country, and has stocks invested in some of the biggest steel producers on the globe. He’s never had to work a single day in his life to put himself through school, never had to sacrifice anything for his dreams. You don’t think there’s a single thing he’s ever actually had to put effort in: he barely studies and still aces all his classes, hardly puts any care into his appearance, yet always looks like he’s out of the cover of the Times’ 50 Most Desirable Men. It’s infuriating to an unspeakable degree.

Room 207.

You tap one of the keycards on the handle, letting out a small sigh of relief when the mechanism beeps joyfully. Today hasn't been ideal, but at least, you're only a few feet away from a soft, comfortable bed.

You open the door, walking in with little decorum. It's small and bare, as you expected: a single window dulled by years of exposure, a box TV taken straight from the nineties, a dingy light fixture barely illuminating a greyed-out wallpaper of a forest scene, and…

“Talis,” you pause. He almost bumps into your back, fumbling with the bags in his arms.

“What?” he asks in confusion, peering over your shoulder. “Oh,” he simply says when he sees the issue.

“Talis,” you repeat slowly, trying to maintain your tone even, despite how badly you want to scream. “This is a single bed.”

Indeed, not only is there only one bed, it's evidently sized for a single person. It's ridiculously tiny. It doesn't take a genius to see that with someone of Jayce's stature, you'd have to practically sleep on top of him if you wanted to share the bed.

“Wait, I swear I asked for doubles for both of us-” he protests immediately.

“It's fine,” you cut him off, despite it being the exact opposite. The headache is getting worse, and you don't feel like arguing with him any more than you already have. “I'll take the bed tonight, and you take the floor, and we alternate tomorrow.”

Jayce puts all the bags down on the carpeted floor, visibly dejected.

“Again, I'm really sorry about this,” he mumbles, and even though you can tell it's genuine, it doesn't make you feel any better. Every ambigious prejudice you might have had against him has just confirmed itself: he’s a spoiled mama’s boy, who isn’t able to navigate the real world alone, and who’ll simply cry when he messes up things for everyone else.

“Whatever,” you grumble, sitting tiredly on the edge of the puny bed that groans painfully under your weight; it doesn't even have the decency to be comfortable. “Just means I'll have to take care of everything if we ever do symposium together again.”

He looks like a scolded puppy, unmoving, eyes avoidant, his large frame blocking the doorway. Jayce is extremely talented at making people pity him, with his huge citrine eyes and perfectly rosy cheeks. It almost makes you hesitate before adding the next words, but bitterness takes the upper hand: “This is the kind of mistake Viktor never makes.”

He doesn't reply.

You can tell that hurt him just as much as you intended with the way his body slightly curves inwards, his fits visibly clenching inside his pockets. Well, good. He's old and smart enough to know actions have consequences. He's supposed to be your partner, not a child you're babysitting.

“I'm…gonna go take a shower,” he hesitantly adds after a few tense seconds. “I'm still sweaty from the bus ride. Is that… okay with you?”

You shrug with disinterest; you know you’re just being petty now, but thinking of everything that could have been, had it been Viktor on this trip and not him, is leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

“Fine by me. I'll take mine right after.”

He waits a moment, like he's expecting you to add something else; maybe extend the olive branch. When you don't provide, he sighs, making his way to the bathroom door and closing it behind him.

You let your body fall back on the mattress with a heavy ‘oomph’. It's not as uncomfortable as it first seemed; it's firm, but the covers are soft, and the single pillow feels nicely fluffed. A couple might actually be pretty cozy in this bed, one body on top of the other, their libs entangled lovingly. It could have been you and Viktor.

Viktor.

Viktor, and his honey-coloured eyes. Viktor, and his teasing smile that makes your heart skip a beat. Viktor, and the way his long fingers twirl in his chestnut hair when he's focused, the way he absentmindedly licks his bottom lip when he's lost in thought. Viktor, and-

“Hey, um,” Jayce's booming voice from the other room interrupts your reverie. “C'mere for a sec?”

You groan loudly, squeezing your eyes shut. Maybe if you pretend he isn't there, he'll disappear all on his own.

“No, seriously,” he insists.

No luck. You get up lethargically, cursing the man under your breath.

“Left side with the red is hot, right side with the blue is cold, Talis,” you ironize. You open the door to the bathroom to see him standing in front of the shower door, thankfully still fully clothed. “Do you need help opening the shampoo bottle, too?”

He glares back at you in annoyance:

“Fuck off. Look.”

He nods towards a paper sign you hadn't noticed tapped on the glass panel, amateurishly plastified with a clear file folder.

[PLEASE DO NOT USE THE SHOWER MORE THAN ONCE A DAY. 10 MINUTES OF HOT WATER PER ROOM]

Well, you were wrong. Jayce Talis isn't just a forgetful idiot with bad luck.

He's a fucking curse.

“The room and the bed, I could forgive,” you start, fuming. But the shower?!”

“How was I supposed to know?!” he yells back melodramatically. “You told me to find something cheap to not go over budget!”

You shove him in frustration, only getting more annoyed when it doesn't make his stupidly huge body move a single inch:

“I didn't mean you should book a fucking dumpster!”

A loud, pointed knock echoing from beyond the bathroom wall silences you both.

Delightful. The neighbours can hear everything.

You move a step away from Jayce, the width of the bathroom not allowing much in terms of distancing.

“Sorry,” you mumble under your breath. You aren’t, but it's that or getting kicked out of the only open motel in miles for a noise complaint. “Yelling isn't gonna lead us anywhere. You can take five minutes, and I'll take the other five. It's gonna be short, but that's probably the best we can do.”

He at least has the decency to look appreciative, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck.

“I can give you the whole ten minutes, to apologize. This is my fault,” he admits. It’s always like this with him, as if his never-ending self-pity cleanses him of any possible wrongdoing. You despise that.

“And have you stink up the whole place smelling like a football locker room? No way,” you scrunch up your nose. Just by sharing a workspace with him, you know Jayce has the hygiene skills of a teenage boy who thinks Axe body spray and cologne make sweat magically vanish; the sheer power of the unholy combination would keep you awake all night.

“Or…” Jayce trails on for a few uncharacteristically long seconds. He's usually more the type to say things before reflecting on them, but he's pinching his lips tightly, clearly hesitant about what he's going to add next. “…We could share the shower?”

You look at him with an expression frozen between incomprehension and disgust: “What?”

“I mean, it's big enough for two people to stand without touching,” he quickly justifies, raising his hands innocently. “I could take the flexible hose, and you'd just go under the showerhead. That way we'd both get ten minutes!”

He's using the overly excited voice he takes on whenever he's giving someone his sales pitch for a new, stupid idea he's had. It might work wonders on most, but you know better than to fall for it.

“So you're that desperate to see me naked?” you sneer.

“I'm trying to be helpful here!” he complains.

If you're being honest, it's not that bad of an idea. The shower is small in width, but it's quite long, making it a very viable option for two people to use at once. If you manoeuver everything right, it'll almost be like you're taking a long, nice ten-minute shower on your own.

“Fine,” you capitulate, making sure to enunciate the word painfully slowly so he knows you're not doing it out of the kindness of your heart. “But if you tell anyone this happened, especially Viktor, I'm cutting off your balls and using them to-”

“Yeah, got it, wouldn't want Viktor to think you like me,” he taunts mockingly, puckering his lips in a false kiss at the other man's name.

It's the first time you've agreed to an idea from Jayce, and you're already regretting it.

“Just shut up and get in the fucking shower,” you spit out, going back to the main room without sparing him another look. “Face the wall and call me when you're done. There’s no reason for this to be weird.”

—

He’s hard.

Very obviously and undeniably hard.

Jayce has been splashing his face with cold water for the last few minutes, to no avail. He's tried every technique he can possibly think of: running in place, breathing exercises, imagining his abuelita naked, nothing is working.

The only thing he can visualize is your body, completely bare in that shower, only a few inches away from his. The water pouring down from your hair to your shoulders, to your breasts, and then alongside the curves of your thighs, and your ass-

“Shut up,” he mumbles to himself in the empty bathroom.

It's not a secret to anyone that Jayce likes you. Neither is it a secret that you're utterly uninterested and only have eyes for Viktor, except perhaps for Viktor himself. It's kind of unfair how two-thirds of Viktor's lab partners are in love with him. He'd be lying if he said he didn't get it, and that his eyes never lingered on that little mole above Viktor's lip for longer than they should have. But damn it, he wants you. He wants you to want him. Is that such an unfair thing to ask for?

You've got so much fight, so much fire in you, and he gets dizzy off the smouldering look in your eyes whenever you disagree with him. And disagree, you do: he wants to use lithium batteries, you want to use sodium. He wants to focus on reducing energy intake for the prototype, you want to focus on adding new components to it. He offers to order pizza for the group after a long day of work, you'll hear of nothing but sushi.

It drives him insane, but less in a way that makes him despise you, and more in one that makes him angrily rub his cock raw every night at the thought of that angry pout on your lips.

“-ayce! You alive in there?” comes your voice from the other room. He groans in frustration. This is a spectacular disaster in the making, and he's sitting front and center for it.

He's made his own bed and now he has to lie in it.

“You can come in!” he yells back with a noticeable crack in his voice. Not a great start.

His heart skips a beat when he hears the door creak open and close. The rustling of clothes being taken off one by one, the sound of pants dropping on the tile floor, and the unmistakable click of a bra being unhooked.

The door to the shower slides, and he feels you enter the confined space. It's ridiculous how close you are to him; he can smell the sweat off your skin, the faded scent of your perfume. His cock gives a small twitch and he glares down at it in betrayal. ‘Not now!’

You don't say a word as you turn on the faucet, the old plumbing in the walls hissing slightly before water starts to pour down on the both of you. He's not usually one for the cold, but it's refreshing, washing away the feeling of stickiness on his skin. He hums under his breath in delight; maybe it'll actually just be an awkward but relaxing shower, in the end.

The temperature rises slowly but surely, from cool to tepid, tepid to lukewarm, and then… it stops. He waits a few more seconds, throwing a discreet glance behind him to find you haven't fully turned the faucet on the hot side.

“Could you… put it warmer?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“It's plenty warm enough as is,” you reply flatly.

Now you're lying just to go against him; it's barely any warmer than if he was bathing outside in the lake.

“Why would you even fight for the hot water if you're not gonna use it?” he mumbles.

You moan dramatically in complaint: “Fine, princess, I'll bump it up.”

He sees your hand reach for the faucet, grab it… and bring it less than a centimetre closer to the warm side.

“Seriously?” he asks in disbelief.

“Yeah, seriously, now start washing your greasy hair before there's no hot water left at all,” you scold him, like he's nothing more than a snivelling toddler, and not a man twice your size.

Alright, enough is enough.

“What are you-” you protest at his sudden movement, his bicep pressing up against your shoulder.

“I'm turning the hot water on so I don't die in here,” he snaps back, trying to get a feel for the faucet while still looking away from you for the sake of modesty.

“Absolutely not, stay on your side!” you admonish him angrily. You attempt to push him back, pointedly refusing to look in his direction as you blindly slap his arm away. “Wait, Jayce-”

It happens too fast for either of you to figure out what's happening. One minute you're back to back, a respectable distance from one another, and the next you've both slipped, his arms boxing you into the narrow side of the shower with your legs bumping together.

Your eyes are locked into his for a few long, painful seconds. Neither of you are moving. You're trapped in a precarious game of jenga, where you can't even see which parts can safely be removed without you collapsing on each other.

“Whatever you do,” you exhale slowly. “Don't look down.”

You visibly regret your words as soon as you say them; you must have forgotten it’s Jayce you’re talking to.

He immediately looks down.

You put an arm up over your chest with an indignant yelp, and he quickly defends himself:

“Why would you tell me to not look down? That's like saying ‘Don't think of an elephant’!”

You're staying silent, your lips into a tight line, but he's certain you're thinking of an elephant right now. He smiles boastfully and you shoot him a deadly glare, before looking away to the side. It's the first time he's ever seen that awkward little blush on your cheeks without the conversation being about Viktor. That's a win in his book.

“It's fine,” you repeat once more like a broken record, and it’s definitely more meant to reassure yourself than to keep up a pleasant conversation with him. “I'll just… squish back against the wall while you close your eyes, and I'll direct you back to the other side. No problem.”

You sound less convinced than he's ever heard you before. He must have succeeded in turning the faucet to the side during the whole debacle, because the water has grown noticeably warmer, clouds of steam starting to form in the air. The atmosphere inside the shower is shifting ever so slightly.

He doesn't want to move.

He doesn't want to close his eyes.

The colour of your cheeks has grown darker from the heat, your lips slightly parted around every audible respiration.

“Would you wanna stay like this… if it was with Viktor?” he asks breathlessly.

You look back at him with genuine confusion, and he's honestly just as surprised as you are.

“What?”

“I…” It's getting harder to think. All his blood is rushing south, leaving him dangerously light-headed. What is he saying? “I… asked if you'd stay like this if it wasn't me in the shower. If it was Viktor.”

Your frown deepens. Your eyebrows always do this cute little thing where one furrows just slightly more than the other, but he's never gotten to observe it from this close. He lets his thoughts travel into dangerous territory. Do you wear that same expression when you're on your knees, sucking some other guy off? Would you look like that for Viktor?

“I don't see how that's relevant,” you retort harshly, but your gaze is elusive. You can't hide from him, not when his face is merely inches away from yours.

“Humor me,” he requests again.

“Fine, yeah, I would! Are you happy now?” you snap, eyes locking back into his with fiery resentment.

You're embarrassed.

He's never seen you rattled like this before. The energy in the shower is electric, now, coursing through his veins like a drug. ‘There will never be another moment like this’, the voice in the back of his head provides, syrupy sweet. It’s without a doubt the worst idea he’s ever had in his life, but he can’t stop the words from pouring out of his mouth.

“I could show you what he's into,” he almost whispers, the deafening sound of water hitting the ceramic flooring almost too loud for him to hear himself.

He knows that you've heard him with the way your eyes widen, your breath hitching in your throat.

“I mean, guys, we talk,” he explains, the words now coming out of him like the rambles of a madman. He’s in too deep to back out: it’s sink or swim. “About the stuff we like, the stuff we dream about. I could tell you what he's told me, and you can practice. On me.”

An eternity passes before you speak again, mouth just barely agape. But you're not yelling at him. You're not slapping him in the face. In fact, you're not even frowning; the expression you’re wearing is oddly vulnerable and open, like you're seeing him in a different light than you ever have before.

“You're fucking gross, Talis,” you breathe out slowly. “You really think I'm that easy?”

This*,* whatever this is, is so fragile he’s scared of shattering it by being too loud. Like he’s talking to a wild animal.

“I don't,” he promises in a low voice. “But I think you're smart, and dedicated, and you wouldn't let an opportunity to know something so personal about Viktor pass you by.”

The steam has fully blurred the glass panels around the both of you, and it feels like you're inside one of those snow globes Jayce's mother used to bring back for him from her travels when he was a kid. It's weirdly ethereal, warm and cold, frozen out of any known space and time. He’s never heard you stay silent this long, and the anticipation makes his throat burn.

“Fine,” you finally say. “But if you tell anyone-”

“Yeah I know, you'll cut my balls off,” he lets out with a small laugh, slightly delirious. He's half convinced he's dreaming. “Are we good?”

You nod without a word, shifting your head to the side slightly to avoid his gaze. He hesitantly brings a hand to your chin, holding it like you're made of glass. You don't recoil at his touch, so he gently presses it upwards, making you look at him again.

“Viktor likes it when people kiss him softly,” he smiles shyly, his heart beating as loudly in his chest as it did for his very first kiss. It’s like he’s watching a movie, like none of it is truly real. He closes the gap between the two of you slowly, waiting for you to pull away; but you don't. Your lips meet his, and it's everything he could have ever wanted.

You taste of rainwater and cherry chapstick. You’re soft in the way described by jazzy love songs, smooth and electric, a puzzle piece that just feels so unbelievably right. He wants to wrap his arms around you, hold you so tight this never has to come to an end, leave marks on your skin no shower could ever get rid of.

But he doesn't. He can't.

This is a fantasy that’s only animated by mutual gain. It’s not the climax of a romance film where the hero finally gets to kiss the heroine under the rain.

But God, does he want to pretend it is.

You pull away first, and he doesn't miss it: the millisecond where your eyes open and you look at him like he's the one you want to be kissing. The almost imperceptible moment where you're still imagining you're kissing Viktor and not him, where your irises shine brightly with so much happiness and love.

But it's already gone, like it never even happened, and you quickly wipe your lips with the back of your hand. You’re not in a beautiful London street amid a gentle downpour with your soulmate: you’re in a cramped shower in a motel, with a guy you don’t even vaguely care for.

“You should shave your stubble. It's annoying,” you mumble.

‘Viktor doesn't have one’, the sentence heavily implies. It stings, but he's not about to back off just from that either. Not when he's been given a chance like this.

“Viktor also likes it when kissing is a bit of a fight,” he adds, sounding much too eager and desperate for his own liking. “Biting, tugging hair, that kind of stuff.”

It's not a lie, per se; he's only ever seen Viktor kiss someone once, when they were undergrads. It was an end-of-semester party, and Viktor had had way too many vodka red bulls for a man of his stature and health. Jayce had found him on a couch, limbs entangled with a stranger who seemed equally as drunk, and absolutely devouring their face off.

Viktor had asked him to never let him near caffeinated cocktails again the next morning.

You look slightly skeptical, analyzing him for any signs of deception; it looks as though you find none, because you're the one who initiates this time, and there you are, the fiery woman he's fallen head over heels for.

You're going to war on him, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip, savagely shoving your tongue in his mouth, one hand entangled in the hair at the back of his head while the other ferociously holds his throat in place, nails digging into his heartbeat. He responds eagerly, letting you mistreat him, encouraging you with muffled groans.

It hurts, and he wants it to never end. He can taste blood in his mouth, the metallic tinge making him dizzy, and he's so hard he could cum if you just touched his dick with a finger. He whines pathetically when you break the kiss for air, disoriented, a strand of saliva connecting you both still.

“A-aouch,” he can only manage to say jokingly.

You lean back against the tile wall, slightly breathless; you wipe away drops of red on your lip, smudging them down towards your chin, the look of a feral animal in your pupils. He feels his already rock-hard cock twitch. Hot.

“This is about what Viktor likes, not what you like. Toughen up, Talis,” you spit back.

Before he has time to formulate a reply, you're back on him, and now he's incapable of stopping himself from humping your thigh like an animal. You don't refuse him or push him away, even mercifully angelling your hip to the side to give him easier access. There's nothing but you, all over him, inside of him, tearing him apart and putting him back together. It's absolutely pathetic, and he knows it, but he can feel his release arriving in the pit of his stomach. He's wanted this for so long, there's just no way to delay it anymore.

It only takes a few more seconds before his orgasm hits him hard, the wave of pleasure making his whole body still as a plank, while you're still sucking harshly the vein on the side of his neck. He cries out once, broken and wanton, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice.

He comes down from the high in time to see the last of his cum painting your hip white before it gets washed away with the water. You detach yourself from him unceremoniously, putting some distance between your bodies with a frown.

“Did you just…?”

There's no room for pretending here. He's just had one of the most mind-blowing orgasms of his life from nothing but a fucking kiss from you. It's like he's a teenager all over again, face redder than a tomato and eyes escaping yours guiltily.

“You came. You came by just making out with me,” you repeat, visibly caught halfway between incredulity and mockery.

“I just haven't gotten laid in a while, that's it!” he justifies vehemently. He needs to change the topic quickly, or you’ll never let him live this down. “I'm always busy at the lab doing the paperwork you always skip out on!”

That thankfully seems to take your attention away from his premature accident; he's never been so grateful for your short temper.

“Seriously? You’re going to bring that up right now?” you bark, shoving him in the chest angrily.

He can still turn this around. He might not have much control over his first release, today ridiculously so, but he's been blessed with excellent stamina and a very short recovery period. Jayce is good at selling himself with speeches, and even though you're usually immune to anything that comes out of his mouth, he's willing to cheat this once and use the one chink in your armour he knows about.

“Do you want to know what Viktor likes or not? Because I haven't told you anything about what he wants in bed,” he tempts you in a tone of indifference.

Your silence speaks volumes; he's got you again. Yes, it's incredibly manipulative, and when this is over he's going to spend hours turning over in his bed and despising himself. He’s always believed in doing things the fair way, the right way, and that one day he’d manage to lower your defences and etch a place into your heart all of his own merits.

But Jayce is weak. So unbelievably weak. And the voice of temptation in the back of his mind insists you will never want him the same way he does you. It’s cowardly, and it’s spineless, and it goes against everything he’s ever been taught to value. Yet none of it seems to matter when he looks at you, bare in front of him, hair wet and sticking to your skin in heavy curls like a siren in the stormy sea. He’d sell his soul if it meant having you, and in more ways than one, he is.

What kind of man does that make him?

That’s a thought he’ll just have to keep for later.

Taglist Darlings: @soniiyi , @mischievous-piltovan, @urfavlarry , @luv-urself-first, @girlidkthinkofsmth , @starflesh-moth

#jayce x reader #jayce x reader smut #jayce talis #arcane #arcane x reader smut #also...#viktor x reader #viktor arcane #arcane smut #jayce fanfic #jayce x you #my writing #my fics #fruitforthoughts 💭

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val-of-the-north · 3 months ago

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Renna's identity and more Caria stuff

I think we have finally come to a satisfying conclusion on the identity of the Snowy Crone, aka Renna.

This came from a conversation with Qamarmoon (not on Tumblr, but check out the Blusky account [x]), who pointed out an interesting bit about her and the two sisters Rennala and Rellana. Together they appear to follow the triple deity format: Renna being the Crone, Renalla being the Mother, and Rellana being the Maiden. It's also worth pointing out that each facet of this Triple Goddess is also connected to moon phases.

It was also correctly pointed out that Snowy Crone must have known the Dark Moon if she was capable of teaching Ranni about it.

But the only ones we have seen capable of such contact with the moons appear to be part of Carian royalty.

The one exception may be the Nox... however, they seemed to have owned the Moonlight Altar in the past, as the Cathedral of Manus Celes shares architecture with the Church of Vows, an old Liurnian ruin intimately connected to the Nox and their rituals.

(My friend @katyspersonal also believes the Nox's Black Moon might have simply been an imitation they created, as it seems to have worked differently than the other moons we know of. For example, it wasn't just one person envisioning it, but multiple. It was also physically present underground and was even broken apart by Astel, while these other moons seem much more distant. It's not necessary to believe this in order for the whole theory I'm proposing to work, but if it's true it would certainly strengthen it lol)

In any case, Qamarmoon also posited that the three sisters might have indeed referred to Renna, Rennala and Rellana, and that Seluvis' Rise wasn't the only one that got its name changed, but Ranni's too, leaving Renna's as the only untouched one. Interestingly enough, it's also where you find the Snow Witch set.

The whole convo made me suddenly remember something I had always taken for granted... the Ice Crest Shield.

This small shield, found in Caria Manor, has a snowflake design that was said to be the crest of a Carian princess. Now, I had always assumed this was referring to Ranni, but I realized something. If it were, it wouldn't have been vague about it. When symbols and insignias are relevant to a specific Demigod or important person they are never spoken about like that... and besides, the crest should be found somewhere else related to Ranni herself if it was hers.

But it's not, and what really seals the deal for me is that Ranni's connection to the cold wasn't something well-known, as it came from her secret mentor, the Snowy Crone.

Ranni, for all intents and purposes, was a moon witch like her mother, earning the title of Lunar Princess.

Even Blaidd's blade was imbued with frost only when he vowed to never leave Ranni's side no matter what, walking that dark path with her. The cold seems intimately tied to her secret grim fate.

Even more damning, is that the Glintstone Sorcerers of the Lazuli Conspectus, a Carian-affiliated branch of the Academy of Raya Lucaria, wield the Ice Crest Shield.

However, the Conspectus more than likely predates Ranni by a long margin and seems to have no connection to her overall. Furthermore, the colors of their robes, while likened to the hues of a Full Moon, do contain white accents reminiscent of the Snow Witch set, which was Renna's before it was Ranni's.

So then, could it be that Renna is the Carian princess mentioned on that very shield? Maybe even Rennala and Rellana'a older sister! There seems to be quite a bit of evidence for it!

But, I understand if you are skeptical. After all, why wouldn't she be the Queen of Caria if she was the eldest daughter, or even mentioned at all? Better yet, how would it work if Caria as royalty was established by Rennala herself as stated by her Remembrance?

Let's start with the latter. I do not believe that statement is proof enough to come to such a conclusion. Don't get me wrong, it would be, if it weren't for the fact it's the only instance of this, and it's contradicted by so many other descriptions.

And you may say it's not true. The Stargazer Heirloom also implies the same. After all, it speaks of a young astrologer finding the Full Moon and becoming queen.

It does sound a lot like Rennala, right? But two small bits prevent it from being the case. The first one is the fact that it's engraved with a "legend". The only other heirloom with this description is that of the Two Fingers. Meanwhile, the two heirlooms depicting Radahn and Malenia, prominent figures of the current Lands Between, are said to be depicting "a scene from a heroic tale". Legend implies a certain degree of antiquity, which Rennala does not seem to possess.

The other detail, which is even more weighty, is that she is referred to as an astrologer. Astrologers were ancient people situated on the Mountaintops of the Giants and were once their neighbors. So close was their bond that they created a sword to honor it.

Some of the Carians, like Rellana, even believed that Fire and Moon should always be together, which is part of the reason she followed Messmer during his Crusade.

So the astrologers are the ancestors of the Carians... but they are not the only ones who descend from them. All Glintstone Sorcerers are descendants, in fact!

After all, it was an ancient astrologer who once envisioned the Founding Rain of Stars, basis of all Glintstone Sorceries and the foundation of the Academy of Raya Lucaria.

If Rennala had been that very astrologer girl in the legend, then she not only would have been incredibly ancient by now, but it would also mean she enchanted the academy immediately after its founding, since they'd be part of the same time period. This would leave them no room to develop the opposing beliefs that created the current friction between the two factions, which doesn't seem to be the implication.

The woman in the heirloom is most likely just Rennala's ancestor, who envisioned the Full Moon and changed the trajectory of her branch of astrologers forever.

This isn't the only thing against the idea Rennala is the sole founder of the house of Caria as well as its one queen! Counter-evidence comes in the form of several descriptions mentioning long-standing traditions involving princesses and matrimony... which wouldn't make sense if Rennala had been on the throne child-free with only her little sister for god knows how long...

In fact, another point towards the idea that Rennala was a princess herself once is her use of a particular ability, said to be employed by Carian princesses specifically. And she's the only Carian character to ever use this technique...

My very last bit of evidence is the fact she is also known as the "last Queen of Caria". A title given to her by her own daughter Ranni.

Now, there would be no point in making such a specification if she had been the ONLY queen of Caria up to that point. What makes more sense, coupled with everything else we have already talked about, is that she is the last queen in a long line of queens...

Simply put, I don't believe the Remembrance implies that she is the sole founder of the House of Caria. It is already considered a "house" after all, so it had the status of nobility at least, and noble houses, as you may know, aren't always in charge as rulers. Several houses contend for sovereignty, and it's often a cyclical thing.

Perhaps Rennala was simply the one to bring Caria back to its former heights by discovering the very same Full Moon that once uplifted her people long ago... this also means that multiple people can witness the same moon, which fits nicely with both Renna and Ranni envisioning the same celestial object.

This leads us back to the question of "what happened to Renna then, and how can she be the older sister if she didn't inherit the throne and Rennala did?".

I think the answer lies in the moon she had discovered. @katyspersonal proposed an idea some time ago, that the moons discovered by the Carian royals sort of foreshadow their eventual fate (It's mentioned in this post here [x] though it's mostly about a hypothetical Moon Goddess as a counterpart to the Fell God). It's something Qamarmoon also concluded independently, so I wouldn't say it's a nonsensical conclusion to draw.

The gist of it is that Rennala's Full Moon foreshadowed her union with the Erdtree, as the full moon is the result of its surface being bathed in the light of the sun, Rellana's Twin Moon foreshadowed her fate intertwining with Messmer, their two powers standing together, and Ranni's Dark Moon foreshadowed the lonesome occult path she'd have to walk to "obscure" the light of Grace.

The theme of celestial objects controlling the fate of all individuals is something quite prominent in the setting, so I'm pretty sold on this concept personally!

So yes, I believe Renna simply walked an occult path that led her to obscurity, maybe even of her own volition. To renounce her birthright in pursuit of something different... it's exactly what Rellana had done in an attempt to stand by Messmer's side.

It's also quite common for prominent figures to completely vanish in the Lands Between, as odd as it is to say. For example, we know that all the Demigod children of Marika who did not survive the Night of the Black Knives (minus Godwyn of course) have all but disappeared from history. We only know they existed, not what they did or accomplished. It's bizarre, to say the least...

Not to mention the entirety of the Land of Shadow, obscured and forgotten as an endless war is waged. Rellana too has had any mention of her having existed seemingly scrubbed from history, at least in the Lands Between.

Furthermore, it's exactly what Ranni did as well, erasing all of her steps and seemingly vanishing without a trace.

But what became of Renna then? Perhaps her insistence that Ranni fears the Dark Moon is from experience, and she doesn't want her to commit the same mistakes...

The two most prominent traits of the Snowy Crone are the blue skin and the four arms, features that remind me of the accursed followers of the Royal Revenants, often known as Wraith Callers due to the bells they use to attract vengeful spirits.

Interestingly enough, Liurnia has the biggest concentration of these guys out of all locations in the game. Most prominent for this theory is their large numbers in the Moonlight Altar, a place that's very relevant to all Carian royalty.

These beings are said to be all cursed, explaining their spectral, twisted forms. Now, I don't think Renna became like the ones we find in-game. They don't seem to hold any connection to the moon and ice, but rather to curses and wraiths. However, she might have died and been cursed in a similar manner, twisting her into a form closer to that Ranni's body is based on.

It's also worth pointing out that Ranni is the one who hands the Spirit Calling Bell to us, which is basically the good version of the Wraith Calling Bell that the Revenant Followers use. However, it's unclear why she wants to give it to Torrent's new master, so it might have not belonged to the Snowy Crone originally.

So in conclusion... the idea that the Snowy Crone was actually a princess of Caria named Renna, sister of Rennala and Rellana makes a surprising amount of sense! It neatly explains the crone's knowledge of the Dark Moon, the existence of the Three Sisters in general, the identity of the princess the ice crest was a symbol of, the suspiciously familiar name of Renna feeling just like she is part of the Carian family... it just works so well I think!

Finally. It's a conclusion I am satisfied with... Elden Ring feels very complex regarding most of the unseen people in the cast. Gently waiting for the day we can finally understand the Gloam-Eyed Queen too in such a satisfying manner. Then I will know peace lmao.

---UPDATE---

Ok, so this line from Iji was brought to my attention in the comments, mentioning Ranni as the "first heir in the Carian royal line".

This almost makes it sound like there weren't any heirs before her, which would invalidate literally everything I've said so far about Rennala not being the first Carian queen.

So I decided to check the Japanese script [x], and this line is as follows there: "カーリア王家正統の王女たるラニ様の、運命もまた同じはずです". The part we are gonna focus on is the one I've highlighted.

That doesn't translate to "the first heir in the Carian royal line" but rather "the legitimate princess (正統の王女) of the royal house of Caria (カーリア王家)".

This means that my argument is still safe and sound. Ranni is simply a legitimate heir to the throne, not the first one to be heir. There's also a possibility they didn't mean it to be taken literally, but you are never too sure with these decisions... so yeah, just thought I'd make an addendum so it's addressed in the post itself. I mean, not everyone reads the comments after all!

Okie, addendum over.

#elden ring #snowy crone #witch renna #rennala queen of the full moon #ranni the witch #lunar princess ranni #rellana twin moon knight #man I had to look through so many things lmao #honestly it never made sense rennala was the first queen #too many historical things about princesses lol #but finallyyyyy #I wasn't even a big believer of renna being the name of the snowy crone but this convinced me wholeheartedly #so I guess ranni trained with her disgraced aunt without even knowing #that's sick lol #val-post

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vibelladonna · 1 month ago

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❛ 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝓁𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓃𝓃𝒶 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝑔𝑒𝑜 𝓍 𝑔𝓃! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: They say poison is dangerous—yes, a substance that is capable of causing illness or death by taste, by touch, it should never be taken under any circumstances.

You’re a belladonna—a beautiful, deadly kind of poison.

Geo has always been a mystery wrapped in thorns—bitter to the touch, beautiful in a way that promised pain. A slow-acting poison with no antidote, the kind you’re warned to avoid. But warnings are wasted when the danger is exactly what you crave… and your body keeps reaching for the burn. You're not soft, and neither is he.

One’s poison—potent, addicting. The other? perhaps immune?

The question is... Does your venom suit his craving?

Or will you be the sweetest thing to ever ruin him—beautifully, completely, irreversibly?

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: For my dearest mutuals, @mint0hhh artist of the [ header picture ] fun fact this was first geo art I saw on tumblr, and @lu-dao-writes who gave me the setting and plot—plus a few add-ons from anons who asked for angst (you know who you are).

This one's personal—a self-insert with a QPR dynamic between Aroace!Geo and Aroace!Reader (since I'm Ace, still figuring out if I'm Aro—read and let me know). Inspired by the recent announcement, I kept it gender-neutral with they/them pronouns. It's been a while since I wrote something just for me, and I missed that.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: geo x gn and self insert!, angst (like. hella angst. cried while writing it.), slow burn, in vino veritas, mutual pining, enemies and lovers (kinda), queerplatonic relationship, aroace rep, mentions of OCD, hyperawareness anxiety, emotional damage, (i really hurt my own damn feelings with this one.)

Halloween.

Though it is just one evening where the entire world resonates with your energy—for wildness, wickedness, just the edge of something fun. Crisp air un-soak sober, the wind carries the scent of burning leaves, cheap whiskey, and whatever questionable punch someone dumped into a cauldron. Shadows stretch long, neon lights flash in the distance, and for once—just once—you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

Now Halloween in college?

Oh, it’s so much more than just an excuse to party across the world. It’s a whole ass experience. While some people come for the horror—the haunted houses, wacky dares, and fake blood sprayed all over bathroom mirrors—some seek an excuse to just simply go out of their minds for the night with cheap booze and transient and rash decisions.

You have come here for all of it.

The parties, the madness, the whole campus feels like it vibrates with energy and begs the night to get you a little too drunk or too bold or to leave you in a state of being a little too gone to care about anything at all except the moment.

You can already see the Campus alive at night; jack-lanterns are flickering, far away, screaming from haunted houses on Greek row, music blasting so much that you feel it in your ribs.

Someone's already passing with devil horns and all smeared lipstick and laughter trailing behind them. The streets are packed, bodies pressed together, and slurred conversations and this night is only beginning.

You take a deep breath, imagining the hits, everything from alcohol, throbbing adrenaline under the skin, and absolute certainty that this night will only be a blur with poor decisions and even worse ideas.

And really? Wouldn't want it any other way.

“Why are you so obsessed with Halloween?” Crowe’s voice carried that usual mix of amusement and curiosity—light, teasing, but just sharp enough to let you know he actually wanted an answer.

The vice president of the student council—polished, poised, untouchable—sat beside you outside during lunch, mirroring your posture with his legs crossed like it was second nature.

You glanced at him briefly before shifting your gaze away, eyes trailing the glow of streetlights and the flickering jack-o’-lanterns scattered around campus then you took sip of your drink in front of you.

“Because Halloween is cool.”

Simple. Honest. Direct.

Exactly what anyone should expect from you.

But Crowe? Yeah, he wasn’t buying that for a damn second.

He let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head before dragging his gaze over your outfit—the kind of once-over that wasn’t just looking, however analyzing the living hell out of you. The knowing glint in his eyes said everything his words didn’t. “Right,” he mused, voice dripping with amusement. “Somehow, I’m inclined to think you’re a little more than just ‘excited-going.’”

Of course, he would say something like that.

Out of everyone, Crowe had probably the best read on you—not that you ever made it easy for him.

You’d met him about, what? You place your hand under your chin, like two years ago..? His dumbass had thrown himself between you and a group of bullies like some martyr, despite having the fighting skills of a wet paper bag. The whole thing had been pitiful to watch, honestly. You’d barely broken a sweat handling it yourself, and yet, there he was, trying to be your knight in shining armor.

You weren’t sure if it was bravery or sheer stupidity, but something about him stuck. Maybe it was how he kept trying to befriend you, even when you ignored him outright. Maybe it was because you saw the way he needed to be needed, even when you didn’t.

Either way, you let him stick around. Vice versa.

And now? You were here—hanging out with his actual friend group. A group he’d tried—and kinda almost failed to properly integrate you into.

You remember their names clearly.

Brittany and Jess were currently locked in some very passionate debate over future costumes. Deryl was talking Geo’s ear off—though, from the way Geo was sitting, arms crossed and eyes closed, perhaps asleep or ignoring him? It was safe to say he was not invested in the conversation.

And then there was you. Caught up in your own little world with Crowe, as usual. Even then, he knew. Knew that Halloween wasn’t just some holiday to you—it was a part of you, something that slipped through the cracks even when you didn’t mean for it to.

It was in the way you dressed. The way the flowing fabric of your outfit moved with you, catching the light just right, embroidered with intricate patterns that shimmered like something out of a dream. The layers you wore weren’t just for the cool air—they were intentional, a mix of comfort, just for you. Your platform boots added weight to your steps, grounding you, making each movement feel purposeful—like you didn’t just walk, you arrived.

Silver rings caught the dim light, a mix of old and new, each one with a story. Skulls, amethysts, gothic designs—they weren’t just accessories, they were pieces of you, woven through your hair, your fingers, the very air around you.

It wasn’t a costume. It wasn’t dress-up. It was you.

You exhaled, watching your breath curl into the autumn air before finally meeting Crowe’s gaze. A small, knowing sigh pulled at your lips.

“In other words… this is the only time I feel alive.”

Crowe hummed, a thoughtful look settling on his face. Oh no—you knew that look. He was about to suggest something. “You know,” he started, way too casually, “you should host a Halloween party. At my place.” …Oh.

Well, you definitely weren’t expecting that.

You thought he was gonna ask about your classes again—because who actually wants to talk about that unless they’re in class? Or maybe try, once again, to convince you to befriend his actual friends. But this? You blinked, tilting your head like you must’ve misheard him. “At your place?”

He nodded. Completely serious. Wow.

You scoffed, glancing away. “Okay, and how exactly am I supposed to host a party at your place? Am I just supposed to roll up, kick down your front door, and start handing out invitations?”

Crowe smirked, completely unfazed. “I’d give you permission, of course. You and me? We could throw the best damn Halloween party this school has ever seen.” He nudged your shoulder, “I got the council on board for this party,” he continued, undeterred.

“We all think it’s a solid idea.” His eyes narrowed slightly like he was trying to figure out how to sell it to you. Even flashed that smile—the one he usually aimed at the hopelessly charmed, the ones who practically melted under his attention.

You, however, were not impressed. Not even a little.

Your face scrunched up in pure disinterest as you leveled him with a deadpan stare, “This is such rich, high-class boy energy. ‘Oh, let me just hand you a key to my estate so you can throw a party, where it’s just a bunch of young adults making bad decisions—like we’re in some kind of horror movie.’”

You mimicked his smooth, confident tone with just enough exaggeration to make him roll his eyes. “What’s next, Crowe? You gonna have a killer show up to really set the mood?”

He lifted a brow, clearly about to laugh but held it back. “First of all,” he started, completely ignoring your impression, “I think it would be good. You have the vibe, you know how to make things fun, and—” He gestured vaguely at you.

“Look at you. You are Halloween. If anyone should throw the biggest party of the season, it’s you.” Then he added, “With my help, of course.”

You squinted at him, unimpressed, before casually checking your phone. “Uh-huh. And what’s in it for you, prince?”

Crowe shrugged, before flashing that infuriating smirk. “I enjoy a good party.”

“Right,” you said flatly, giving him a knowing look. “And definitely not because you get to sit back and watch the crazy shit unfold.”

Because if there was one thing you knew about Crowe, it was that he loved a little bit of drama. Sure, he had the prince act down to a science—student council vice president, responsible, mature—but deep down?

He lowkey lived for the drama. As long as it didn’t involve him directly, of course. Eventually, he’d have to step in and be the voice of reason, but you knew he liked to watch the mess build first.

“I mean,” he mused, smirking, “that is a bonus.”

You shook your head, though a grin threatened to break through. “All right, fine, golden boy. I’ll help plan your exclusive, high-class Halloween bash. But—” you held up a finger—“on one condition.”

Crowe tilted his head, amusement showing in his eyes. “And that is?”

“You,” you said, jabbing a finger at his chest like a judge delivering a sentence, “are going to be the main host. I’ll be your party-planning partner, but no way in hell am I letting you dump this whole thing on me while you kick back with some overpriced whiskey, watching drunk idiots puke in the potted plants.” You gestured vaguely. “Plus, this isn’t my house. You get to be responsible for the aftermath.”

Crowe’s smirk stretched wider, something downright sneaky about the glint in his eyes. “Oh, now that—” he exhaled a soft laugh, “that is actually a fantastic idea.” Then he suddenly added, “Yeah. By looking at you, I need the best of the best from you.”

You tilted your head, a little confused. “You want psychological horror at a uni party?" Then questioned, "You do realize half these people are gonna be too drunk to appreciate subtle fear, right? Or they might just straight-up shit themselves, actually…” you trailed off, looking somewhat away, suddenly picturing someone sobbing in a corner after a jumpscare gone wrong.

Crowe, ever the dramatist, flicked a fallen leaf off your shoulder to catch your attention again. “Exactly why we have to make it inescapable.” His voice dipped lower, conspiratorial. “Something interactive. Something that makes them question what’s real and what’s just part of the game.”

You become quiet, allowing a ton of ideas to unravel in your mind like a quick-burning flame. Crowe watched you, expectant, because he knew you weren’t about to pass up the opportunity for pure, chaotic entertainment.

You let out a soft, resigned sigh. "All right, host," you agreed, flashing a slow, devilish grin. "Let’s make this the best damn Halloween this campus has ever seen." Your voice dropped, laced with mischief. "Let’s make them suffer."

Crowe’s grin stretched wider, victorious.

"Now that’s the spirit."

Without missing a second, he quickly turned away from you to address the group. "All right, listen up!" he announced, voice cutting through the conversations. "We’ve decided—we’re throwing a Halloween party. But not just any party. It’s going to be the party of the year. No, of the decade."

Everyone’s conversations paused.

Heads turned toward him… and then toward you, who sat coolly with your head tilted, watching them carefully. You didn’t care how they reacted—but it was always so entertaining to see how easily people got excited or rattled when you got involved.

Predictably, Brittany—the self-proclaimed fashion gyaru queen—gasped dramatically. "Oh my god, finally! Someone who actually knows how to plan something fun. I’m all in! I’m planning everyone’s costumes!"

Next to her, Jess, who you thought of as Brittany’s bookworm assistant—even though you knew their relationship ran way deeper than that—clasped her hands together as if she’d just been handed the keys to her dream. "I can handle decorations if you need" She softly said.

Across the table, Deryl—still half-distracted, ranting about something to Geo—ears perked up immediately. "Sick! I’ll bring the food and drinks!" he shouted, ever the bundle of chaotic energy.

And then… there was Geo.

Without even lifting his head, flatly, "I’m not going."

The entire table fell silent, as the air itself paused.

You weren’t surprised. Not really. But still, damn, Geo had a way of shutting things down so fast it was almost impressive.

What did bother you—no, annoy you—was the fact that you could never really read him the way you did everyone else. It wasn’t just about his words or his expression; it was his entire existence.

Every single person in this group had something—some defining action that made them them.

Brittany had her dramatics, Jess had her quiet enthusiasm, Deryl was loud and chaotic, and Crowe? Well, Crowe is the group leader, he kinda born and lived to be the center of attention.

All these moments when you knew exactly what everyone was feeling just by those simple actions. All except for Geo…

Geo was an fucking enigma.

No ticks, no habits that stood out, no tells—nothing. You had spent enough time observing people to know that everyone had had something. Some little unconscious action that gave them away. A twitch of the fingers, a glance to the side, a shift in posture.

He gave nothing.

Like ‘go-girl-gives-us-nothing’ type way. It was like he had perfected the art of being unreadable, and you hated that. Not because you wanted to know his secrets, but because it made him the only person in the damn circle you couldn’t get a solid read on.

And that was just frustrating.

Crowe, of course, was the first to break the silence, eyes gleaming with mischief and a hint of desperation. “Aww, come on. Live a little. It won’t kill you.”

Geo barely glanced up from whatever deep void of thought he was drowning in, his expression as flat as ever. “Debatable.”

Crowe gasped, clutching his chest like he’d just been personally betrayed. “You wound me.”

Deryl snorted. “Dude, we all know you never get tired of that kind of rejection.”

"True, but that doesn’t mean I like it," Crowe shot back, before turning to you. And there it was—that look. That smug, expectant smirk like he already decided you’d be the one to fix this for him.

“What do you think, fearless party planner?” he mused, tilting his head. "Think we can convince our dear, beloved Geo to make an appearance?"

You barely spared Crowe a glance before shifting your gaze to Geo, who was already looking at you. Same unreadable, sharp stare.

God, you hated that.

You folded your arms. “Convince him for what?” you deadpanned before flicking your gaze back to Crowe. “He’s a grown-ass man. If he doesn’t wanna come, he doesn’t have to.” Then, with a casual shrug, you added, “Like he just said—he’s not going. Guessing he has better things to do.”

Crowe raised a brow. “Like what?”

Geo, without hesitation: “Staying home.”

You scoffed. "Wow. Never mind. That’s not ‘better things.’ That’s just you being anti-social."

"Exactly."

Crowe, ever the instigator, leaned in with a wicked smirk. “C’mon, Geo. Can’t let your favorite person down.”

Geo didn’t even blink. “You’ll be fine.”

Crowe clicked his tongue. “I meant them.”

Geo did blink then, his head tilting slightly toward you. His expression, as always, unreadable.

You sighed dramatically, rubbing your temple. "Oh, don’t look at me. I’m not in the business of dragging unwilling hermits to social gatherings." Then, with a knowing smirk, you added, “Besides, I figured you’d wanna avoid watching people flirt all night. You do hate that.”

Geo exhaled through his nose. “Hate’s a strong word.”

“You called Deryl insufferable for existing in the same room as a couple making out.”

Deryl, meanwhile, was still processing. He gestured vaguely between you and Geo. “Hold on—I’m insufferable now?”

“You are insufferable,” Geo replied then looked back at you, “And?”

“And nothing,” you sighed, pushing yourself to your feet and striding toward Geo without hesitation. You stood up in front of him, arms crossed, meeting his gaze head-on. No flinching. No backing down.

Crowe stiffened. “Uh, wait a sec—”

Deryl raised a hand, almost like he was trying to stop a collision in real-time. “Hold on, they’re really not the type to—” He cut himself off, realizing too late that nothing was going to stop you once you were on a roll.

“I just think it’s funny that you’d rather sit in your room and rot than tolerate a few hours of other people’s bad decisions.” You leaned in slightly, tone casual but laced with challenge. “Not saying I disagree—hell, I’d do the same—but your friends are trying to plan something for once. It’s not like this happens every day. When was the last time you had fun?”

The question hung in the air.

Geo didn’t answer right away. He just stared at you, expression flat, eyes sharp, like he was analyzing the situation—breaking it down piece by piece, deciding whether this was even worth his time.

You weren’t about to let him off the hook that easily. Shifting your weight to one side, arms still crossed, you waited.

The silence stretched. The tension was almost comical.

Crowe let out a low whistle. “Damn. He’s actually engaging.”

Deryl nudged him. “And not in his usual ‘leave me alone before I ruin your entire existence’ way. That’s new.”

Despite being the center of attention, Geo didn’t seem fazed. He just kept his gaze locked onto you—steady, unreadable. But something was missing, something that made everyone else exchange glances.

The usual disinterest wasn’t there. If anything…

He actually looked like he was considering what you’d said. Almost.

Because this conversation had already drained his will to live, he dragged a hand down his face. “Define your version of ‘fun’.”

You rolled your eyes. “Geo.” You shot him a pointed look. “See, that’s the problem. You shouldn’t have to think that hard. Fun is just… doing things. No overanalyzing. No brooding. Just existing and actually enjoying something. Not everything has to be a damn chess game. Trust me, I’d know.”

He shrugged, as effortlessly indifferent as ever. “I have fun.”

“Oh yeah?” You tilted your head, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Name one thing you’ve done in the past month that qualifies as fun.”

Silence. Geo just looked at you.

Brittney, who had been watching from the sidelines, leaned in with growing amusement. “Ooh, this is good. Two rounds in a row. That’s a new record.”

Crowe grinned. “Yeah, ‘cause he’s thinking way too hard about it.”

You pressed on, relentless. “Exactly. Fun isn’t something you have to dig through your mental archives for. It’s not a research paper. It just happens. But no, not you. You have to break it down like it’s some kind of military operation.”

Geo finally broke eye contact, glancing at his friends—who were all watching with barely contained smirks. He exhaled sharply, somewhere between a sigh and the world’s most unamused laugh.

“I don’t overanalyze everything,” he muttered.

Crowe snorted. “Oh, you so do.”

Deryl crossed his arms. “And yet, instead of shutting this down, you’re still letting them roast you.”

Everyone went quiet, exchanging looks.

Geo never entertained conversations like this. He shut people down fast—disinterest, sarcasm, a flat-out refusal to engage. And yet, here he was. Still sitting there.

Still responding to you.

Crowe lit up like he’d just uncovered some grand secret. “Damn. You’re like the Geo Whisperer.”

You shot him a glare. “Oh, shut up.” Though, admittedly, you were still a little annoyed. Someone had to put the smug bastard in his place. Why did everyone just let him get away with being so rude?

Geo, predictably, ignored the remark entirely. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, meeting your gaze once more. “So what? You expect me to go to this party just to prove I know how to have fun?” He clicked his tongue, glancing away for a brief moment before looking back at you. “Sounds exhausting.”

You threw your hands up. “You are exhausting!”

Deryl barked out a laugh, slinging an arm around Crowe. “I love this. We should do this more often.”

Crowe nodded sagely. “This feels like an intervention.”

Geo remained entirely unbothered, stretching out lazily. “I don’t need an intervention.”

“You do if your idea of fun is staring,” you shot back.

Geo raised a brow. “It’s peaceful.”

“I don’t have time for this.” You reached for your bag, which Crowe handed over without a word, already anticipating your next move. “I’m gonna be late for class.”

But before leaving, you turned back, stepping closer until you were face-to-face with Geo. “Are you coming or not?”

Geo tapped his fingers idly against his knee, pretending to give it deep thought. “…To that sorry excuse of a Halloween party, or the lame-ass Art gen ed you’re being forced to take?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know exactly which one I’m talking about. Don’t start with me.”

“…No,” he said flatly, without hesitation.

Deryl let out a low snort. “Damn. Shot down eventually.”

You huffed. “Look, all I’m saying is you should show up so people don’t turn you into some urban legend—the guy who never left his cave.” Then, with a smirk, you added, “But hey, if you wanna keep the mystery alive, be my guest. I’m sure your fans would love it. Hell, I can see them behind you right now.”

Geo frowned before glancing back—and sure enough, there they were. The usual group that trailed after him like lost puppies, practically vibrating with anticipation.

“Subaru!” one called out.

“Please, we have better gifts this time!” another pleaded.

“Who’s that talking to him? They need to back off,” someone whispered, loud enough to be heard.

You sighed, utterly done. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. People here are so clouded.” The way they obsessed over Geo, over the idea of him—like he was some puzzle they could solve or a prize they could win.

It was simply exhausting. Turning, you walked up to Crowe and gave him a simple pat on his head. "I’m off, see you later everyone." He let out a small gasp, briefly catching your hand in his before releasing it, eyes wide with exaggerated surprise.

Then, just as quickly, he beamed. “Hhm, okay.”

Without another word, you turned and walked away, shaking off the lingering irritation as you headed to class.

He knew that look on your face—annoyance, exasperation, but not the kind people had when they wanted something from him. You weren’t like the others, not circling him like vultures, not clouded by whatever ridiculous infatuation everyone else seemed to have.

That’s what made it odd.

You talked to him, called him out, and never once looked at him with expectation. No attempt to impress, no ulterior motive. Just blunt honesty, the same way he was with everyone else.

And yet, unlike most, you weren’t scared off by it.

Geo stayed quiet, standing up as well. “I’m heading to class too.” He exhaled sharply, covering his mouth with his hand—but not fast enough to hide the small, amused scoff that slipped out.

Crowe gasped dramatically. “Oh my God. Was that a laugh?”

Deryl shook his head, grinning. “Nah. Impossible. Geo doesn’t laugh.”

“Please shut up,” Geo muttered, his expression quickly settling back into its usual blank indifference. But even as he turned away, his gaze flickered—just for a second—focused somewhere else.

Somewhere else on campus, a quiet spot near the hall pillar, half-hidden in its shadow, Sol watched as you walked away—your irritation still evident in the way your shoulders tensed and the way you didn’t bother looking back.

But instead of heading straight to class, you took your usual detour.

Sol knew your routine well enough by now. Instead of the direct path, you veered toward the student center, the familiar rhythm of your movements unchanging. The market upstairs—probably grabbing a snack before heading off to whatever class had you rushing. You always did this. Always made time for small comforts, even when you were annoyed.

He exhaled softly, his red-orange eyes following you even after you disappeared into the building.

You didn’t see him. Maybe you never did.

The way the autumn wind caught in your hair, tugging at it like it wanted to keep you there. The way the faint glint of silver jewelry flickered under the weak sunlight. The way you moved, deliberate yet unhurried, like the world wasn’t something to be conquered but something to be entertained by.

Sol had never cared much for people’s routines. Never cared to notice them.

But yours?

Yours was different. And that was the problem.

Sol shifted his weight against the pillar, the cool stone grounding him as he watched from a distance, his expression unreadable. The crisp autumn air did little to cool the heat crawling up his spine as his thoughts replayed that small moment: you patting Crowe’s head, and Crowe, as always, taking the opportunity to pull you closer with that smug, almost playful smile.

The effortless way he grabbed your hand had Sol’s jaw tightening, a flicker of irritation sparking deep inside him. It wasn’t anything obvious—Crowe did that with everyone, after all.

But still, Sol couldn’t shake it.

He wasn’t sure why he was even standing here, loitering like some background character in a movie where he didn’t belong. You barely knew each other—a handful of passing conversations, one awkward art class where you’d been paired together because his only friend had stopped showing up—that was it.

And yet...

That day in art class, when he first met you… something had changed.

You were late, nearly crashing into the tables as you hurried in, breathless but laughing, as if your own disarray amused you. You spotted the empty seat beside him, and without hesitation, asked to be his partner.

No hesitation. No judgment. Just... acceptance.

Sol had agreed with a nonchalant shrug, but at that moment, something unfamiliar had curled inside him.

Again, you were different. Not like the usual people he tolerated.

You weren’t just there for the grade, despite not being an art major—you genuinely cared about the work. The way you got lost in it, when something caught your eye, and you couldn’t stop talking about it—no matter how trivial it might’ve seemed to others. You’d explain your thoughts, your logic, about every detail, about how each stroke of the pencil had a purpose, how every line and shade carried intention.

Sol barely spoke, but he didn’t need to. He watched. He watched the way your hands moved with purpose, the way you’d trace the contours of your sketchbook with such precision, smudging graphite into shadows as if it came naturally to you. The way you furrowed your brow in concentration, completely lost in the work, and how, for just a moment, the world seemed to fade away for you. It was mesmerizing, the way you brought an image to life was like it was second nature.

It was captivating. You were… captivating. Stalker

Sol exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as if he could shake off whatever this was. But somehow, that one class, that single moment, had spiraled into something far more complicated.

Now, he always noticed you before anyone else did. In short, the way your voice carried a subtle lilt, full of amusement when you spoke about the things that made you light up. Again, the way your hands moved as you explained your thoughts, and the fluid gestures made everything you said seem deliberate and meaningful. The way you laughed when you thought no one was watching—soft, hidden under your hand, as though you were trying to keep it contained, but it slipped out anyway.

But then, there was the part Sol hated—the part he couldn’t escape.

You with Crowe and his friends. It was always the same. You were normally alone, but Crowe—fucking Crowe—always seemed to be the one to invite you first. Sol would watch from a distance, his eyes narrowed, his jaw tight, as Crowe casually touched you—your hands, your arm, always in that effortless, easy way that made it seem like it meant nothing.

Like you were just another part of his world. Sol hated it. Not that he had any right to. Because, in the end, he barely knew you.

Yet, here he was, wanting—no, needing—you to see him.

“Sol!” No response.

You squinted, tilting your head as you watched him from across the table. You both were supposed to be working on your art gen ed project, but there he was—sitting next to you, physically present, yet his mind was miles away.

You could practically see the wheels turning in his head, but they weren’t turning toward the project. No, they were off somewhere in his personal, brooding universe.

“Sol!” you called again, dragging out his name, waving a hand in front of his face like you were trying to snap a possessed doll out of its trance.

Still nothing. Your eyes narrowed. Oh, hell no.

You grabbed the nearest object—an innocent pencil—and flicked the back of it, hitting his forehead with just enough force to yank him out of whatever deep, spiraling thought he’d fallen into. Sol blinked, his red-orange eyes sharpening, the look of someone just rudely pulled back to reality. He stared at you, mildly startled, brows furrowed in confusion.

You crossed your arms. “I’ve been calling your name for like five minutes now—are you okay or something?”

He blinked again, seemingly processing. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I am not exaggerating,” you shot back. “I called your name like, at least four times. That’s practically an hour in ‘I’m-talking-to-a-wall’ time.”

Sol rubbed the spot where the pencil hit him, exhaling through his nose as he tried to reset his brain. Damn it. He’d gotten stuck in his thoughts again—thoughts about you, no less. Not on purpose, of course. It just… happened.

Against his will. Completely unfair.

Meanwhile, you were already talking again, hands gesturing as you rambled. “Listen, I need your full, undivided attention because I have very important news.” You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice like you were about to drop some life-altering information.

Sol, still mildly annoyed but intrigued despite himself, gave you a blank stare. “…What.”

You grinned. “I’m now a party planner with one of my closest friends. He’s the host of this upcoming Halloween party, wanted my insight since, you know…”

Sol’s face remained impressively neutral. “...Okay?”

You gasped, like he had just insulted your entire existence. “Okay?! That’s all you have to say?! Do you even know what this means?”

“It means I should probably prepare for a disaster,” he deadpanned.

“Excuse you,” you huffed. “This is going to be legendary. The Halloween party of the century.” You sighed, “Spooky. Chaotic. Unforgettable. I will be designing an experience that will haunt everyone for therest of their lives.”

Sol raised an eyebrow. “...So, a disaster.”

You crossed your arms, “Good parties always lead to disaster that’s how you have fun—oh I’m sorry, you never got invited to parties, Mr. Lonely. Says the one-that-only-has-one fucking-friend in their life.” You added, playfully teasing.No personally, I meant that.

Sol rolled his eyes and sighed, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated groan. “Okay and? Tell me how did this ‘friend’ of yours manage to rope you into this mess, exactly?”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “Like I said, he needed my Halloween expertise, you know since Halloween is like my whole vibe.” You gestured vaguely at yourself like it was obvious.

Sol gave you a once-over, his eyes lingering a bit longer than necessary. Then he shook his head with that typical, bemused look. “Yeah, no kidding. You dress like a witch all year round, it only makes sense.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Excuse you. And what about you, Mr. Basement Dweller? You’re practically one mood away from turning into a permanent shadow, always sitting in the back of the class as per usual.” You mentioned that you and he are currently sitting at the back of the class.

His lips twitched in an almost smile, but he shot you a deadpan glare. “Basement dweller? That’s your go-to insult?”

“Oh, am I wrong?” you teased, leaning back with a smirk.

Sol let out another theatrical sigh, shaking his head like he was somehow disappointed in you. “And here I thought we were building a solid foundation of mutual respect.”

“You thought wrong,” you said smoothly, resting your chin on your hand, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. “But seriously, you should come to the party. I’ll even let you sulk in the darkest corner like the brooding emo you are.”

He gave you a look that could only be described as deadpan, followed by a dismissive click of his tongue. “I’ll think about it.”

You grinned, leaning forward just a bit. “That’s the closest thing to a ‘yes’ I’m ever gonna get from you, huh?”

Sol muttered something under his breath, clearly trying to pretend he wasn’t intrigued, but the faintest ghost of a smirk betrayed him.

Yeah, he was definitely thinking about it.

Later, the soft hum of students murmuring over their own art projects faded into the background as your attention snapped back to your half-finished piece. The assignment was straightforward—create something abstract that conveyed either movement or emotion. Simple enough.

Sol, however, was lost in his own world. Beside you, his sleeves pushed up, charcoal smudges marking his fingers, working with that same detached intensity that had defined your first partnered project.

The only sounds between you were the occasional scratch of his pencil against paper. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was an odd, unspoken feeling hanging in the air. A quiet tension that you couldn’t quite place.

He paused for a moment, fingers hovering in mid-air, and despite yourself, you glanced up. He wasn’t focused on the work anymore.

“…How much to get in?”

You blinked, taking a few seconds to process the question before finally looking up, caught off guard. “For what?”

Sol didn’t look up, his hand moving slowly and deliberately over the paper as he continued sketching. "For the Halloween party." His tone was neutral, like it didn’t really matter, but the way his fingers tightened around the pencil suggested otherwise.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you actually interested in going?”

His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing just a fraction before he finally glanced at you. "Just asking," he muttered, quickly diverting his gaze back to the paper.

Then amusement flickering across your face. “You don’t seem like the type to care about university parties.”

“I don’t,” he admitted, finally setting his pencil down and meeting your gaze fully. “But you’re helping plan it…”

That stopped you in your tracks. Someone was actually interested in your party, unlike a certain someone. The way Sol said it so plainly, without teasing or deflecting, was strange—like it was simply a fact. No hidden meaning.

Sol looked away for a second, rubbing at the back of his neck, fingers smudging charcoal on his skin. You noticed the faint bruises there, ones that lingered around his neck and lower waist, the kind that showed when his shirt lifted just slightly, only for him to quickly pull it back down.

You never questioned it, though.

You had a feeling those marks weren’t from accidents, they were from bullies of course. You’d seen him at the infirmary too many times to think otherwise. The school always offered help and therapy, but it felt like nothing ever came of it. University Olympus didn’t really care about anyone who wasn’t rich or connected.

"You look like someone who actually knows horror," he muttered, still not meeting your eyes. "Not just cheap jump scares and plastic skeletons." His fingers twitched slightly before dropping back to the table. "If you're the one making it, then it might actually be... worth going."

A small sigh escaped your lips before you could stop it—nothing mocking, just amused, warm, maybe even a little surprised.

"So that’s why you’re asking."

Sol stiffened, and for the first time since you'd met him, you noticed the flush of red creeping up his neck, dusting his cheeks. He huffed, quickly turning back to his drawing like it would shield him from your reaction.

"Forget it."

But you didn’t. You could never. "No, no. I’ll make sure to send you a free ticket." You waved your hand nonchalantly before pulling out your phone.

Sol didn’t say anything back, but you caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He definitely appreciated it, especially when it came from you.

As the art class ended, the usual shuffle of students packing up their supplies filled the room. Others rushed out the door to either get home or catch the last few minutes of the dining hall's late hours.

The sounds of chairs scraping against the floor and muted conversations about upcoming deadlines echoed in the background. The sky outside had begun its slow descent into dusk, streaks of orange and purple bleeding into the horizon. You and Sol stepped out of the art building, the cool autumn air settling against your skin.

You pulled out your phone to check the time, and a thought crossed your mind. "Sol," you called.

He quickly turned his head, and you noticed how he always did that whenever you called his name. "Yes?"

"I won’t be able to walk with you to class, or from it, for the next few days," you mentioned, feeling a slight pang of regret. "This party planning's eating up my time. I’ll finish my part of the project later this week so I won’t forget."

Sol didn’t respond right away, shoving his hands into his pants pockets as he walked beside you, the gravel crunching underfoot. After a beat, he said, “I can finish it for you.”

You blinked, glancing at him. “What?”

He shrugged, his gaze fixed ahead as though the offer wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. “Your part. I can finish it for you.”

That threw you off. Again. You weren't the type to leave someone hanging like that, especially not on a project that was worth a significant chunk of your grade. While you trusted your own skills, handing it off to someone else—even someone as skilled as Sol—felt... odd.

“I don’t know…” You frowned slightly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “It’s not that I don’t think you can do it, but I usually handle my own work. I don’t like slacking off, even if it’s something small.”

Sol exhaled through his nose, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. “I’m not saying you’re slacking. You already did most of it.” He glanced at you then, his eyes sharper than before. “I just get it.”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes slightly as you tried to process his words. “Get what?”

Sol's response was almost automatic. "You," he said simply, his tone flat, like it was an obvious thing. Then, just as quickly, a faint flush of red crept up his neck, and he looked away, clearly a little caught off guard.

“I-I meant, your style." You noticed the shift in his demeanor, the way he hesitated before continuing. “The way you layer shadows, the details you focus on—it’s something I can learn from. Won’t take me more than an hour, maybe a day at most.”

His voice, though still steady, held a quiet certainty that you couldn’t quite place. There was no arrogance this time, no challenge. It wasn’t about proving he could do it better. It was just… different.

He wanted to learn from you, wanted to understand your approach.

And that, for some reason, felt strange.

You studied him for a moment, the words lingering between you like a question. There was an odd intimacy in the idea of someone else taking over your work—something about it felt too personal, too close. The thought of it made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t fully explain.

But it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just the offer. You had sensed something else before—how his gaze always seemed to follow you, how his attention lingered longer than it should. There was an intensity to it, something beneath the surface that you couldn’t ignore. You always kept it at the back of your mind, locked away and left unspoken, but it was there.

You shook it off, focusing back on his offer, trying to suppress that tight feeling in your chest. “Nah, I can complete it,” you said, brushing off the unease as best as you could.

Sol shrugged nonchalantly, though his gaze flicked back to you, a quiet understanding settling between you. “Suit yourself.”

You both started walking, the cool air tugging at the strands of your hair, and the quiet hum of the campus seemed to pulse with life in the stillness between you. As you walked, Sol’s pace slowed, and his gaze flickered briefly to the ground, a subtle shift that made you catch it—something in him had changed. You barely noticed, but you did.

“Are you heading home?” he asked, his voice casual, but there was something sharp beneath it, like a blade wrapped in velvet.

You shook your head, feeling that familiar prickling unease at the back of your neck. “No. Crowe still needs help with the party planning. There’s a ton to do, and he’s counting on me.”

Sol’s expression faltered for a split second. His lips tightened, his jaw clenching slightly as if something inside him had shifted. “So this friend of yours is Crowe, huh?” he asked, his voice more strained than you expected. His eyes narrowed just enough for you to catch it, but not enough to make it obvious.

You noticed the tension in his voice, and it made the air between you feel thicker. “Yeah… He’s my friend. I’m helping him out. The party’s important to him, so I promised I’d help,” you said, trying to keep things light, but the back of your mind nagged at you. There was something in his tone, something that hinted at more than just casual curiosity.

For a moment, Sol didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on the ground, and you could almost see the thoughts churning behind his eyes. The silence between you stretched longer than it should have, until Sol finally muttered, quieter now, as if he was sorting through his thoughts.

“Right,” he said, his voice almost hesitant.

His shoulders slumped slightly, as if trying to make himself smaller, more distant. “I’ll… I’ll take you home afterward, then.”

You blinked, surprised by the offer. “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’ll figure it out. Also, I was thinking… I might send you a ticket or two for the party, in case you’ve got someone to bring along—maybe a date?” You teased lightly, the smile on your lips almost automatic, but the flutter in your chest lingered, a feeling you couldn’t shake.

For a moment, Sol’s gaze shifted to you, his brow furrowing, lips pressing into a tight line. In that fleeting second, you caught a flash of irritation before he masked it again. “I’ll go. But a date is out of the question for someone like me. Hyugo will come with me,” he said, his tone calm, clipped.

He glanced at you then, his gaze softer, almost uncertain, and the shift didn’t go unnoticed. It was like he was wrestling with something internally, and it made you uneasy, though you couldn't quite place why.

The silence stretched between you as you both continued walking, the hum of campus fading into the background. Sol seemed lost in thought, distant, until he spoke again, his voice breaking the quiet like a sudden ripple in calm water.

“Hey,” Sol called out, his tone casual, but now there was something unsteady in it. You stopped, turning back to face him, an eyebrow raised in curiosity at the shift in his voice.

“Do you, uh, like him?”

Sol asked, his words almost hesitant, like they slipped out before he could stop them. His gaze was steady, but there was a flicker in his eyes—a slight tension that made your pulse quicken just a little. It was almost as if he was fishing for something, but you couldn't quite place what.

For a moment, everything seemed to freeze—the sounds of the campus, the distant chatter of students, the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The world fell away as you processed his question, a weight settling in the pit of your stomach. “What now?" you asked, trying to keep your voice level as low as possible. "Who are you referring to?"

Sol shifted, his eyes not quite meeting yours as he said, "Your friend, Crowe..." His voice dropped lower, the words hanging between you like an unanswered question. The air around you seemed to hum with an unspoken tension, and you could feel it in your chest—a tightening you couldn’t ignore.

You side-eyed him, trying to process what was happening, and why his question seemed to carry more weight than it should. "Why are you asking such a question?" you asked, crossing your arms defensively, trying to push back against the uncomfortable feeling creeping in.

Sol hesitated for a beat, his fingers curling into fists before he forced himself to relax them. "Just cause," he muttered, his eyes avoiding yours just a moment too long. Then, he looked at you again, his gaze almost sad now, like he was waiting for something.

"What do you think of him?"

You blinked, feeling an unfamiliar heat rush to your skin. "I mean... shit, he's my friend," you said slowly, trying to make sense of why he was asking this, why it felt so strange.

Sol's jaw tightened visibly, but he quickly masked it with a shrug, his usual cool demeanor slipping back into place. "Do you like him or not?” His voice held an edge like he was pushing for an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

You didn’t answer immediately, unsure of how to even begin.

The question felt... invasive, almost too personal like he was probing into something that wasn’t his business. Instead, you looked away, crossing your arms as if that could shield you from whatever he was looking for.

"Okay," you said, almost dismissively.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as the words hung between you. “Since you want my answer so badly…” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “I don’t really feel... anything for Crowe. He’s just a close friend, that’s all I’ll say.”

It felt strange to say it out loud, but the truth was simple—your relationships with people weren’t complicated in the way most people seemed to be. You didn’t get the rush of excitement, the butterflies, the desire to be close to someone in that way.

That wasn’t something you’d ever felt.

Crowe was just someone you gave pity to be friends with, like now, someone who needed help with the party planning. Nothing more. And it wasn’t like you didn’t appreciate him as a friend—he’s trusting and reliable—but your feelings didn’t go beyond that.

There was a flicker in Sol’s eyes as he processed your words, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he just gave you a small nod, as if satisfied with your answer. The silence between you stretched, and you could feel his gaze lingering on you, but you didn’t look back at him.

And then, almost as if on cue, Sol spoke again, his voice a little too casual, like he was trying to mask whatever it was he was really thinking.

“So… do you like anyone else, then?”

What the fuck. You paused, taken aback. Another question seemed so out of left field. You weren’t someone who spent time thinking about relationships or feelings, and honestly, the thought hadn’t crossed your mind in ages. You shrugged nonchalantly, the weight of his question still lingering like an itch you couldn’t scratch. “I don’t know,” you said, the answer rolling off your tongue with little care.

"It’s not something I really think about, honestly."

It wasn’t a lie. You’d never really put much thought into who you were supposed to like, who you were supposed to want, or any of that typical nonsense people obsessed over. You had a type, theoretically, sure. You knew what attributes you were ‘supposed’ to like. But, you never actually fell for someone with those qualities. Maybe it was just the concept of attraction that you understood, but the actual feeling?

That was still foreign to you.

Oh my god, thinking about it made your brain spiral. What did attract you? You could only pinpoint superficial stuff, like how someone looked, or how clean and put-together they were. That sounded so shallow, but it was the damn truth.

You liked people you got along with. That was it. That was all.

The idea of attraction—how people acted on it—wasn’t just distant. It hurt to think about. The obsessive thoughts started crawling into your brain, uninvited, picking apart every little thing. The more you thought, the more it didn’t make sense. The more your head started to pound, the more everything became a blur of unrealistic expectations that didn’t fit you, didn’t interest you. It had never made sense, not the way it seemed to for everyone else.

You clenched your jaw, trying to push the thoughts away, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with your bare hands. Ugh, this was too much. Just thinking about it made your head hurt too much. So much unwanted noise.

You frowned deeply, shaking off the thoughts, but the irritation still lingered.

For Sol to be thinking about you… liking someone… well, that was a different story entirely.

The more you dwelled on it, the more uncomfortable it felt.

Like he was pressing you into a space that wasn’t yours to occupy. Why was he asking you these questions? What did it matter to him who you liked or didn’t like? The thoughts didn’t stop, though. They lingered.

You couldn’t help but notice the way Sol’s gaze shifted when you gave your answer. The way he seemed almost... invested in your response. It left a bad taste in your mouth like there was something you were missing, something obvious he wasn’t saying, but the longer you thought about it, the stranger it felt.

Sol didn’t press further after that. Instead, he fell into silence, his expression unreadable as he stared ahead, lost in his thoughts.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about who Sol meant, Crowe. You couldn’t stop thinking about how easily you and Crowe interacted, how natural it was for you two to fall into a rhythm. He was one of the few people who didn’t overwhelm your brain.

Sol had been watching that dynamic, hadn’t he?

And it irked him. That much was clear. The way Crowe smiled—effortless, easy. The way his eyes always seemed to be calculating something, like he was always two steps ahead of everyone else. That cool, confident air Crowe carried around—it grated on Sol in ways he couldn’t fully explain.

He wasn’t jealous—It wasn’t about that. But something about the way you and Crowe meshed... it made something inside of Sol twist, in a way he couldn’t control, couldn’t understand.

But he kept all of that to himself, kept the thoughts buried deep.

You were your own person. Whatever dynamic you had with Crowe, it wasn’t his place to question. He tried to remind himself of that, even if it didn’t sit quite right.

But damn, watching you and Crowe together—how effortless it seemed, how naturally you both slipped into your own little world—it gnawed at Sol in a way he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t immediate, but over time, every time he saw the two of you together, something dark twisted in his gut. He wasn’t sure when it started, but he could feel it now, creeping under his skin like a slow-burning ache.

It wasn’t about Crowe—not really.

It was you.

How much of your attention he commanded, how easily you gave it to him, how little was left for anyone else. For Sol. It made him want to pull you back, to demand that you notice him the way you noticed Crowe.

The frustration burned in his chest, a familiar acid, but he buried it. He told himself it was nothing, just a fleeting feeling. Yet, every time you laughed with Crowe, every time he saw the two of you deep in conversation, Sol couldn’t help but feel a sharp pang of something ugly stir inside him.

Fuck it. Sol was jealous.

Lost in the clamor of his thoughts, Sol barely registered the sudden force that knocked you off balance, halting your steps beside him. His body tensed, irritation flaring instantly as his eyes snapped to the figure responsible.

Geo. That smug, silent bastard.

Geo’s grip on your arm was firm—possessive, yet controlled, his fingers pressing just enough to make it clear you weren’t slipping away from him so easily. His gaze locked onto yours, sharp and unreadable.

“I was calling your name.” His voice was steady, but there was something unmistakably demanding beneath it.

You exhaled sharply, yanked out of your thoughts by the sudden tug. His hold wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t exactly gentle either—it was the kind of grip that left no room for argument.

“Well, damn. Hello to you too, Geo,” you muttered, irritation flickering in your voice as you glanced at where his hand still held you.

Sol stood still, his eyes narrowed as he followed Geo’s actions, though he seemed completely oblivious to the stir he caused. What made Sol’s blood boil, however, was the way Geo’s gaze flicked down at you, lingering just a fraction too long.

Sol’s jaw tightened, in frustration. He wanted to close the gap between you and Geo, wanted to do something, anything, to put some distance between you two, but he forced himself to remain still, the pressure of his feelings simmering just beneath the surface. He took a half-step forward, his voice cool but edged with an unmistakable hint of concern.

“You okay?” His eyes scanned you, looking for any sign of discomfort, something that would give him a reason to intervene.

Before you could respond, Geo’s hand landed on your head, ruffling your hair in a slow, almost patronizing motion, pushing it back and forth like you were some distracted kid. “You need to stop letting your thoughts take over. It’s all over your damn face.”

Sol’s muscles tensed, irritation prickling under his skin. The sight of Geo touching you—so casually, so familiar—sent a sharp surge of frustration through him. His fingers twitched at his side, the urge to shove Geo’s hand away clawing at his chest.

But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t even react.

Instead, you reached up, fingers curling around Geo’s wrist in a quiet but firm grip, stopping him from shaking you any further. There was no aggression in your touch, just a steady, silent plea for him to quit it. “I’m aware,” you muttered, exhaling through your nose. “Shit, did something happen?”

Geo didn’t move, his hand still resting in yours, his expression as cold and unreadable as ever. His sharp gaze locked onto yours, unwavering—as if Sol wasn’t even there.

“Jericho says you’re late,” Geo stated flatly, his voice carrying its usual indifference. “He needs your help with the party. Told me to pick you up after class.”

You rolled your eyes, sighing. “Really? Why you?”

Geo shrugged, unconcerned. “Be grateful I agreed, or you’d be walking.” His hand slipped from yours as he took a step back, already turning to leave. He didn’t bother with another word—just a glance over his shoulder at Sol, a brief, knowing look that said more than words ever could. “I’ll be waiting ahead when you’re done talking to your…” His eyes flickered to Sol, annoyance barely concealed in his expression before he continued on his way.

You let out a frustrated sigh, irritated by the lack of help from Geo, but knowing there was little you could do to change it. As Geo walked off, you turned back to Sol, trying to piece together what had just happened.

"Right, just so you know, that’s Subaru Oogami. AKA Geo, Crowe’s supposed best friend," you explained, your tone casual, as if what he’d just done was nothing out of the ordinary.

You could tell from the look on Sol’s face that he was confused—probably wondering how you could treat that behavior as if it meant nothing. To be honest, you knew Geo well enough to know he wasn’t the type to hurt you, and as long as someone was friends with Crowe, you figured you could trust them.

But that was unnecessary to mention, so you didn’t.

Sol’s eyes narrowed, still tracking Geo’s retreating figure. Something was simmering beneath the surface, a flicker of something uncomfortably possessive in the way his jaw clenched. “Him, huh?” he muttered, trying to mask the chill in his voice, but it was obvious he was unsettled.

“Ah, right, I’ve heard of him. A strict rich guy from that high society, right?”

You scoff softly, though it comes out strained as you look away. The awkward tension between you two was building, and you shifted uncomfortably under his intense gaze. “You could say that. But he’s harmless. Just…” You trailed off, unsure how to explain without defending Geo too much. It wasn’t like you had to explain yourself to Sol, anyway.

“He’s like that with everyone. Don’t read too much into it.”

Sol wasn’t convinced.

His eyes didn’t leave the spot where Geo had stood ahead, his focus still locked on him, like he was trying to figure out something deeper he couldn’t grasp. His voice dropped, taking on a more measured tone, but there was still a sharpness to it. “I see,” he muttered, but it felt loaded with something unspoken. Like he was holding back, processing more than he was letting on.

You sensed it, too—the odd moment hanging between you. You tried to defuse it, rolling your eyes, “Soo, anyway, I really have to go. Or Crowe will get my ass again.” You shrugged and gave him a teasing smile, hoping to lighten the mood. “See you later. Don’t get too caught up in your art thing.”

Just as you turned to walk away, Sol’s voice rang out, “Wait.”

You froze, his tone pulling you back. Before you could fully react, Sol had taken a step closer, his hand reaching out, about to grip your shoulder. The motion was quick, but you pulled back instinctively, creating space between you two.

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze with an arched brow, silently asking, “What is it?”

Sol’s eyes somewhat widened, something almost reluctant, before he pulled his hand back, looking at you with a mix of frustration and pity. “Uh, Nothing,” Sol said, his voice tight, the moment of tension hanging in the air between you both. “Just... take care.”

With that, he stepped back, his expression unreadable. You gave him a nod, flashing another teasing smile, hoping to ease the tension still lingering in the air. “Okay, I’ll expect to see you at the party.” Your tone was light, casual—like nothing had shifted between you.

But as you turned on your heel and started walking away, Sol didn’t move. He stayed rooted in place, his gaze locked onto your back, watching the way you made your way toward Geo without hesitation.

His fingers curled slightly at his sides, a quiet frustration settling deep in his chest. He watched the way Geo barely had to say anything before you fell into step beside him, the way the space between you felt so natural—so practiced.

Sol exhaled sharply, jaw tightening.

You didn’t even glance back.

His mind raced with thoughts of what had just happened.

You didn’t let him touch you… but you let Crowe—Mr. perfect hold your hands all the time. Hell, even that smug asshole Geo had touched your head and your hands, yet you didn’t let Sol so much as touch your shoulder?

Fuck… He pushed his chance too early.

Then Sol’s eyes widen suddenly locked with Geo’s. When Geo glanced back at him, it was subtle, but Sol caught it—a quick sweep of his eyes, sharp and knowing.

A warning.

Sol had heard a bit about Geo from Hyugo, though Hyugo barely talked about him. When he did, it was always cryptic, like there was more going on with Geo than anyone realized.

The one thing Sol knew for sure was that those two were brothers.

As you walked beside Geo, Sol couldn’t help but notice how Geo’s sharp eyes never stopped scanning, constantly absorbing everything around him while you spoke, not really looking at him—more like explaining yourself, knowing he could hear you from that distance.

“I need to be careful around him,” Sol thought to himself, his pulse quickening with frustration.

It gnawed at him, the feeling that Geo knew exactly what he was doing—keeping your attention locked firmly on Crowe.

It was maddening.

The way Geo so effortlessly positioned himself between you and Sol, like a silent, immovable wall, made his blood boil. It was too perfect, too deliberate, and worst of all...

You didn’t seem to mind. Not one bit.

"Seriously, Geo," you started, your voice cutting through the quiet as the two of you walked side by side. The only sound between you was the faint rustling of leaves underfoot, the crisp evening air settling around you.

You shot him an exasperated look, brows furrowed. "Did you have to be that rude to Sol back there? You could’ve at least said hi instead of… whatever that was."

Geo, unsurprisingly, didn’t even glance your way. His posture remained as indifferent as ever, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, exuding that same effortless disinterest. He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated motion, the very picture of unbothered.

"Why would I bother?" His tone was flat, dismissive. "It’s not like he’s important. Just some emo lame-ass."

You let out a sharp sigh, resisting the growing urge to shove him. "Geo," you warned, irritation creeping into your voice. "You don’t have to like him, but could you at least try to be civil?"

Geo, as expected, didn’t dignify that with a response. His expression remained unreadable, gaze fixed ahead like he had all the time in the world. His silence only made your frustration simmer more—how effortlessly detached he always was, how little anything seemed to faze him.

The two of you stepped into the campus parking lot, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes. The night air carried a sharp chill, but Geo, as always, seemed completely unfazed—so much so that you almost entertained the funny idea that he must be cold-blooded. Heh. Wouldn’t be surprising.

The dim glow of the flickering streetlights reflected off his car’s sleek, freshly painted black exterior, its polished surface gleaming under the occasional passing headlights. A perfect match for the man leaning against it—unapproachable, unreadable, and utterly composed.

Without a word, Geo moved ahead of you, his steps fluid and deliberate as he reached the passenger side door. There was nothing particularly chivalrous about the way he opened it—no warmth, no grand gesture—just a smooth, effortless motion as if it was more out of habit than kindness.

Still, before stepping aside, he glanced over his shoulder, sharp gaze scanning the lot, the street beyond—checking for something. Or someone. His expression remained inscrutable, his piercing eyes flickering toward the empty road for only a fraction of a second before he moved back, allowing you to slide in.

Geo shut the door behind you with quiet finality. Again, no words.

No unnecessary pleasantries.

You observed as he strolled around the front of the car, his hands in his pockets, his stride leisurely. The detached, cool confidence in his gait was something that never changed, regardless of the circumstances. As he made it to the driver's side, he slipped in without delay, the subtle aroma of cologne hanging on the interior.

Geo didn't say anything as he started the engine, the low rumble breaking the silence between you. The dashboard lights cast a pale blue glow over his face, highlighting the angularity of his jaw and the perpetual distance in his eyes.

With one hand on the steering wheel, he shifted the car into gear, his other hand resting casually against the window. The streets blurred past as he drove, his gaze fixed ahead, entirely focused on the road—or maybe lost in thought?

Again, you had always been good at reading people—effortlessly picking up on emotions, the subtle shifts in their expressions, the way their body language betrayed thoughts they hadn’t even voiced yet.

It was something you had learned young, a skill sharpened by necessity, whether to stay on someone’s good side or simply to understand them before they understood you.

Most people were easy. Predictable.

Their emotions—fear, joy, anger, love—bled through no matter how much they tried to suppress them.

Geo was different. He was like a book with half its pages torn out, again, an enigma wrapped in cold stares and dismissive words. No tells, no cracks, nothing to latch onto. He existed in a space just out of reach, like a shadow cast by something unseen.

And yet, when it was just the two of you, something is… different.

He wasn’t easier to read, not exactly, but there were moments—fleeting, barely noticeable—where you caught glimpses of something beneath the indifference. It was subtle, but it was there.

A blessing and a curse.

Because it almost always made you overthink.

It was something you had done for as long as you could remember—analyzing, dissecting, obsessing over details most people wouldn’t even notice. Not because you wanted to, but because your mind wouldn’t let you stop. A cycle of over-awareness that had long since bled into something deeper, something you couldn’t quite turn off.

Your parents never noticed. They were too busy working to make sure you lived comfortably, too preoccupied to catch the way your thoughts spiraled, looping endlessly in a pattern you couldn’t break.

You weren’t high-class, but you weren’t lower-class either—just somewhere in between, comfortable, stable.

Geo, on the other hand, had been high society. Until he wasn’t.

Crowe had mentioned it once, in passing. How Geo had struggled after being kicked out. How he had to help him adjust to a life outside of luxury, outside of the world he had once belonged to.

You never asked Geo about it.

Now, sitting beside him in his car, you didn’t need to.

You could see it.

Not visibly—Geo never made things obvious—but in the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly, in the sharpness of his eyes despite the tiredness behind them, in the way his back pressed against the seat like he was holding something in.

His grip on the steering wheel was tight. Too tight.

You shifted, turning your body slightly toward the passenger-side window, pretending to focus on something outside. In reality, you were watching him. Studying him.

Should you say something?

Should you ask him what’s wrong?

Or would he shut you out before you even had the chance?

The silence stretched between you, thick and weighted, the only sound filling the space was the low hum of the car’s engine. Your eyes remained on the window, you could feel Geo’s presence beside you—his controlled breathing, the tension in his posture, the way his fingers flexed just slightly against the wheel.

Then, his voice broke the quiet. Low, rough, but steady.

“You keep looking at me like that.”

You didn’t move right away. Just blinked. The words were casual, but his tone wasn’t. It wasn’t annoyed, wasn’t mocking—it was something else. Something unreadable, yet laced with that same quiet intensity he always carried.

Finally, you turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze. "Like what?" you asked, feigning indifference.

Geo didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowed to a stop just a little way down from Crowe’s place, the car idling. His fingers tapped against the leather steering wheel—a slow, deliberate rhythm—before he exhaled, controlled as always.

“You’ve been glancing at me for the past twenty minutes,” he muttered, voice as flat as ever. “Are you trying to pick me apart?”

You almost smirked. Almost. “Maybe I am.”

His expression remained unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes—something brief, something you couldn’t quite place. Amusement? Annoyance? Maybe both. Geo scoffed quietly, tilting his head just a little, like he was debating whether or not to humor you. One hand stayed on the wheel, the other resting lazily on his thigh, completely at ease.

“For someone who calls me out for overanalyzing,” he said, voice flat, “you’re the biggest overthinker I know.”

Your brows furrowed, a small flicker of something sharp twisting in your chest. He wasn’t wrong, but hearing him say it—so plainly, so certain—made your stomach tighten.

You shifted in your seat, crossing your arms. "And you’re avoiding the question."

This time, he actually smirked. Just a little. The kind of expression that barely counted, but for Geo, it was practically a full reaction.

"Maybe I am." Your own words are thrown back at you. Fuck.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head, but before you could respond, Geo turned to face you completely. His gaze wasn’t distant anymore—wasn’t cold—it was sharp, focused, and something about it made your skin prickle.

He studied you for a moment, his eyes like a scalpel, then, almost as an afterthought, he spoke.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head, but before you could respond, Geo turned, fully looking at you now. His gaze wasn’t distant anymore, wasn’t cold—it was sharp, focused, and something about it made your skin prickle.

Geo studied you for a moment longer, then, almost as an afterthought, he spoke.

"You never shut your brain off, do you?"

You raised an eyebrow, already on edge. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Geo didn’t answer right away. Instead, he veered the car toward the curb, the tires rolling over gravel before he threw it in park on the side of the street. The sudden stop made the silence louder—thick and heavy.

His lips curled into a sharp, almost condescending smirk.

"It means you’re too caught up in your head." His tone was flat but laced with irritation. "You’ve got that party planned with Jericho, all the shit you’ve stacked on your plate—and yet you can’t see the problem. You’re blind."

A bitter chuckle escaped him as he leaned back slightly, arms crossed like he was preparing for a fight. "You really think it’s fine to just go—like everything’s normal? Like you can control everything around you?"

His voice sharpened, and when he looked at you again, it was with that signature, cold-eyed disdain.

“You’re delusional.”

Your stomach flipped, and you clenched your jaw, again completely thrown off by his words. You had no idea what the hell made him say that, is this what he was thinking about while driving? Anyway, something in you couldn’t just let it slide? Right? Impossible.

You pushed back, curiosity getting the best of you. “I’m not delusional,” you muttered, voice tight.

"You are." His voice was low, and steady, like he was explaining something painfully obvious.

"You don’t see what’s right in front of your face. Which is crazy for an overthinker, you should’ve seen it.” He sighed, the space between you suddenly feeling too small. "You’ve got all these people circling you, and you can’t even tell that one of them is obsessed with you."

Your eyes widened in disbelief, heart pounding in your chest.

"Stay home. Stay with me, or just stay the hell out of that mess. Just don’t go to that damn party. Tell Jericho you’re sick or—"

"No," you interrupted, voice steadier than you felt. "I’m going."

Geo’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. For a split second, frustration flickered across his face, but then it twisted into something darker, more bitter. He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, his eyes cold.

“You’re a fucking waste of brain matter, you know that?”

Your stomach dropped, but you didn’t back down.

“All this damn time, I thought you were different. I thought you actually had some fucking potential. But no. You’re just like every other idiot who always comes up to me, the same ones who think they have a damn chance with me.”

His words hit like a punch to the gut, cutting more profound than anything you’d ever expected. You froze, unable to hide the hurt as it twisted inside you.

“You don’t have a clue what you’re getting into,” Geo went on, his voice thick with disdain. “You’re so wrapped up in your stupid head and pride that you can’t even see what’s right in front of you. This whole ‘I’ve got it all figured out’ act? It’s pathetic.”

He scoffed, his lips curling in disdain as he finished.

“You’re fucking pathetic.”

You stayed quiet, your chest heavy with the weight of his words. They echoed in your mind, louder than anything else. Shit—you shouldn’t push anything… like damn. The sting, the sharpness of it, burned deep. You tried to breathe, but it felt like something was stuck in your chest, choking you.

You wanted to snap back. You wanted to tell him to shut up, throw something back at him like you always did—but no words came.

There was nothing.

Who would’ve thought that he saw it too? The weakness…

The parts of you that you worked so hard to hide. It hurt more than you cared to admit. You thought you could handle it—hell, you always handled things—but this... again, this was different. This was Geo everyone that talked about, someone you never imagined would rip through your walls like that. His words weren’t just rude—they were calculated like he wanted to see how much he could break you.

Geo watched you, waiting for you to speak, but you couldn’t. Not yet. Not when you felt like you were on the verge of cracking. The silence dragged on, thick, suffocating. Finally, you forced the words out, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I’m still going to that party. No matter what you say." You could feel his frustration building before he even spoke, his jaw tight and his fists gripping the wheel as if holding himself back.

“Fine, be a damn idiot,” he sneered, “Don’t say no one—”

"Fuck you, Geo." The words shot out like a bullet, sharp and bitter, and you didn’t even try to stop them.

"I’m not staying home or with you. I’m going," you spat, your voice steadier now, but your chest felt tight from the sting of his words, still burning through you like acid.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. You turned your head just enough to throw one last cutting glance his way, your words coming faster now, "I don’t need your pity, Geo. Don’t bother showing up to the damn party. That’s all you could’ve said, but no—you had to go full-on asshole, like always."

You saw the flicker of something cross his face, something you couldn’t quite name. It felt damn good—like for once, you were finally getting under his skin.

You sighed, your voice growing heavier. "You’re such damn pessimistic all the time. Don’t be mad at me because I actually want to have a little optimism. We only get one shot at this life, you know? Sure, we might be seen as lower class, but that doesn’t mean we can’t live it out and make something of it.”

You let that flicker grow into a sharp, mocking smirk.

"Everyone’s right about you… You’re just some smug asshole to everyone. Anyone but Crowe." You snorted, shaking your head. "Like you won’t show respect to anyone unless they’re bending over backward just to earn a sliver of your attention."

You took a breath, steadying your voice even as the weight in your chest tightened.

"I listened to Crowe, you know. When everyone else told me to leave you the hell alone, that you weren’t worth the trouble—I didn’t. He told me you were worth trying for. That under all the sharp edges and venom, there was something real."

You looked at Geo, jaw clenched.

"So I pushed past your rudeness, your walls, your cold, condescending bullshit. I held myself strong to talk to you sometimes—because I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand why those simpering idiots were always swooning over you like you were some prize to be won."

Your voice lowered, bitter.

"They never even knew you. They never gave a damn about how you actually think or feel. They just loved the image, the fantasy. But I—I actually made the effort. I learned who you were. I tried to be your friend, even when you made it nearly impossible."

You paused, your gaze hard and unwavering.

"And you still lumped me in with them. You really think I ever saw you the way they did? That I ever put you on some pedestal like you’re some untouchable god?"

You shook your head slowly.

"You must be out of your damn mind."

You turned your head just enough to look at him one last time. You refused to let him see how much it was hurting you—how his words had gotten under your skin, how they twisted everything you thought you knew about him.

The silence that followed was thick with everything you weren’t saying. Geo’s posture was rigid, his jaw set, but you could see the shift in him—the moment his walls snapped shut.

He didn’t say anything.

And that was good enough for you.

You threw the passenger door open and stepped out without hesitation. The slam of the door behind you echoed with finality—loud, sharp, and unapologetic. You didn’t look back.

Screw it. Screw his expensive car, his cold stares, his bullshit attitude. You didn’t care what he felt anymore—if he even felt anything at all. You were sick of trying to guess, sick of trying to prove yourself to someone who refused to see you.

He wasn’t going to control you.

Not your plans, not your night, not your damn heart.

Your footsteps hit the pavement hard as you headed up toward Crowe’s house. There was weight in every step, but also something else—a kind of clarity, a sharpness cutting through the fog. The ache in your chest didn’t vanish, but it settled.

Became something you could carry without breaking.

You were done. Truly done.

You spent the last few weeks of October wrapped in party planning with Crowe and his far more tolerable, socially functional friends. Between costume designs, playlists, and coordinating food runs, you stayed busy—meticulously so.

Obsessively, if you were honest with yourself. Every little detail had to be perfect. Every task had to be just right. It kept your hands full, your mind somewhat quiet.

But no matter how much you tried to bury yourself in logistics and glitter, Geo still haunted the back of your thoughts like a splinter you couldn’t tweeze out.

Why him?

Why was he so compelling to you?

It wasn’t attraction, not in the way others meant it. You knew yourself too well for that. You weren’t yearning for some romantic happily-ever-after or anything as messily complicated as sex. No, it was something deeper and much harder to name—something primal and cerebral all at once.

You didn’t really know Geo. Not personally.

Not in the way that counted. And maybe that was part of the reason you couldn’t stop circling back to him like your mind was caught in a loop it couldn’t break. That sense of tension, of unresolved something between you both—it lingered, heavy and unfinished.

You told yourself it was just curiosity. You’d studied him like a puzzle, tried to map out the jagged edges of his personality, chipped away at the walls he kept so deliberately high. You thought if you pushed hard enough, and reached far enough, you might finally understand what it was that pulled you to him despite everything telling you to turn away.

Maybe, just maybe, you had hoped there was something mutual buried underneath all that cold, arrogant silence.

But then again… maybe not.

Geo was an enigma—emotionally locked down, guarded in a way that felt almost strategic. Maybe even cruel. You weren’t even sure he understood himself, let alone whatever this weird, intangible bond between you two was. And it was never about fear of rejection.

That would have been easier. Cleaner.

No, what terrified you more was the ambiguity.

Was it just one-sided intensity on your part? Was it some projection, some need to feel seen by the one person who refused to be easily figured out?

You hated not knowing.

Not being able to label it, define it, solve it.

And like clockwork, the quiet moments became the most unbearable.

Your thoughts didn’t settle—they spiraled. Repeating, rearranging, recalculating. You’d catch yourself organizing the same party checklist over and over again, rewriting the guest list, recounting the plates, double—no, triple—checking the labels like it was the only thing holding your world in place. The tiniest details suddenly felt urgent, like if you didn’t get them exactly right, something worse might slip through the cracks.

Because if you control that maybe you could drown out the ache.

The ache of not knowing what the hell Geo meant to you anymore.

Ever since the argument—sharp words exchanged like knives behind closed car doors—you hadn’t spoken to each other beyond the bare minimum. A few clipped greetings. One-word replies. Careful silences. You weren’t even sure anyone else in the group knew what had happened between you two.

At least, you hoped not.

You told yourself, even now, that all you ever wanted was to be his friend. That was safer. Simpler. Honest enough.

But being around Geo always felt like walking a tightrope strung across a minefield—one wrong step, one wrong look, and you were done. Every conversation felt like holding your breath, waiting for the inevitable shutdown. Waiting for him to pull away again.

And then there was the weight of everything that came with him.

Lunchtime on campus made it worse—sitting on the cracked stone benches in the courtyard, the sun catching on chrome thermoses and gossip-laced grins. Geo never said much, barely touched his food, just sat there with his arms crossed while the world leaned in around him.

People watched him like he was something more than human—untouchable, unknowable. They hung off his every word even when he looked too tired to speak. And God, he was tired. You could see it in the way he pinched the bridge of his nose, the subtle twitch of annoyance when someone got too close.

Still, they hovered—those simpering idiots who trailed behind him like moths to a cold flame. Smiling too hard. Laughing too loud. Guarding the fantasy they’d built of him with something that felt close to reverence. They worshipped from a distance and tore into anyone who got too close.

You weren’t one of them. You never had been. You didn’t want to be.

But something inside you still reached—aching, grasping, quietly, stubbornly.

You knew better. Always had.

And yet here you were… pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending that raw thing you felt—that hollow, sharp, impossible thing in your chest—wasn’t real. Just a trick of proximity. Just curiosity.

But you knew it wasn’t curiosity.

It wasn’t love, not in the traditional sense. Not romantic, not sexual. Just something real. Something you couldn't name but couldn't ignore.

Something yours.

And maybe it was easier to keep pushing it down.

But how much longer could you do that?

How much longer before it started to swallow you whole?

You didn’t have an answer. All you had was the countdown in your chest—and it hit zero faster than you expected.

The Halloween party had arrived.

What once felt like some distant event, a plan scrawled in notebooks and smoothed over in too many group chats, was suddenly real. Immediate. Inevitable.

The university buzzed with anticipation—half-baked costume decisions, whispered hookups, people making last-minute runs for glitter, masks, and fake blood. The energy in the air clung to everything like static, sharp, and waiting to snap.

And at the center of it all… was you.

You and Crowe hadn’t just thrown a party—you’d curated an experience. A spectacle. And it showed. His family’s house, already intimidating in its quiet wealth, had been reimagined under your hands as something cinematic. Unsettling. The kind of place that made people stop at the gate and take a breath before stepping in.

The lawn was a stage: flickering jack-o'-lanterns casting shifting light across the path, ghostly projections stitched into the siding, and fog machines hissing slow tendrils across the cobblestone-like creeping fingers. It looked haunted, like a nightmare you couldn’t wake from.

Inside, it was worse in the best way—an exquisite kind of chaos, curated down to the last unnerving detail. Every corner was scrubbed, styled, and sharpened into something eerie and cinematic, like a fever dream with a guest list.

Cobwebs draped from antique chandeliers, casting spider-silk shadows across the vaulted ceilings. The rooms glowed with an otherworldly wash of sickly green and violet light, highlighting skeletal decorations curled around stair railings as they belonged there.

Animatronics were spaced just far enough apart to lull people into a false sense of safety before jerking to life with mechanical shrieks and hollow eyes, making even the boldest students jump.

A fog machine hissed from some hidden corner, spilling thick mist across the hardwood floors and blurring everything into a surreal haze—nothing quite solid, nothing quite real.

Music throbbed through concealed speakers in every room. A mix of haunted remixes and high-energy basslines created a strange harmony—half rave, half séance. The sound wrapped around the crowd like a spell, pulling them deeper into the night.

The house was alive—choked with bodies and breath and artificial blood. Students pressed shoulder to shoulder in the crush of celebration, faces half-hidden behind masks, makeup, and shadows. Laughter rose like smoke. Screams echoed from the haunted hallway setups you’d helped build.

And still, the night was just beginning.

You stood beside Crowe at the entrance, watching it all unfold. People lined up outside in the cold, either flashing last-minute tickets or raising phones with QR codes shimmering under flickering porch lights. You scanned them in, mechanical and composed, your mask in place.

Crowe was in his element—smiling that easy pretty prince smile, and talking easily with each individual who passed through. He worked the crowd like he owned it—which, in a way, he did, turning what could have been a chaotic check-in nightmare and making it smooth, almost seamless.

Sometimes, a person would fumble with their phone, attempting to pull up their ticket, and Crowe—charmer that he was—would lightly tease them before waving them in regardless. "Come on, don't make me regret this," he'd say, laughing in return.

It was effortless for him. Natural. And yet, as the line snaked down the driveway, the buzz of conversation and the pounding bass of the music lingering in the air, your mind started to drift.

You, though, weren't quite as swept up in the moment. Sure, you'd been a part of the planning, and on paper and as line, the night was supposed to be perfect.

But tonight?

Your mind was elsewhere. Not perfect.

Somewhere far away.

You barely registered Crowe’s voice when he asked about your costume. Something about whether it was too tight, or if you were still comfortable.

You didn’t really answer. But you thought about it.

Brittany had planned everyone’s costumes weeks ago, assigning them out like she was the director of a twisted stage play. She’d made Crowe dress as a prince—of course she did.

It was almost too fitting with his deep blue eyes, long brown hair braided down his shoulder, and that easy confidence that made him look like royalty even without the costume. The dark velvet jacket, silver-stitched and regal, only cemented the image. He didn’t protest. He wore it like it was made for him.

Then you spotted them by the punch bowl—Jess and Brittany, standing close but radiating entirely different energies.

Brittany was already the center of attention, surrounded by people hanging on her every exaggerated laugh. She thrived there, in the thick of it, her voice sugary and slick, like honey laced with venom.

Her devil costume was unapologetically dramatic: a red corset dress that shimmered like sin, fishnet tights, thigh-high boots, and glittery horns that caught the light every time she turned her head. The tail? Real. Not literally—but it flicked behind her with every step like it had a mind of its own.

She moved like she owned the party like the floor should part for her heels. The way she looked at people—like they were either pawns or competition—fit the role a little too well.

Jess, in contrast, looked like she'd been dragged there by divine obligation. She stood just behind Brittany, an angel in soft white. Her dress was simple, flowy, ethereal in that gentle, untouched kind of way. White feathery wings sat neatly between her shoulder blades, a delicate halo perched above her head like it didn’t quite belong to her.

Very much Heaven and hell, playing nice—for now.

Naturally, Deryl had been shoved into a werewolf costume—if you could even call it that. He was half-shirtless, with fake fur strapped across his shoulders like an afterthought, plastic fangs barely clinging to his teeth, and clawed gloves that he kept using to dramatically rake through his hair.

Honestly? It suited him way more than it should’ve.

He was mid-keg stand when you caught sight of him, legs flailing while two guys held him up and a crowd screamed like it was a full moon. His howl—somewhere between a frat bro and a dying animal—rattled through the house with zero shame.

Deryl didn’t need alcohol to act feral… but it definitely helped.

And then there was you.

Brittany had all but bullied you into dressing as what she lovingly dubbed a “sexy fine-ass cat”—in her words, “You already dress like a damn witch every day, babe. Spice it up. Be a mystical slut.”

You weren't sure what part of you gave off sexy feline energy, but apparently, your everyday vibe screamed witchy recluse turned seductive alley cat, and she was ready to roll with it.

Somehow, against all logic and reason, you had agreed.

Possibly in a moment of sleep deprivation. Possibly under threat. Possibly because Brittany said if you didn’t wear the cat ears, she’d cry—and she looked dead serious about it. So now you stood at the glass front door, staring at your reflection like you were seeing a cursed mirror in a haunted house.

The dress wasn’t… bad. Honestly, it was hot. It was just… a lot.

It clung to you like it had plans and didn’t believe in boundaries. Black lace, party chic, dipped just enough in the front to remind you that bending over was not on the agenda tonight. The asymmetrical ruffled hem flirted with your thighs in a way that felt downright criminal.

Every few steps you had to subtly yank it down so it didn’t transform into a glorified napkin. And the sleeves—long, flared by your hands, and vaguely witchy—made you feel like you were one minor inconvenience away from casting a petty hex. You kinda loved them. But they didn’t distract from the very intentional peek of your bralette and matching boyshorts through the lace.

Because of course, Brittany insisted. “Just a hint of slut,” she said. “Like you accidentally seduced someone on your way to hex their ex. Tasteful thot.”

You bargained for a silver chain belt—your last shred of sanity—and she allowed it only after you swore on your grave and hers that you’d wear the damn cat ears.

Whiskers, though? Absolutely not. She tried. Oh, she tried.

Came at you with eyeliner and the audacity. Tried to draw a little nose and whiskers like you were a children’s cartoon. You almost left. She had to physically block the door and swear on all her overpriced brushes that she wouldn’t touch your face again.

She kept her word. Technically.

Because of the makeup she was allowed to do? Dangerously good.

Smoky eyeshadow with a silver shimmer so subtle it made your eyelids look like enchanted moon dust. A razor-sharp winged liner that made your eyes look exhausted, dangerous, and vaguely mythological. “Your tired-ass eyes need drama,” she muttered like a war general.

“You're mysterious. Like a cat that’s also seen some shit.” Your lips? Just a clear gloss. Deceptively simple. Pure bait. And don’t even bring up the eyebrows. Brittany shaped them like she was designing the arches of a cursed cathedral. You weren’t allowed to leave until they were “even, spiritual, and slightly threatening.”

So now, here you were. A seductive black cat from some weird fever dream. Tail not included—but dignity? Also missing.

You looked too hot. It felt illegal.

Just as you were adjusting to the new, foreign sensation of being seen in a way you usually avoided, Crowe paused the ticket check-in. His usual composure faltered just enough for him to take a step back, and then he motioned for one of the other student council members to take over.

Without a word, he gently guided you to the side, away from the loudness of the party. His touch was light but steady as if he instinctively knew you needed a moment away from all the noise.

The music and laughter seemed to fade as he led you toward a quieter corner, his gaze softening like he could sense that the night was taking its toll on you in ways you weren’t ready to admit.

"Hey," he said, his voice low and reassuring, "You okay?" His words were careful as if he was treading lightly, always aware of your boundaries.

“Hm?” You looked up at him, your mind still lost in the haze of the party and your own thoughts.

“At the front door, I told you how beautiful you are, and you didn’t say a word back. You out of touch," Crowe said with a teasing smile, but there was an edge of concern beneath it.

You shrugged, trying to brush it off. "It’s nothing," you murmured, your gaze flickering back toward the crowd. "Just... stuff. You know.”

Crowe’s easy smile faltered for just a second, a flicker of uncertainty passing through his eyes. He was used to seeing you sharp, in control, untouchable. But tonight? You felt anything but. Like you were drifting just out of reach, your skin felt foreign and too tight.

He stepped a little closer, his tone shifting, softer. "Is it about the party?" he asked, the confidence he usually wore so easily now mixed with a rare hint of concern. "I know it’s a lot, overwhelming, but we pulled it off, right?"

You hesitated, fighting the urge to tell him what was really gnawing at you. Because it wasn’t the party—like the party is perfectly fine.

It was Geo, fucking asshole himself.

But telling Crowe that? You already knew how it would go.

And as much as he acted like he had it all together, Crowe wasn’t a prince in shining armor—he was more like a mother goose, ready to swoop in and take care of everyone. The last thing you needed tonight was for him to start hovering over you like he always did when things got too messy.

“The party’s going great,” you said, forcing a smile that you knew didn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s turning out exactly how we planned.”

Crowe studied you with that sharp, perceptive gaze of his. He didn’t speak right away, but the way his eyes softened told you everything you needed to know—he was about fifty percent convinced.

“I see,” he murmured. Fuck.

The unspoken understanding hung in the air between you two, silent but enough to acknowledge what was unsaid. For now, it was enough. But then, true to form, Crowe shifted gears—his grin slipping back into place like a well-worn mask, the kind that made everything feel just a little bit easier.

“Well, since you're not planning to entertain the guests, at least make sure you have a little fun. I've got surprises lined up for tonight—keep your eyes peeled, all right?”

A small, light laugh escaped you, despite yourself. Classic fucking Crowe. Always ready with a distraction, always able to steer the ship when it felt like it might veer off course. And while it didn’t entirely loosen the tight knot twisting in your stomach, it was something.

A welcome break, even if just for a moment.

The music shifted, bass-heavy and pulsing through the floor, as another wave of guests arrived, their costumes ranging from carefully curated masterpieces to last-minute, half-assed efforts. Crowe turned his attention to them, smoothly slipping into host mode, greeting people with his usual charisma.

And you? You turned toward the bar table where one of the student council members was mixing drinks like they were auditioning for a bartending competition.

Because let’s be real, if you spent too much time listening to the thoughts running in your head, you might as well just call it a night. And after everything you’d put into this party? No way in hell.

You weren’t going to let your overthinking ruin the only night you’d had the time to enjoy. You deserved one damn night of fun, and you were going to get it, even if it meant hitting the booze a little harder than usual.

So, what did you do?

You grabbed a Blackberry Margarita, obviously.

It was fruity. It was sweet. And deceptively strong. The kind of drink that burned just enough to remind you it wasn’t juice but still tasted like candy—dangerous, but perfect.

One glass turned into two, then three, and before you knew it, you were feeling warm in places that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Your thoughts started to blur a little, edges softening, and suddenly, this night was looking a lot better.

This was fun. It had to be. It’s Halloween.

This is your chance to have fun. Like Crowe had it all under control. Safe to drink. So, for now, you could pretend the world was fine and focus on the music that thumped through the room, pulling you into a nostalgic vibe you didn’t know you were missing. Four drinks in, and yeah, you were starting to think maybe you were finally having fun.

You made your way to the nearly packed dance floor, the chaos of the living room fading into the background. A familiar song—one you used to play on repeat back when you were younger—boomed from the speakers, its nostalgic pulse tugging at you like an old memory resurfacing.

You didn’t blend into the crowd. You never did. Instead, your movements took on their own rhythm—less about the usual grind and more about the flow. With the flick of your wrist, you spun, your body twisting in fluid, whimsical arcs.

Your hands sliced through the air like they were painting shapes, each motion deliberate and graceful, your goth-whimsy style putting a contrast against the more traditional dance moves around you. You leaned, arms sweeping low, letting the music guide you like it was all a dream.

The crowd melted away, the music pulling you deeper, blending the present and past into each graceful twist. You felt like the only person moving in the world, wrapped in the rhythm, lost in the melody that had stuck with you through the years.

Then, through the haze of the dance, you heard it. “Hey!”

A voice. Familiar. Light-hearted, cutting through the noise like it was meant for you alone.

You froze mid-spin, the music suddenly too loud in your ears, and the flow of your movements interrupted. Your feet stumbled slightly as you pulled yourself out of the crowd, suddenly aware of everything again.

You turned, startled, and found Sol standing there, his arms crossed with a slight, almost imperceptible blush coloring his face. His zombie costume clung to him with the perfect amount of eerie charm, as if it had been tailored for his usual emo energy.

Next to Sol was Hyugo, looking like he’d stepped straight out of an old-school horror flick, his tattered mummy costume hanging off him in the most charmingly out-of-place way.

But it wasn’t the costumes that caught your attention—it was Sol. His gaze was locked on the crowd, intense and calculating, like he was reading each person in the room. When his eyes found you, they didn’t just skim over you like they usually did. They locked.

It wasn’t casual this time.

“You made it after all,” you said, trying to find your footing again, though your voice sounded a little distant like you were still processing everything around you. Your eyes held his for a moment, and you forgot the usual back-and-forth banter. “And I see you brought your date,” you added, trying to keep it light. “Hi, Hyugo.” You offered a soft smile.

“Hey! You look so pretty!” Hyugo chimed in, his grin infectious.

Sol shifted a little closer, subtly nodding in your direction. “Yeah, well, someone told me you were going all out for this. Figured I’d see for myself if it lived up to the hype.” His voice was playful, but there was something in it that didn’t quite match his usual tone—like he was holding back.

Hyugo, grinning mischievously, rolled his eyes. “You should’ve heard him,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. “‘Gotta go to this party. Gotta go.’ Like it was some kind of mission or something.”

Sol’s posture stiffened, his lips pressing into a thin line at the jab, but the flicker of something else in his eyes passed so quickly that you almost missed it. He turned back to you, his gaze lingering just a little too long.

It wasn’t just a look anymore.

“You know,” Hyugo cut in, nudging Sol with an exaggerated grin, “I always thought zombies went after brains, but I think this one’s hunting for someone’s heart tonight.”

Sol’s head snapped toward him, caught completely off guard for a split second. His face didn’t betray much, but the sharp glare he threw Hyugo could’ve sliced through steel. And yet… he didn’t deny it. Didn’t joke it off either. He just kept staring—at Hyugo first, then at you.

And when his gaze landed on you again, something shifted.

Your stomach knotted.

Whether it was the margaritas or the way Sol was looking at you—like he knew something you didn’t—you weren’t sure. Either way, the air felt heavier now, thick with something that made your pulse stutter.

Hyugo, blissfully unaware or maybe choosing chaos on purpose, clapped Sol on the back with a wink. “Good luck, dude,” he muttered before strolling off into the crowd like it was nothing.

And just like that, it was just the two of you.

Alone. Oh, fuck.

It was like time hiccuped.

Everything slowed—just enough to feel off-kilter, like you were suddenly too aware of your own breathing, your posture, the way your fingertips itched with nervous energy. The music thumped in the background, but it felt distant now, muffled by the whirlwind in your own head. You stood still, rooted, not quite sure what to do with your hands or your face or your damn heartbeat.

Then Sol shifted slightly, just enough to close the space between you. His voice dropped—low, quiet, private—and the sound of it jolted something in your chest.

“You look... different tonight.”

You blinked, startled by the way the words landed—unexpected and heavy. “What do you mean?” you asked a bit too fast, your voice edged with something sharper than you intended, a reflex defense. Your tongue felt clumsy in your mouth like you couldn’t quite keep up with yourself.

You felt off, and it wasn’t just the alcohol. It was him.

The way he was watching you.

Sol didn’t flinch at your tone. He studied you for a beat longer than felt casual, eyes dragging across your features with an unsettling kind of precision. Not in a creepy way, but like he was measuring something. As if you were a puzzle he was still trying to solve.

You shifted your weight, arms folding like a subconscious shield. His gaze made your skin feel warm, but not in a flattering way—more like being under a spotlight when you hadn’t asked for one.

“I-I mean you just look really pretty, I just…” Sol’s voice faltered like it had tripped over itself. “I didn’t think you’d wear… this.” He gestured vaguely at your outfit, and though his tone tried to stay casual, it didn’t land that way. Not even close.

There was no teasing. No smugness. Just something sharp beneath it—something edged in disbelief, frustration, and something dangerously close to yearning.

Maybe even a little bitter.

You forced a smile, lopsided and tight. “It’s Halloween. My friend Brittany made me be a black cat,” you said, your voice dry. “Meow.”

A laugh slipped out—awkward, half-hearted, and absolutely doomed from the start.

Sol didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the crowd, watching nothing. Like he needed to recalibrate. People moved past, shouting, dancing, laughing—utter chaos—and yet here he was, still.

Frozen. Staring at you like you broke something in him just by existing.

And then, finally, his eyes returned to yours. The look he gave you wasn’t neutral. It was heated, heavy, and dark in a way that made the cat ears on your head feel ten times worse. Like they were personally attacking him.

This time, Sol’s voice was gentler, quieter than before. Like he was picking through each word carefully, testing them on his tongue before releasing them. “Anyway… I came because I wanted to talk to you.”

You let out a soft sigh, eyes still on Sol. “About what…?”

But your attention was already splintering—slipping through the cracks of the moment. Like your body was still here, anchored in front of him, but your mind had quietly drifted elsewhere, tugged by something faint… familiar. You weren’t sure why you looked, just that you had to.

And then you saw him.

Geo.

Wait. Wait—wait a damn minute. He came??

He actually showed up?

Your pulse tripped. There he was, just past the wavering edge of the living room crowd, stiff and statuesque near the kitchen archway. A cheap plastic skeleton hung limply in front of him, swaying as someone brushed past it. Two partygoers beside him were reenacting a ridiculous slasher-movie death scene, laughing too loud, too close.

And Deryl—because of course it was Deryl—had one arm slung over Geo’s shoulder like they were best bros in a buddy cop film. Geo did not look thrilled about this. Actually, Geo looked like he was being held hostage by social interaction itself.

By the way… No costume. No effort.

Just Geo, in his normal clothes, standing in the middle of Halloween chaos like he was silently calculating how to disappear through the nearest wall.

Your brain did a somersault.

Your eyes locked with his for just a second. A blink. But it was enough. You saw it—the flicker. Not annoyance. Not boredom. But something softer. Tighter. Concern, maybe. Worry, definitely.

You blinked rapidly and turned your head, forcing your eyes away before Sol could follow your gaze. With a subtle shift, you angled your body just enough to block his line of sight—like the literal black cat slipping through the sight before anything was exposed.

Your hand brushed lightly against Sol’s arm, a casual, grounding touch that seemed to anchor his attention. “Wait—what were you saying again?” you asked, voice slightly too upbeat, your tone wearing a thin coat of distraction.

Sol’s head tilted, eyes widen just slightly. He wasn’t oblivious—never was. There was a flicker of suspicion behind his gaze, the kind that made your spine tighten.

But before he could say anything—

“Can I steal you for a second?”

Crowe’s voice slipped in from behind, smooth and quiet, like he’d been waiting for the exact moment. No warning. No preamble. Just presence.

You turned instinctively.

Crowe stood there, composed as ever, the picture of casual control—drink in hand, the other already half-extended toward you like this moment had been planned down to the second. His eyes flicked to Sol briefly—acknowledging, not inviting—and then settled on you with a look too polished to be anything but intentional.

“Sorry to cut in,” he said smoothly, flashing an apologetic smile so polished it barely masked the calculation underneath. “Just need a quick word with our feline coordinator. Party logistics.”

The air beside you changed.

You didn’t have to look to feel the way Sol tensed—his body stiffening like he’d been struck. His jaw ticked, a single muscle shifting under his skin. He didn’t speak, but his silence screamed. Like he had something to say, something sharp and burning, but kept it behind gritted teeth.

You didn’t give him the chance.

“Yeah, of course,” you said lightly, already turning toward Crowe. Your hand brushed his, barely there, and his touch answered at the small of your back—guiding, light, but firm enough to steer.

You felt the heat of Sol’s stare follow you as you left him behind. Crowe led you toward the stairs like nothing had happened, taking a sip from his cup, cool and unbothered. Like he hadn’t just intercepted a moment teetering on the edge of something volatile.

“What’s this about?” you asked, side-eying him.

“Well,” he started, tone smooth as ever, an arm draping over your shoulders like it belonged there, “Some people are getting danced out—figured I’d switch things up.”

You squinted, suspicious. “Switch things up how?”

Crowe’s grin curved gentle and easy. “Games.”

You blinked at him. “You wanna bring out games? At a college party.”

“Yes.” He didn’t even flinch. You stared harder. “Like... Connect Four? Uno? You’re telling me drunk twenty-somethings want to sit on the floor and relive kindergarten?”

Crowe shrugged, maddeningly smug. “You’d be surprised. People crave childhood nostalgia when they’re buzzed and existential. Give them enough alcohol and suddenly Jenga’s the most intense thing they’ve done all year.”

You blinked again. Damn it… he had a point.

Still, something in his tone felt a little too casual. “The games are in the big closet upstairs,” he added like that wasn’t the most suspicious sentence in existence. “You know the one.”

You blinked at him. Yeah, you knew the one. That oversized, borderline-abandoned linen closet that felt like a junk drawer for the entire house. The one people only opened when they were desperate or nosy. Or both. “Right,” you muttered, nodding slowly, distracted already as you ran through the mental gymnastics of reaching whatever “games” Crowe had buried in there.

You started up the stairs, heels clicking against the hardwood, the thump of bass fading behind you the higher you climbed. The hallway was quieter, shadows stretched long under dim lights—like the party forgot this part of the house existed.

You reached the closet and popped it open without a second thought, flipping the light on and stepping inside like it was just another errand. The air inside was cool, faintly dusty, and the whole space had that weird too-still vibe.

Your eyes immediately found the box of games—of course—perched on the very top shelf.

You stared up at it. “Great.”

Because of course Crowe wouldn’t make it easy. Why leave them somewhere normal when he could turn it into a damn climbing expedition? You stepped in further, squinting around for anything resembling a stool—fucking nothing.

Just dusty boxes, tangled holiday lights, and some ancient-looking trunk shoved in the corner like a dead body in a bad mystery movie. Whatever.

You stretched up, fingers brushing the edge of the game box, willing it to just fall into your hands. Hoping, the tip of your fingers nudged the box… and then—

“Why are you in here?”

You nearly fucking screamed.

Your body jerked, your spine going stiff as your eyes snapped wide. You twisted just enough to glance behind you—Close. No—too close.

Geo was right there.

You were practically pressed against him, your back meeting the solid wall of his chest. Broad. Warm. Unyielding. His presence filled the already-cramped closet like he belonged there like he’d been standing behind you this whole time, watching. Waiting.

Your breath hitched. You tilted your head back on instinct—eyes dragging up the line of his throat, to his jaw, to the calm, unreadable look in his face.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

Instead, he just reached past you, arm brushing your shoulder as he casually plucked the game box off the top shelf—cool as ever, like this wasn’t one of the most intimate positions two people could be in without making it weird.

Stupid tall guy with freakish long arm reach. He glanced around the room, finally shifting just a little so you could breathe again.

You blinked up at him, deadpan. “Seriously?”

He glanced down at you, then looked around the room like he wasn’t the one who’d just appeared out of the void. “Could ask you the same,” he said.

You squinted at him. “Crowe sent me up here. Said people were tired of dancing and wanted something else to do.”

Geo let out a quiet breath, almost like a scoff, somewhat a little lost. “Deryl asked me to come grab the games too.”

Your brows furrowed. “Huh.”

Before either of you could say more—SLAM.

The closet door slammed. Hard. You spun around mid-what the hell just as the knob jiggled—once, twice—and then stopped. Click.

You stared at it like it had personally betrayed you.

Geo stepped up beside you, calm as hell, and gave the handle a test twist. A polite little shake. Then the verdict: “…Locked.”

You blinked slowly, mentally buffering while your heart caught up to the situation. “Oh my god.” You said it like a prayer and a curse all rolled into one. “Those sons of bitches.”

And right on cue, came laughter—low, amused, 100% guilty.

Crowe’s voice floated through the door like this was just another Thursday. “Whoops.”

Then Deryl, chipper as ever: “Don’t worry! We’ll let you out in like… twenty minutes! Or whenever you emotionally bond! Whichever comes first!”

You slapped your hand against the door with the force of a goddamn anime character powering up. “Crowe!”

“Love you too~!” he sang back, way too cheerfully.

“See you!” Deryl added before he and Crowe walked away from the door, heading back to the party downstairs.

Geo let out the most exhausted sigh known to mankind, shook his head, and leaned back against the wall like this was mildly inconvenient at best.

Like he was above it all. Like always.

“Ugh. You’ve got fucking to be kidding me…” he muttered, his tone dangerously deadpan. He looked down at you again, not with anger—more like straight judgment. Like you were the wild animal in this cage and he was the zookeeper trying to guess if you’d bite.

Didn’t say anything mean, but his silence was definitely loud. You groaned dramatically and stomped over to the old wooden trunk in the corner, plopping down with a huff. “If I die in here, tell everyone I went out bitter and vengeful.”

Geo crossed his arms. “You’ll die of being over-dramatic before the air runs out.”

This was it.

You were going to die here. At a Halloween party. Locked in a closet. With him.

Out of everyone—you had to get trapped in here with Geo. Tall, grumpy, impossible, judgmental, annoying Geo.

You glared at him from your seat on the trunk like your sheer rage could burn a hole through his stupid, emotionally constipated face.

He stared right back, arms crossed, completely unfazed. “You know, I didn’t realize Halloween was code for desperate cosplay.”

Your jaw hit the floor. “Excuse me?”

He gestured vaguely in your direction, the way someone might motion toward a car crash. “The ears. The makeup. The Dress. The whole…” His eyes scanned you once, slow and unimpressed, “situation.”

You stared at him, incredulous. You were this close to hurling the Monopoly box at his smug face.

“First of all, I didn’t choose this costume. Second, it’s Halloween—the one night where wearing cat ears is legal. Third?” You gestured back to him dramatically. “You’re wearing the same damn bluish purple hoodie you always wear. White turtleneck underneath. And those tight-ass ripped black jeans. What, exactly, are you supposed to be?”

Geo didn’t even blink. “I’m not dressed as anything.”

“Exactly!” You threw your hands up. “You’ve literally made ‘casual apathy’ your costume. Well congrats, you nailed it.”

The energy in the closet shifted, sharp and crackling. Like the two of you were circling each other in a very polite cage match. You hated how nonchalant he looked even when he was being a smug jerk.

And worse—you hated that he always acted like he didn’t even want to be here. Like he had more important things to do. So you pitted the thought that you figure you said out loud.

“You didn’t even want to come tonight, did you?”

That movement. A slight shift in his shoulders, a pause before he responded, “I wasn’t going to,” he admitted. “I didn’t plan on it.”

You snorted, crossing your arms. “Then why show up at all? Thought this whole thing was beneath you.”

Geo sighed, but it wasn’t at you—it was at himself. His eyes flicked to the door, like maybe he was second-guessing this whole situation, and then finally, he met your eyes.

For real this time. “…Crowe said something along the lines of you wanting to leave, and asked me to pick you up,” Geo muttered, his voice quieter than usual.

“What?” You blinked, a little thrown off. “I had no plans on leaving.” You raised an eyebrow then scoffed, “What, you didn’t trust me to survive a university party without you babysitting me? Came here so fast without thinking? Is that a first? Crowe definitely tricked you…”

He looked unamused, his eyes narrowing at your jab, and then he huffed, crossing his arms again. “Shut up. I just thought of how stupid you might be.”

You snickered, even though it came out a little sharper than you meant. “Rich, coming from you.”

A few seconds of silence passed, like something was almost ready to spill, however Geo the one that hesitated. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he muttered, “I didn’t like the idea of something happening and me not being there. That’s all.”

You blinked. Oh. Wow.

There it was.

The thing that no one ever really said out loud but everyone could feel—the tiny sliver of overprotectiveness buried beneath his sarcastic armor.

The reason he always stood too close in crowded rooms. The reason he was always a little too aware when you were quiet or too distant. The reason he’d shown up to this godforsaken Halloween party when it was clear he hated every single second of it… just in case. Just in case something went wrong, and he had to be the one to fix it.

You stared at him, really looked at him for the first time in forever. He was standing there, arms crossed, but his eyes? They were looking away, avoiding yours like they were trying to bury every little soft thing he didn’t want to admit. And God, that was the thing with Geo: He wore that sarcasm like a shield but underneath it?

He was a goddamn mess.

And you were so tired.

Tired of the whole damn situation.

Tired of pretending you didn’t see through him. Tired of all these pointless, exhausting words you both keep throwing at each other.

You started laughing. And—you mean, laughing.

At first, it was just a snicker—a short burst of air escaping because, well, it was ridiculous. Geo, standing there like he was the world’s biggest conundrum, thinking that all his careful control over his feelings somehow hid it all.

But it didn’t. It was obvious. Then it got louder.

You couldn’t stop yourself. You laughed until it was more of a giggle, the kind that felt borderline manic as you realized how utterly absurd this whole situation was.

This party. Him. You. The closet. Everything.

Geo’s eyes narrowed as he watched you, clearly unamused. There was a display of pure disgust on his face, followed by a confusion that only he could pull off. He took a step toward you, brows furrowing deeper. “…Why the hell are you laughing?" His voice was disbelief, and you could hear the irritation bubbling up—he had no idea how to handle you when you were this far gone.

You wiped your eyes, still laughing through the cracks in your voice, and it was starting to sound borderline hysterical now. You couldn’t even breathe properly, but it didn’t matter. This was all just so stupid, and the laughter spilled out like a flood.

The noise from the party downstairs felt miles away like it was all part of some different universe. All that mattered was the absurdity of the situation. You had no idea how long you'd been stuck in this mess with Geo, trying to keep your sanity, trying to pretend like you were okay.

But that was it.

You weren’t okay.

And the more you thought about it, the funnier it seemed. You laughed harder, the sound echoing in the cramped space like you were losing your mind—shit maybe you were.

Geo’s eyes filed with confusion, frustration, and something else you couldn’t quite place as he stood there, arms crossed, trying to figure you out. It was clear he was torn—torn between being angry, concerned, or just disgusted. But all he managed to do was scowl harder and cross his arms tighter, his posture so stiff it could have been carved from stone.

“Seriously, this is what you’re doing right now?” he muttered, voice low, but it wasn’t sharp with the usual edge. No, this time, there was no anger in it—just confusion, like he didn’t know what the hell was going on inside your head.

And God, you didn’t even know yourself anymore.

You could barely get the words out between the gasps that hitched in your chest, but you finally managed to gasp, your voice thick and strangled, “I… I’m just… I’m so tired.”

You looked at him—really looked at him. He was still standing there, his arms tightly crossed, his face unreadable but somehow more human than you'd ever let him seem. And the reality of it all crashed down on you with a weight so heavy, that your breath faltered as you kept going, unable to stop yourself.

“I’m a college student, Geo. A fucking genius in madness, might I add,” you continued, your voice shaking now with frustration. “A psych major with a future ahead of me, you know? I’m perceptive as hell—meticulous. I notice everything.” You wave your hands around, trying to get your point across.

“I can catch the tiniest details—like the way someone shifts when they’re lying or how they suddenly change their tone when they’re uncomfortable. Facial expressions, body language, and even the tiniest flickers of thought cross their mind. I’m accurate almost all the time when it comes to reading people, picking up on the shit they try to hide. I can tell when someone’s gaslighting me, or projecting their trauma, or hiding something behind their words."

Your words rushed out now, and the more you spoke, the more frenzied you became. “I can read people! I can catch a lie from a mile away and see through all the bullshit! I—"

You choked out a bitter laugh. “I’m supposed to be living my life. I’m supposed to be enjoying the hell out of my time, being free at this Halloween party. You know, but instead—” You stopped yourself, cutting off the rest of the words. You wiped your face, eyes fixed on the floor for a moment, before meeting Geo’s gaze with a look so filled with pity that it almost hurt to hold.

Your throat was tight, but the laugh that escaped you was hollow, desperate. “Here I am,” you muttered softly, almost to yourself with a little laugh, “locked in a closet... losing it over a guy.” And then the laugh came again, louder this time—again, hysterical, almost unhinged—as you took in a shaky breath and closed your eyes for a second to try and collect yourself.

When you looked up at Geo, the weight of everything finally hit you. Like you couldn’t stop it.

It just spilled out, a jagged mess of emotions you couldn’t keep inside any longer.

“God, I’m so tired,” you said again, voice cracking. You wiped at your face, “Tired of my own mind. Tired of trying to make sense of everything. Tired of you, and honestly, tired of me for putting myself in these stupid situations. Tired of this goddamn universe for locking me in a closet at a Halloween party with the last person I ever wanted to be stuck with.”

Your eyes never leave Geo’s face, searching for something in him that would make this make sense.

But you didn’t find anything.

Just the same fucking unreadable expression, the same armor he wore so carefully. His eyes were fixed on you, scanning you with a look that was impossible to read. And you hated it—because you wanted him to say something, anything that would take the sting out of everything that had just spilled out of you.

But again, he didn’t.

The laugh died in your throat, leaving only an oppressive silence in its wake. And yet, it still felt louder than anything you could’ve said.

You were still here. He was still here.

And the universe?

Well, it was still a cruel joke, one you couldn’t stop laughing at, even though it was suffocating you.

"You know," you started, your voice barely audible at first, the weight of your thoughts pulling at you "I always had this one thought, something that just... randomly pops into my head."

You paused for a moment, swallowing the tightness in your throat, trying to organize the mess of emotions in your chest. Your gaze dropped to the floor as if the space beneath you could somehow make sense of all the chaos swirling in your mind.

“I think, if I were to be alone…” You lead off, “…like, for the rest of my life... I’d be okay." The words came out soft, almost like you were saying them to yourself, testing their truth. Your voice trembled slightly, but you pushed through.

“It’s not ideal, sure. But at least I wouldn’t have to be in something I don’t want. I wouldn’t have to deal with all the shit that comes with friendships, fuck even relationships, or with people who only care because of how I look or what they can get from me.”

You let out a bitter laugh, a hollow sound that felt more like a cry than anything remotely close to humor. You shook your head as if trying to push the weight of your thoughts out of your mind, but they clung to you, suffocating.

“It’s not that I hate people. It’s not even about self-esteem,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, “it’s just... I don’t think anyone will ever truly understand me. Hell, you definitely don’t.”

The words hung in the air like an accusation, and for a moment, the silence between you two felt like a physical thing pressing down on your chest. You had already cracked, the floodgates opened, and now there was no going back.

No stopping it. You let your eyes drop to the floor, trying to steady your breath, but the words were coming faster than you could control.

“I mean... I look at people, how they act around me, how they pretend to know me, and I just... I can’t connect with any of it. I can’t understand why everyone keeps talking about falling in love like it’s.. filling, something everyone’s supposed to want. It feels... unreal. And I don’t know if I’ll ever believe in it.”

The words tumbled out of you, and for once, you didn’t try to stop them. For once, there was no filter, no distance between you and the truth of releasing the unwanted thoughts. “It’s hard for me to even believe in love.” You admitted.

“The kind of love everyone talks about—real love, I mean. Not the bullshit kind where someone’s just looking for something from you. Because you and I know that feeling all too well.”

You sighed, “I know—like I knew the real reason you didn’t want me to go to this Halloween party, why you acted like a damn child over it." You sighed, narrowing your eyes.

"You were worried about Sol, weren’t you?”

You looked at him then, eyes raw with a mix of frustration and exhaustion. For the first time in what felt like forever, the words you spoke seemed to land with him.

His expression flickered, his plush lips pressing into a thin, tense line. His body stiffened just a little like he didn’t know how to handle the storm you were unleashing.

“You didn’t think I knew, did you?” you continued, your voice breaking just a bit. “You didn’t think I knew that Sol’s been obsessing over me, that he claims he likes me? If it weren’t for Crowe, he would’ve confessed right there on that damn dance floor, and you know what I had to do?”

You let out a bitter laugh, but it felt more like a breath you were holding in for too long. The tears you’d been fighting started to spill, but you didn’t bother wiping them away.

They were the only thing that felt real anymore.

"I had to reject him. Not just because he's a horrible guy, but because I don't see him like that. It's hard enough being friends with guys who can’t stay friends without suddenly deciding they like you.” You let out a frustrated sigh, shaking your head.

"And then I have to deal with this shit, all because of you,”

You pointed at him then standing up, walking back and forth to track your thoughts better, “Geo. Fucking Subaru Oogami. The rich kid who can’t stand anyone, all he wants to be is fucking alone with his bow and arrow, no friends or anyone.” Your voice cut through the silence, and before Geo could respond, you stopped him cold.

"Tell me what you’re gonna say now. Go ahead, say it. Tell me again that I’m wrong. You could’ve just told me the truth. You could’ve been honest with me, but instead, you lashed out at me. Made me feel like shit. Called me pathetic. Told me I’m a waste of brain matter.” You shook your head, eyes narrowed. "

You didn’t trust me to handle it. You didn’t even try to make it better. You just... made everything worse by showing up here. Forcing me to look at your pathetic ass face.”

Your chest tightened, a deep ache settling in your heart. The tears streaked down your face, ruining the makeup that had taken so much time to perfect. You didn’t care about the mess you were making anymore. It was all so pointless.

“And don’t take this personally, but... you're the worst. You know what you’ve done to me, and as much as it hurts, I can’t keep running away from it. I can't keep pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.”

You took a shaky breath, your throat constricting as you wiped your face again, but the tears didn’t stop. You didn’t bother to fight them anymore.

“I don’t understand, Subaru. What do you want from me?”

Your voice cracked, calling him by his first real name, and you felt the weight of your own emotions pressing down on you, suffocating you.

“Do you know how foreign it is to even think about someone choosing to love me? I can’t... I can’t even wrap my mind around it. If someone loved me... I wouldn’t know what to do with that. It’s so unreal to me. It’s like... it doesn’t even make sense."

You paused, your chest tight, struggling for breath. “And all of this... all this mess... it makes me wonder if I’m just meant to be alone. If I’m just going to spend the rest of my life alone because I can’t do this. I can’t keep pretending to feel something I don’t. I just... I don’t know if it’s even possible for me to feel that.”

You swallowed hard, the knot of frustration and confusion tightening in your throat. Slowly, you spoke again, quieter this time, like you were trying to make sense of everything you couldn’t understand.

“God, I’m so fucking lame. I’m never normal.” You said, mostly to yourself, the words leaving your lips, “I never have been. I guess I have to accept that at this point. I’ve spent my whole life alone... but even still... I still want something real.”

The tears continued to burn down your cheeks, but you didn’t bother wiping them away this time.

“No romantic love, no sexual love... just... someone—someone for once that understands me. You know? Like, someone actually gives a damn about me. Not because they want something from me, like my body, or the idea of me. Not because they want to possess me, control me... just because they care.”

Your voice cracked, and faltered, like the very words you spoke were sharp stones tearing you apart. You could feel the tears threatening again, but you pushed them back.

You couldn’t let him see. You couldn’t be weak.

“At the same time… I don’t feel comfortable being anyone’s significant. I don’t feel comfortable being anyone’s anything. And I know that. I know I’m messed up. I know I don’t fit into whatever you or anyone else thinks I should be. But... I’m so... tired of it all. Tired of pretending. Tired of being who everyone expects me to be. Tired of being seen as something I’m not.”

You sucked in a shaky breath, your chest tightening, suffocating under the weight of your own feelings. The closet felt like it was closing in than it already was, the anxiety smothering you, until there was nothing but the thudding of your heart in your ears.

Your eyes met his, pain and frustration mirrored in them, and for a brief moment, everything seemed to stand still.

“I should’ve never listened to Crowe,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “Everyone said you were a fucking asshole. That you didn’t have time for anyone. That relationship wasn’t worth your time. I should’ve listened. I should’ve kept my distance…”

The words spilled out, jagged and desperate, like you’d been suffocating under them for too long and had no choice but to let them crash. “…I hate this. I hate how everything feels so twisted, how it’s all messed up. I don’t need you. But…”

You paused, the words caught in your throat, a bitter mix of frustration and confusion rising up.

“Shit, I care about you so fucking much.”

You took a sharp breath, trying to steady yourself.

“And I fucking hate that I do.” You scoffed at yourself, the sound bitter. “I don’t even know why it matters so much. Why does it hurt when I’ve always been so sure I shouldn’t feel like this? I never wanted any of this. It’s ridiculous. I always stick to what makes sense, and what’s practical. I don’t get tangled in this shit. But then... you came out of nowhere, flipped everything upside down, and now…” You signed.

Your chest tightened, your mind spiraling into chaos.

“I’m so lost, confused” you whispered, voice trembling. “I can’t make sense of any of it. What is this... damn feeling?”

It was all-consuming, suffocating, a weight you couldn’t escape.

Your heart hammered, each beat echoing like a drum in your chest, pounding harder with every breath. The pressure in your chest, like something cold and suffocating, grew with it—a belladonna, so beautiful and poisonous, that no one could handle it.

Your thoughts twisted into each other, darkening with every turn, spiraling deeper, suffocating you. The panic surged, a flood that filled your chest, tightening your lungs and making every breath feel like a struggle. You could feel the pulse hammering in your throat, frantic and uneven.

Your hands shook so violently, that you pressed them to your chest, trying to steady the feeling, but it only made the poison inside feel stronger, more suffocating.

What was wrong with you?

Why couldn’t you just be… normal?

Everything about you, your body, your voice—everything felt tainted.

Poisonous. [ 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓉𝓌𝑜 ]

it’s ‘cause I went over the 1,000 block limit per post—my bad T-T

#the kid at the back x reader #the kid at the back vn #tkatb #tkatb vn #tkatb geo #geo oogami #the kid at the back mc #the kid at the back geo #subaru oogami #tkatb geo x reader #bro im emotional #sorry if I just sound crazy

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