#i don’t have it in me to make angst of them

[traumaone]

Mature

pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Senior Resident!Reader

wordcount: 2k

warnings: angst, reader is purposefully petty, mentions of robby being an asshole, age gap, mentions of injury (care pile up, car crash), mentions of death

synopsis: Robby's POV of my fic Immature

note: Did somebody say Robby's POV??? (it was me, I said it). i'm probably going to come back and edit this a bit in the morning.

!! not proofread so apologies for any mistakes !!

I’m your attending, and you’re my resident. Act like it.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He’d been harsh, way too harsh. You made a difficult choice, chose to do a procedure you weren’t confident about in the interest of saving lives, and he’d torn you apart for it.

None of what he’d said was true; you didn’t lack discipline, you respected the chain of command, and respected him even more. He’d even taken a shot at Jack during his little spiel. 

The weight of his mistake had set in when he’d seen the tears threatening to spill, when you, so endlessly confident and sure of yourself, had refused to meet his eyes.

You’d bit back, put him in his place the way he deserved. He’d seen that kind of fire from you before, just never directed at him.

Robby watched you leave the hospital without even saying goodbye.

He calls a therapist after his shift, not his therapist, a therapist. It feels too real to sit down in an office, to let them open a file with his name on it, so he sticks to the phone, doesn’t even have the man named as a doctor in his phone.

He talks about you the entire appointment.

Day One

Robby texts you before he even gets out of bed.

He checks his phone while he’s making coffee, and finds no response from you.

He checks again before he showers, no response. 

And after he showers, still no response.

He leaves his apartment under the hopeful assumption that you’ll be waiting for him when he gets there, and you are. You’re pacing back and forth like a crazy person, but there none the less.

He smiles when he catches your eye, but the frown carved into your face stays.

“Do you need something, Dr. Robinavitch?” Ouch. That’s the tone you use with Gloria.

“I owe you an apology.” He’s starting to wilt under your frown.

“Yes, you do.”

“Tensions were high, I was struggling to keep it together, and I took it out on you. It was completely unfair, and I’m sorry.” He could say more, he could confess to you the millions of thoughts of guilt that had plagued him in his sleep, but it’s early, and you already seem tired of him.

“Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate it.” He knows from your tone that you don’t. “I guess I’ll see you inside.”

Robby watches you turn heel and walk away from him as casually as you would any stranger.

Robby trails after you, hoping that you’ll turn around for just a second, but you don’t.

He needs to earn your forgiveness, he knows that now. He pushed you too far, poked the bear too hard while knowing he’d get bit, and boy does that bite sting.

Day Three

Robby leaves his apartment twenty minutes early and takes a detour to stop by your favourite cafe.

He orders his coffee black, and yours with two creams and two sugars, the same way you’ve been drinking it since he met you.

There's a bit more of a pep in his step today. He knows that one coffee isn’t a fix all, but you’d actually spoken more than a few words at a time to him yesterday, so he thinks it’s a good step.

You’re already tucked behind your desk when he comes through the door, frowning at your computer as if it’s wronged you in some way. Something about the sight makes his chest ache.

“Abbot told me you came in early this morning, figured you didn’t have time for a coffee.” He’s lying through his teeth. He knows you never drink coffee before noon, it makes your hands shake.

You don’t even look at him, or reach for the coffee 

“Thank you, Dr. Robinavitch.” He’s heard you sound warmer with Garcia.

That ache from before only deepens. 

He nudges your chair with his foot, pushing you away from his desk so he can slip between your knees. It’s the closest he’s been to you in days, and the proximity, the lingering smell of your shampoo, is enough to make him feel weak in the knees.

“What can I do to earn your forgiveness?” It’s earnest, genuine, the most vulnerable he’s been in a while, and you dismiss him immediately. 

“You’re forgiven. I’m just working on my ‘respect problem’ you had so much to say about.”

You reach past him for your coffee, and Robby has to fight the urge to lean into the warmth radiating from your skin.

“Buttercup, I-”

The nickname slips out before he can correct himself.

Abbot had come up with years ago when you were new to your residency. The three of you had been sitting around a table in the staff lounge, eating breakfast in silence after a particularly long night shift. 

You were Abbot’s resident, almost a stranger to him, but you were sweet, incredible at your job, and you put an obscene amount of butter on the blueberry muffin you were eating, enough to show teeth marks. Abbot had laughed, cracked a joke about having to give you a stent some day, and from then on, you were buttercup.

“It’s Doctor,” You’re standing so close now Robby can smell the mint on your breath. “or my first name, or nothing. Respect goes both ways”

You’ve turned into a spitfire within a matter of seconds, and Robby loves it. He hates that you’re mad at him, really, he does, but this is a side of you he never sees, and the anger looks good on you, very good.

“Pull it together, you two.” Dana’s voice almost makes him flinch. “Incoming trauma, two minutes out.”

“On it.” Robby abandons his reconciliation plan. He doesn’t want your annoyance directed at him, but at least you’re talking. “Buttercup’s leading.”

You stomp away like a petulant child.

“Am I actually leading this, or are you going to take over the minute the patient comes through?”

“Oh, this is all you.” Robby reaches for the ties on the back of your gown, he’s not as gentle as he should be, but he can’t help but let his fingers brush against the nape of your neck when you pull away. “I’m not even gloving up.”

“Let's see how long that lasts.”

Robby stands vigilant at the trauma bay doors, eyes fixated on you and only you. You’re brilliant when you work, you always have been. It’s what he imagines watching daVinci paint the Mona Lisa would be like. 

When you stabilize the patient, faster than Robby knows he could’ve, you turn to him, a fox-like smile painted on your lips. “See how incredible I am when I’m not being pestered by questions?”

You’ve never looked sexier.

“Believe me, I’m well aware of how incredible you are.”

Day Five

“I’m covering Parker on the night shift for the next couple days.”

The two of you had been surprisingly civil yesterday, so of course you’re switching shifts.

“And who’s going to be covering you?” You don’t need to be covered, but he wants to know what you’ll say.

“You have Langdon, Collins, Mckay, and Mohan, not to mention King, Santos, Javadi, and Whitaker. You don’t need me here.”

“Sure, but I want you here.” He wants you here more than anybody, even Dana.

You fix him with a frown. “No you don’t. I’m not being nice to you this week.”

“No, you’re not,” He almost wants to laugh. “But that doesn’t mean I want you gone.”

“I appreciate that,” It’s the most sincere he’s heard you sound all week. “But I want to be gone for a little bit.”

“If Abbot were here he’d be telling us to talk out our problems.”

You laugh, and that ache in his chest returns.

“Then let’s be glad he’s not.”

Day Seven

Robby has a routine for Sundays; work his shift, say goodbye to you, stay a little late so he can talk to Abbot, walk to his favourite cafe, enjoy a cup of tea and watch the world pass by through the window.

He hasn’t deviated from it in years, but things are different today. 

He doesn’t know if you’re still upset with him, opposite shifts have kept the two of you from having a conversation that’s longer than a few words and related to anything other than work, but that doesn’t change that tomorrow is the anniversary of your arrival to the ED.

It’s silly of him, but he wants to commemorate it somehow, which is how he finds himself in a flower shop ten minutes before close, staring cluelessly at a fridge full of flowers while his nose starts to run. He settles on a multi coloured bouquet of hyacinths, both the flower of forgiveness, and your favourite. 

He tucks the bouquet away in a vase on his counter, and falls asleep thinking about your smile.

Night Seven

Robby wakes to nine missed calls, five from you, three from Dana, and one from Abbot.

He gathers from your messages that there was an accident, a bad one that has quickly overwhelmed the ER. He doesn’t hesitate to grab his things and flee from his apartment, not even bothering to lock his door behind him.

You were on the verge of tears by your last voicemail, and Robby just can’t grasp why. 

He makes it to the hospital in record time, and you’re the first thing he spots, standing in the same spot you’d been waiting for him a week ago. You’re standing eerily still, eyes focused on your phone, but you look okay, untouched.

“Did you guys get everything handled, or do you still need help in there?”  

It’s an attempt at playfulness, at easing the tension that had no doubt formed during his absence, but it doesn’t work, because the moment he sees his presence register on your face, you crumble.

Sobs tear from your throat with a sound that makes Robby’s heart shatter. 

He pulls you to his chest as quickly as he can, nuzzling his face into your hair, breathing in the scent of your shampoo as he feels your tears hit his neck. You’re shaking in his arms and he grips you tighter, hoping to compress your nervous system, but it only makes you worse.

“Shh, it's okay.” You only sob harder. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

“I thought you were dead.” Your voice sounds so small, almost broken.

Robby freezes. “Why would I be dead?”

“The transport crashed through the cafe you go to every Sunday, and you weren’t answering your phone. I thought you were going to die thinking I was mad at you.”

Suddenly it all pieces together. “Oh… Oh, I'm so sorry.”

He buries a hand in your hair, presses a kiss to your head and the sobs begin all over again.

It shakes him to his core. You’ve always been a force to be reckoned with, stronger than any of them by a long shot, but right now, you’re fractured, broken into pieces right between his arms.

You pull away eventually, and Robby misses the feeling of you in his arms instantly. “You have nothing to apologise for, I was being ridiculous.”

“That’s not ridiculous, I would’ve gone down the same road.” It’s true, painfully true.

You lift your eyes to look at him and Robby feels his heart break all over again. Even with tears streaming down your cheeks, your hair mussed, and your nose starting to run a bit, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“I’m sorry.”

Robby smiles. “I know.”

“Everything’s mostly handled inside, we just have to get our shit together and prepare for the rest of the night.” You seem awkward now, unsure.

“I’ll come inside and help.” He’s not ready to be away from you yet.

“You don’t need to.” He knows you don’t mean it.

“I know,” He brushes the tears from your cheek, smiling again when you lean into his palm. “But I want to.”

[linoxpudding]

Inches In Between Us

summary: moment where you and him are caught too close for comfort… or maybe just close enough, tension simmers

pairing: skz x gn!reader

genre: slight angst, fluff, forced proximity trope

a/n: this one’s been sitting in my drafts forever (based on this request) I took my time crafting each moment to really bring the tension and emotion to life! comment below and let me know which scene had your heart doing somersaults ♡

Masterlist

~°~

Bang Chan (established relationship)

You flew across two countries just to see him.

You told yourself it was worth it—the late-night packing, the long airport waits, the time off you had to beg your manager for. You missed him. You missed you and him, and those Facetimes squeezed between rehearsals weren’t enough.

But now, sitting stiffly on the plush leather seat of the tour bus, knees locked together and jaw tight with frustration, you weren’t sure why you bothered.

You had claimed the wide back row—meant to seat four or five—but you sat all the way in the corner, facing the window, hoping to be left alone.

Chan’s voice had barely left your ears since the fight earlier—sharp words you both didn’t mean, silence that hurt more than shouting. He’d said he needed space.

So, you decided to give it to him.

Now that the schedule was over, the members and staff had scattered across the bus, most of them slouched in the two-seaters lining either side of the aisle. Some had earbuds in, some quietly scrolled their phones, but no one said a word about the tension radiating from the very back.

Chan climbed in last.

For a second, you thought—hoped—he’d take one of the many empty two-seaters. Maybe even sit with Minho or Changbin, who were already half-asleep a few rows ahead.

But no. He walked straight to the back and slid into the long seat. Not just the seat—but right next to you. Right up against you.

You blinked at him. “Seriously?”

In response, he just leaned back with a soft exhale, gaze forward.

Annoyed, you got up and moved to a two-seater near the middle of the bus. You didn’t look at him.

Seconds later, the seat dipped beside you again.

You didn’t even have to look to know it was him. The quiet, stubborn presence. That familiar scent. The way your thigh brushed against his because the seat was narrow and neither of you budged.

You huffed, loud enough for only him to hear, but said nothing. You didn’t want to draw attention. Not to the fight. Not to how your heart still sped up when he was near—even now.

His thigh pressed against yours, his shoulder brushing yours. There wasn’t enough room not to touch unless you climbed out the window. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

You refused to look at him, eyes glued to the streetlights racing by outside. Still, you felt him— his quiet sigh, his fidgeting fingers. The way he turned his body toward you, even if he didn’t say a word.

"You’re really not gonna say anything?" he finally whispered, voice low enough that no one in front could hear.

You shrugged.

"You were the one who said you needed space," you murmured bitterly, still not looking.

He was silent for a long second, then said, "Yeah. I was wrong."

"You can’t just say stuff like that and expect it to go away, Chan."

"I know," he said. "That’s why I’m here. In your space. Because I don’t want it. I want you."

“You told me to fly out. You wanted me here. And then you barely looked at me all day.”

Chan’s jaw tensed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You think that makes it better?” Your voice cracked. “I cleared my schedule, booked time off, flew across countries just to watch you pull away from me every second. I know what dating an idol means, Chan, but this—this felt different.”

He looked like he’d been punched. “I know. I messed up.”

He reached for your hand, tentative. You let him, but didn’t squeeze back yet.

“I thought if I focused on the tour stuff first, I could make time for you later. But I just pushed you away, I’m sorry, baby.”

You turned to the window again, biting your lip.

“I was just excited to see you,” you whispered. “And you made me feel like an afterthought.”

Chan exhaled shakily. “You’re not. You’re the only part of this I don’t want to mess up.”

His voice was rough, edged with guilt.

“For the rest of today, I’m yours,” he said, gently pulling your intertwined hands to his chest. “No staff. No members. Just us. And I swear, I won’t let you feel like this again. Let me fix it.”

You hesitated. But you looked at him and there it was again: that open, vulnerable gaze only you ever got. He was looking at you— eyes glassy, sincere, scared.

So you nodded.

He leaned in, his voice even quieter.

"You can keep being mad at me. I’ll sit here the whole ride, touching your knee like a loser, until you’re ready to forgive me. I just… I don’t want this silence anymore."

Your anger crumbled a little at the edges. He was ridiculous. Dramatic. Stubborn. And yours.

You huffed, barely hiding the smile tugging at your lips. "You’re squishing me."

"Good," he said, bumping your shoulder gently. "I missed you."

You let your head drop onto his shoulder, just for a second. “You’re lucky we’re in public.”

He smirked. “Trust me. I know.”

Lee Know (frenemies)

It was supposed to be a relaxing weekend. A break from the city, from work, from stress.

A weekend camping trip with all your friends consisting of a bonfire, setting up tents, good food, and no cell service— sure, it sounded cute on paper. Until you found out Lee Minho was coming too.

Minho. The eye-roll king. Your arch nemesis in every group chat and game night. The one who always had something smug to say, who knew exactly how to push your buttons and enjoyed doing it.

So, here you were, standing in the middle of a forest clearing with an uneven patch of dirt under your shoes, mosquitoes humming in your ears, and Minho—a.k.a. your personal plague—stretching beside you like he owned the woods.

You didn’t even want to make eye contact.

“Alright!” Chan clapped his hands. “Everyone gets paired up in tents—but, to make things fun, we’re drawing sticks.”

Groans went up immediately, mostly from you and Jeongin.

“What is this? Summer camp?” you muttered.

“Exactly,” Felix grinned, holding out the small bundle of color-coded sticks. “Pick your destiny!”

One by one, your friends picked sticks, with excitement and curiosity filling the air.

You pulled yours last. It was red.

And then your heart sank.

“Red too,” Minho called casually, holding his up and locking eyes with you.

You blinked. “No. Nope. Pick again.”

He smirked. “Aw, are you scared of sharing a tent with me?”

“More like scared for my sanity.”

You whipped around to Han. “Please, just switch with me. I’ll give you my hoodie—the one you love. Or that extra brownie from earlier!”

Jisung burst out laughing, already dragging his guitar to a fancy-looking tent. “Can’t switch! I got the one with the LED light strip and padded floor. I’m not giving THAT up for your romantic tension!”

“There is no tension,” you barked. “Only rage!”

Minho was already walking toward your sad, lopsided tent, humming like he was enjoying every second of your meltdown. You shot pleading eyes at Chan, at Hyunjin, at anyone—but they were all pretending to be busy adjusting gear or unrolling mats.

Betrayal. Pure betrayal.

Sighing dramatically, you picked up your bag and trudged after Minho, muttering curses under your breath. Grumbling and defeated, you stomped into the tent, tossing your bag to the far corner. The inside was cozier than you expected, but that didn’t mean you were happy about it. 

“Okay but seriously,” you said, peering into the tent, “why is there only one camping mattress?”

Minho, behind you, tsked. “You lost. I shouldn’t have to suffer.”

“You think I didn’t suffer the moment I saw your face and ‘red stick’ in the same moment?”

He didn’t answer, just ducked inside and threw his sleeping bag onto the narrow mattress—if you could even call it that. It was barely wider than your body, lumpy, and definitely not meant for two.

“Oh, hell no,” you snapped, following him in. “That’s not just yours.”

Minho raised an eyebrow as he flopped down and smirked. “You wanna sleep on the floor then?”

“No. You sleep on the floor.”

“I got here first.”

You both stared at each other for a moment. The unspoken war was real. 

“Fine. I’m not giving it up,” you stubbornly said and climbed in.

There was maybe—maybe—three inches of space between your bodies. Arms touching. Legs bumping. Shoulders pressed awkwardly side-by-side.

This was not ideal.

“Stop moving,” you hissed as he adjusted.

“You’re poking me with your elbow!”

“You’re hogging the blanket!”

“Your knee is in my spine!”

A moment passed.

Silence.

Then, somehow—inevitably—you both stilled. The night was quiet outside the tent, filled only with the distant crackling fire and soft murmurs from the others. Inside, the air was warm. Heavy.

You could feel the rise and fall of his chest. Every little breath.

His eyes met yours. And you didn’t look away.

The bickering faded. The closeness became unbearable in a different way. His face was inches from yours, eyes flickering from your mouth to your gaze and back again.

Your heart pounded. Loud. Messy. Dangerous.

“Don’t snore,” you broke the silence.

“I don’t snore,” Minho piped up, rolling his eyes. “But I do talk in my sleep. Usually insults.”

“You’re really annoying,” you whispered.

“So are you,” he replied quietly.

But he didn’t move away. And neither did you. His hand brushed yours under the blanket. Barely touching. But enough to make your breath hitch.

You both leaned in—slow, tentative, until your noses almost touched—

“Yah! Who stole the marshmallows?!”

Han’s voice rang outside the tent and you both jerked away like you’d been electrocuted.

Minho cleared his throat, turning stiffly onto his side. “Sleep. Now.”

You swallowed hard, heart racing, facing the opposite direction.

But long after the outside voices faded, you stayed awake, replaying that moment—one breath away from disaster.

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

The sun had barely risen over the quiet campsite, dew still clinging to the grass and birds chirping in the distance. Most tents were still zipped up, the fire pit long gone cold.

Han yawned dramatically as he and Hyunjin wandered toward your tent, both of them tasked with rounding people up for breakfast duty. "Let’s just yell and run," Han muttered. "Classic wake-up strategy."

Hyunjin shushed him. “No, I want to see their faces. Especially those two.”

Han smirked. “Ohhh right. Mortal enemies sharing a tent. Bet they killed each other in their sleep.”

They unzipped the tent slowly, careful not to wake any potential dragons.

But what they did see stopped them in their tracks.

Inside, the two of you were a complete mess of limbs—your arm flopped across Minho’s chest, his hand loosely resting on your waist, legs tangled beneath the thin blanket. One of his knees was even wedged between your thighs, and your face was tucked into the crook of his neck.

Utterly relaxed. Peaceful. Intimate.

Hyunjin let out a quiet gasp. “Oh my God.”

Han clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “Dude. What… the hell?”

Hyunjin grinned. “So the tension finally melted.”

Han whispered, “Yeah. Into a puddle of cuddles and potential kisses? Do you think they kissed?”

Hyunjin smirked, “It might’ve happened.”

They slipped away without waking either of you—though Han did snap a silent photo on his phone, “just for documentation.”

However, the quiet rustling outside was just enough to stir you.

You blinked, stretching a little—only to freeze the second you realized something was very wrong.

Your cheek wasn’t against your pillow.

It was on someone's chest.

Warm. Steady. Rising and falling slowly beneath you.

You shifted just a little—and then you noticed it. Minho’s arm around your waist. One of your legs slung over his. His hand resting lightly on your back.

You nearly stopped breathing.

And just then, he stirred too—brow furrowing, eyes fluttering open. He blinked once. Twice. Then looked down.

Right at you.

There was a beat of silent realization. Eyes locking. Tension crackling in the small, stuffy tent.

Your breath caught. His hand twitched on your back.

“…You—”

“This isn’t—” you both started at once.

You scrambled back in a panic, elbowing the tent wall as you untangled your legs and rolled toward the exit. “I—I didn’t mean to—!”

“You’re the one who shoved me over in your sleep!” he whisper-hissed, equally flustered, hair a mess and voice rough from sleep.

You yanked the zipper open and practically ran out, heart pounding, cheeks burning.

The morning air slapped your face as you stumbled into the open, hoping no one saw. (Too late.)

From the campfire pit, Han and Hyunjin exchanged a look—and then burst into laughter.

Inside the tent, Minho sat up, running a hand through his hair and muttering to himself.

“…So dramatic.”

But even as he said it, a faint, undeniable smile pulled at his lips.

Because your warmth still lingered on his skin.

And that moment—however brief—was now burned into him.

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

Back at the communal camp kitchen, Han was making scrambled eggs while Hyunjin cut fruit, both humming softly. Minho emerged from the trees a while later, hair a bit messy, lips pressed in a line as he poured water into the kettle like nothing happened.

“You sleep okay?” Han asked innocently.

Minho side-eyed him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Han shrugged. “You know. Considering the person you used to say you’d rather fight a bear than share a tent with.”

Minho didn’t look up. “Shut up. There’s nothing between us.”

But then he hesitated. Almost like something tugged at him.

And when he glanced over his shoulder, there you were—laughing at something Felix said, your cheeks squished adorably in the cool air, your hair a mess from sleep. You tossed your head back as you laughed, eyes sparkling while Minho was watching. And he smiled softly. Almost in a daze, like it bloomed out of his chest before he even knew it was there.

Han caught it, catching the way Minho lingered just a second too long before turning back around.

He didn’t say anything.

He just smiled too—watching his best friend quietly fall.

Seo Changbin (friends to lovers)

Changbin’s apartment smelled like buttered popcorn and clean laundry.

It was your favorite place to be lately—low lights, cozy blanket, a ridiculous action movie playing on the screen, and him beside you, warm and familiar. Your legs were tangled casually over his, a bowl of popcorn between you, laughter spilling out as some over-the-top fight scene played.

"This is the dumbest movie you’ve made me watch," you grinned, tossing a popcorn kernel at him.

Changbin caught it in his mouth effortlessly and winked. "Admit it. You love it."

"I love mocking it," you teased, nudging his thigh with your foot.

He caught your ankle before you could pull back, grinning wickedly. “You sure you want to start something?”

You wiggled your toes defiantly. “What, you’re gonna fight me?”

“I could win.”

“You wish, Seo Changbin.”

That’s all it took.

Suddenly, the popcorn bowl was tossed aside, and you were squealing, squirming, as Changbin tackled you onto the couch in a flurry of limbs and laughter.

It wasn’t serious—just a mess of soft slaps, blocked pokes, mock grunts. You wrestled, pushing at his shoulders, but he was strong and quick, playful growls leaving his throat as he countered every move with ease.

“Okay, okay, I take it back!” you laughed breathlessly, trying to twist away.

He caught your wrists.

One smooth motion, and you were pinned flat against the couch cushions, Changbin hovering above you—knees on either side of your hips, hands holding yours gently but firmly down beside your head.

The laughter stopped. Well everything… stopped.

His chest was rising and falling, breath just a little uneven. Your wrists burned under his fingers, not from pressure but from presence. The movie still played in the background, but it was a muffled hum now—nothing compared to the thunder of your heart.

He was close. Too close.

His face hovered just above yours, eyes flickering over every part of your expression—your parted lips, your wide eyes, the heat that was now unmistakably there in both of your gazes.

Neither of you moved.

You swallowed hard. “Are you gonna let me up?”

He didn’t blink. “Do you want me to?”

You couldn’t answer.

Because maybe you didn’t want him to.

Your silence stretched. His grip loosened ever so slightly, just enough that your hands could move if you wanted—but you didn’t pull away. Not yet.

Your fingers curled around his wrists instead, and his breath caught audibly.

“You’re dangerous,” you whispered.

He leaned a little closer, voice low. “You bring it out in me.”

For a second—just a second—he dipped his head, your noses brushing, lips almost meeting. Almost.

But he hesitated. Like he needed permission. Like he didn’t want to cross a line unless you asked him to.

“Binnie…” you breathed, and that was all it took.

His forehead touched yours. Not a kiss, not yet—but his weight above you, his warmth, the want in his eyes was enough to melt you.

“You’re more than just a friend to me,” he murmured. “I’ve been trying to hide it for so long, but when you look at me like that—”

You surged up just enough to press your lips to his.

Soft. Careful. But charged like fire.

He kissed you back like he’d been waiting forever.

Changbin’s lips lingered on yours like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

You watched him in that small, quiet moment—his lashes brushing his cheeks, his hands still cradling your wrists. He looked… vulnerable. Not like the loud, confident Changbin who barked laughs and flexed his arms to annoy you. This was different.

He finally opened his eyes and met your gaze—softer now. Nervous, even.

“So…” he said, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “Now what?”

Your heart flipped.

You smiled shyly and tugged your hands free, only to lace your fingers with his. “Now,” you whispered, “you help me up, because you’re crushing me.”

A breathless laugh escaped him, and he immediately rolled off to the side, reaching down to help you sit up. “Sorry,” he said, a little flushed. “Didn’t mean to KO you on the first date.”

You both paused.

You tilted your head. “So this is a date now?”

He looked a little caught, but the smile never left his face. “I mean… if you want it to be.”

You nudged his knee with yours. “Only if it ends with another kiss.”

Changbin turned bright red, chuckled, and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re gonna make fun of me forever for this, aren’t you?”

You leaned in, close enough that your noses touched again, your voice barely a breath. “Probably.”

He kissed you again—quick, sweet, like he couldn’t help himself.

Then he got up, held out his hand, and pulled you to your feet. Still holding on. Still close.

“So,” he said again, this time with a grin, “sleepover rules still apply. I’m making ramen. You’re picking the next movie. And maybe later, we kiss again.”

You smirked, tugging him toward the kitchen. “We’ll see if you earn it.”

“Hey!” he whined playfully. “I pinned you! That’s gotta count for something!”

“It counts as me letting you win, obviously.”

“Oh, it’s on.”

And just like that, you were back to bickering—but now, between the sarcasm and the teasing, were shy glances, soft smiles, and the kind of tension that didn’t need words anymore.

You’d always been close. Now, you were closer than ever.

Hwang Hyunjin (crushing on seonbae)

It was your second week as a trainee for a new girl group under JYP Entertainment, and you had already learned that the training schedule was intense. You were still trying to find your rhythm in a world filled with highly talented idols, and it felt like everything was moving too fast. You spent most of your time in the practice rooms, working on vocal exercises, choreography, and dance routines.

One day, after a particularly long session, you found yourself taking a quick break to catch your breath. You'd never thought you'd meet Hyunjin from Stray Kids during your training, but here you were, sitting in the corner of the studio, trying to recover from a grueling dance practice. He was in the middle of a solo routine, and you couldn’t help but watch, captivated by his flawless movements. The way he danced was mesmerizing, and for a moment, you forgot everything around you. You did harbour a huge secret crush on him. 

When his practice ended, he caught you staring, a playful smirk appearing on his face. “Like what you see?” he asked with a teasing tone.

Caught off guard, you blushed, quickly looking away. “Oh! Uh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No need to apologize,” he interrupted, walking over to where you were sitting. “I saw you struggling with your choreography earlier. Need some help?”

You blinked, surprised by his offer. You had only been a trainee for a short time, and the idea of dancing with someone like Hyunjin made you nervous. But his smile was disarming, and you could tell he genuinely wanted to help.

"Actually, yes," you admitted, standing up. "I can't quite get the moves down for our routine. Maybe you could show me some tips?"

Hyunjin grinned, taking his place in front of you. "No problem. I'll teach you the basics, and we'll see if we can make it a little more fun."

He started by showing you the footwork, his body moving effortlessly to the beat. You mimicked his movements, but the steps felt awkward under your feet. Hyunjin noticed immediately and gave a little chuckle.

“You’re overthinking it,” he said, gently placing his hands on your shoulders. “Relax. You’re supposed to feel the music, not stress about the steps.”

His hands lingered just a second too long, and you felt a heat rush to your cheeks. You took a deep breath, nodding. “I’ll try again.”

You continued practicing, and as the movements started to feel more natural, Hyunjin encouraged you with small comments here and there. The choreography was getting better, but you were still a little offbeat.

"Okay, how about this," Hyunjin suggested. "Let’s do the next part together. I'll guide you."

Before you could say anything, he stood close behind you, his hand lightly resting on your waist to help guide your movements. His proximity caught you off guard, and your heart skipped a beat. The way his body was pressed against yours, his warmth radiating onto you, was almost overwhelming. You could feel his breath on the back of your neck as he leaned in to correct your posture.

“Here, just like this,” he said, adjusting your hips with his hands. The touch was gentle, but the closeness made it impossible to ignore the sudden tension in the air. You could feel your body growing tense, unsure of how to act with him so near.

His grip shifted slightly, and you found yourself in an almost perfect mirror of his stance. "See?" Hyunjin smiled, his voice low. "Much better."

The way his eyes locked onto yours made your breath catch in your throat. The dance had become less about learning the moves and more about the unspoken connection forming between you two in the space. His hands were still guiding you, his touch firm but soft, and every movement seemed to bring you closer together.

You both continued practicing, but it wasn’t long before the movements became more fluid, and you realized that it wasn’t just the choreography that was making you feel this way. Hyunjin’s presence, his proximity, was stirring something in you. Every time he adjusted your form, his hand would brush against your skin, sending a shiver through your body. Your heart beat faster, and the air between you felt heavier, charged with an unspoken tension.

At one point, you made a small mistake and spun the wrong way, causing your bodies to collide. For a brief second, you both froze, trapped in a moment of unintended intimacy. Hyunjin’s chest was pressed against your back, his arms still holding you in place as you both tried to steady yourselves. His breath hitched slightly, and you could feel his heartbeat racing against your skin.

You locked eyes, and for a second, everything else faded. The studio, the other trainees, the music—it was just the two of you, caught in this unexpectedly close moment. The space between you was nonexistent. The gentle brush of his fingers on your arm sent a jolt of electricity through you.

“Well,” Hyunjin said, his voice now husky, as he reluctantly stepped back, breaking the tension. “I guess we got a little… carried away.”

You bit your lip, trying to steady yourself. “I—I didn’t expect that,” you murmured.

He smiled, a little sheepishly. "Yeah, me neither. But hey, at least the moves are starting to look good, right?"

You nodded, though your thoughts were still a little scattered from the closeness you’d just shared. You both stood there for a moment, the silence between you filled with the lingering tension that neither of you dared to acknowledge.

“Well, if you ever need more help," Hyunjin said, his voice returning to its usual playful tone, "I’m just a call away.”

You gave a small, nervous smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As he left the practice room, you stayed behind for a few moments longer, your heart still racing from the unexpected intimacy of the dance. There was a mix of excitement and confusion swirling inside you. What was that? Was it just the dance, or was there something more there?

You didn’t have time to answer your own questions because, as a trainee, there was always another routine to learn, another move to perfect. But as you left the studio later that day, your mind kept returning to the way Hyunjin had touched you, the way he’d held you close, and how in that one moment, you couldn’t tell if it was just dance… or something more.

Han Jisung (secretly dating)

It was game night, a regular gathering with the boys at their dorm, where laughter and playful competition filled the air. You'd been looking forward to this night, to unwind and enjoy their company, especially Han Jisung's. You were secretly dating him, keeping it low-key for the time being, but lately, it felt like a secret you wanted to shout from the rooftops. There was just one problem—you didn’t know how to tell the others without making things awkward.

Tonight, everyone was hyped up and playing a board game, the atmosphere light and buzzing with friendly rivalry. The stakes had gotten higher as the rounds went on, and the trash talk was flying. You and Felix had become a bit of an invincible duo—strategizing, making each other laugh, and working seamlessly together. 

But as Hyunjin leaned back in his chair with a smirk and exclaimed, “Oh my god, Felix and Y/N, you guys are totally an unbeatable duo!” the comment seemed to hit differently. Jisung, who had been quiet for a while, stiffened beside you, his eyes momentarily narrowing as he watched you laugh along with Felix.

You noticed the subtle change in his demeanor. A quiet jealousy simmered beneath his usual playful and easy-going attitude. You felt your stomach tighten with an instinctive pull toward him. Felix, oblivious to the shift, was still bantering with Hyunjin.

But Jisung was different. He was unusually quiet, and the energy in the room had shifted in a way that only you could sense. You could feel his gaze lingering on you for a little too long, and it made your heart race—nervous, excited. The tension between you two was palpable, something you both tried to keep under wraps.

As the game continued, you couldn't help but glance over at Jisung. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. His playful vibe had shifted into something more guarded. It wasn’t like him to stay quiet for so long, and it made you feel uneasy, like you had inadvertently caused the shift in the air.

Felix was deep in conversation with Hyunjin, while the others were absorbed in the game, but you couldn’t focus anymore. You excused yourself from the table, slipping into the hallway in an attempt to get some space. You figured you could give Jisung a moment to cool down or maybe even talk about whatever had been bothering him.

But before you could walk further, Jisung was there. You didn’t even hear him approach, but suddenly his hand was on your wrist, and he was gently tugging you toward the hallway leading to his room. “Hey, where are you going?” you asked, trying to keep the casual tone.

He didn’t respond right away, his grip firm but gentle. There was a certain intensity to his gaze now—his eyes darkened slightly, and his usual teasing smile was replaced with something more serious. “I need to talk to you,” he muttered, his voice low.

You didn’t say anything. You knew this wasn’t just about the game anymore.

When you reached his room, Jisung quickly closed the door behind you, his hand resting on the handle for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. The two of you stood in the middle of the room for a few seconds, the air thick with unspoken words.

Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t like the way you two were... getting so close. Felix and you, laughing together like that.” His eyes were intense, full of something you hadn’t seen before—something raw. “It’s not like you’ve done anything wrong, but… it makes me feel something I don’t know how to handle.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You stepped closer to him, instinctively. “Hannie…” you began, but he interrupted you.

“I want to tell them, baby. I want to tell everyone we’re together,” he said, his hand gripping yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles gently, though his voice was firm. “I’m tired of pretending like we’re just friends.” He took a step closer, his face inches from yours now. His breath was warm against your skin, and you could feel his heart racing in his chest, matching yours.

The proximity was overwhelming, intoxicating, and for a moment, you forgot everything around you—the noise of the game, the others in the house. It was just him, and the desire in his eyes. You couldn’t lie to yourself any longer; you felt the same way. You had been trying to ignore it, keeping your relationship under wraps for the sake of the group, but in that moment, it all felt like too much to keep inside.

You swallowed, struggling to find the right words. “I want to tell them too, baby. I really do. But…” you hesitated. “Do you think they’ll understand?”

Jisung’s eyes softened, and he gently cupped your cheek with his free hand. “It’s not about them understanding,” he said, his voice tender now, the tension easing from his shoulders. “It’s about us. I want to be open with everyone, especially with you. You mean so much to me.”

The words hung in the air, a promise wrapped in vulnerability. You were quiet for a beat, the intensity of the moment consuming you. Slowly, you nodded. “Okay. Let’s tell them. Together.”

He smiled, the usual playful glint returning to his eyes, but there was still an undercurrent of sincerity. Without another word, he closed the gap between you two and kissed you, soft and slow, as if savoring the moment that had been a long time coming. The kiss deepened, both of you letting go of the tension and unspoken feelings you’d been holding onto.

When you pulled away, your foreheads touched, breaths mingling. He whispered, “I’m so glad you’re mine.”

You smiled, your heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “Me too,” you said softly.

From that moment on, there was no more hiding. You were his, and he was yours, and that was all that mattered.

Lee Felix (colleagues to lovers)

The music video shoot had gone longer than expected, and most of the staff had either stepped out for a break or were busy resetting lights outside. The trailer where touch-ups usually happened—the one usually buzzing with stylists, cords, and brushes—was now completely empty.

You were the only one there, you were sitting on the couch scrolling through your phone when Felix popped in, flashing that signature grin and muttering, “Hyung said I need my hair re-gelled. Sorry,” like he was inconveniencing you, even though it was literally your job.

“Sit,” you said, trying to sound normal. Professional.

But nothing about Felix ever let you stay fully calm. Not the way he tugged off his jacket with one hand and tossed it lazily on the couch. Not the way his damp dark hair curled against his forehead, making him look more boyish, more human, than the stage idol version everyone else saw.

You stood behind him, gently combing through his roots. The gel hadn’t fully set, and you needed to rework it from the front.

"Can you tilt your head back?" you asked.

He did, but the angle was awkward. He sat too low in the chair, so you had to lean forward, your hips brushing the armrest. When you reached to push his fringe back, your chest nearly grazed his shoulder.

He stilled. You froze.

Then, in one ungraceful second, your foot slipped against the leg of the chair. Your balance tipped forward—too fast to catch. A small gasp escaped you as your knees bumped the edge, and suddenly you were no longer standing.

You landed on him.

Your hands flew to his shoulders to steady yourself, but it was too late—your body was already pressed against his, knees planted on either side of his lap, your faces just inches apart.

His breath ghosted across your cheek. Warm. Shaky.

Neither of you moved.

“Sorry—” you whispered, trying to push yourself back up.

But his hands had found your waist. Not tight, not holding, just there. Warm, grounding. And when your eyes met, something shifted.

“No—” he breathed, voice quieter than you’d ever heard. “Don’t move.”

Your breath caught.

“Felix—”

“I didn’t mind… I mean, it’s okay. I just…” His stammered.

You blinked at him, heart hammering, heat blooming across your chest and neck. You’d danced around this for weeks—maybe months.

The lingering stares, the way his smile always stretched wider when you were near. But this…

His hands were still on your waist. And for a moment, neither of you moved.

The only sound was the low hum of a distant monitor and your heartbeat hammering in your chest.

Then, slowly, his fingers reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch barely grazing your skin. The motion was so gentle, so intimate, that it made your breath hitch. And the moment his hand dropped, his eyes widened—like he hadn’t realized what he was doing until it was already done.

“I—I didn’t mean to—sorry, that was—” he breathed, voice shaky.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. His cologne wrapped around you like a net, grounding and dizzying all at once.

“I just—” he went on, swallowing, “God, I’m sorry.”

You stared down at him.

His face was already flushed pink, his eyes still locked on yours like he wasn’t sure if he should let go or pull you closer.

“I didn’t mind,” you said quietly.

He blinked.

“What?”

Your voice came out softer this time, more vulnerable. “I didn’t mind. That you touched my hair.”

“Really?” he asked.

You nodded.

He exhaled through a breathless laugh, like disbelief. “Because I’ve been trying not to do anything like that since you started.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you,” he said instantly. No hesitation. Just the truth.

“And I didn’t want to make things weird. But God, you’re always so close, and you’re so gentle, and I’m pretty sure I’ve started dreaming about the way you touch my hair—”

You kissed him.

Quick. Certain. Nothing intense, just a quiet yes to everything he’d just admitted.

His hands tightened on your hips, grounding himself. “Okay,” he whispered against your lips, dazed. “Yeah. That just happened.”

You laughed softly and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “It did.”

“I still need to finish your look,” you teased.

He grinned, pulling you even closer. “I think you just did.”

The silence was comforting this time. Not awkward but intimate.

Kim Seungmin (sunshine x grumpy)

When Chan invited you for a quiet weekend at his countryside farmhouse, you didn’t hesitate. It had been months since you last saw your best friend—too many midnight voice notes, too many “I miss you’s” with a sad emoji tacked on at the end. So you packed a bag and drove up that Friday evening, not even bothering to ask who else would be there. 

Chan had welcomed you in with the warmest hug and whispered, “Seungmin’s here. Try not to combust.”

You elbowed him, cheeks warm. “I don’t like him.”

“Sure,” he smirked.

Of course Seungmin was here. Still just as grumpy, still refusing to smile at your stupid jokes, still never calling you by your name—just “you” or “Chan’s friend.”

And yet, somehow, you still looked for him in every room.

By Saturday night, you were full of barbecue, three glasses into a fruity drink, and cozy in an oversized hoodie. Laughter buzzed through the warm-lit living room. Chan had pulled out board games and card decks, and Hyunjin tossed on a playlist. You and Seungmin had exchanged exactly four words since arriving: “Morning,” “Move” and “No, thanks”

After too many rounds of Mario Kart, Chan flopped onto the massive couch and clapped his hands. “Okay, new game. Seven Minutes in Heaven.”

“Are we in high-school?” you and Seungmin said in perfect sync from opposite ends of the couch.

Everyone laughed, but Chan just wiggled his eyebrows. “Come on, you’re all cowards. It’ll be fun.”

Chan started spinning a bottle, and before you could sneak away, your name was called—followed by Seungmin’s.

The room howled.

You whipped around to Chan, whispering furiously, “You rigged that!”

“Did not,” he said with a very smug expression. “Enjoy.”

The closet—tucked in the corner of the master bedroom—was dim, a little too warm, and far too tight for two people. The door shut behind you with a soft click.

“I hate them,” Seungmin muttered, already looking up at the ceiling like it might offer a hatch out.

You nervously glanced around in the little space. You took a breath. “Wow. Cozy.”

“Not really,” he said flatly.

You smiled anyway. “I forgot how much fun you are at parties.”

His lips twitched. The smallest, smallest smirk.

Minutes passed. Maybe only one. Maybe ten. You didn’t know. The quiet between you felt heavier than the night sky outside.

Then—he spoke.

“You flew all this way just to see Chan?” he asked.

Your brows rose. “Yeah, why?”

“No reason,” he said immediately, then hesitated. “Just… wondering.”

You took a step closer, trying to read him. “Why do you always look at me like I annoy you, but then keep showing up in every room I’m in?”

His jaw flexed. “You don’t annoy me.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He pushed off the wall now, standing straighter, closer. “You’re… too much sometimes.”

You blinked. “Too much?”

“Too much sunshine. Too much sweetness. It gets under my skin.”

You smirked. “Good.”

He gave you a flat look. “This is ridiculous.”

“Then why are you blushing?”

“I’m not.”

You grinned. “You are. It’s kind of cute.”

He glanced away, jaw tightening, but the pink in his cheeks betrayed him.

You leaned in just a little. “What’s wrong, Seungmin? Closet too small? Or is it just me that’s making you all flustered?”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“You wound me,” you gasped, hand over your chest. “I’m just being friendly.”

“Yeah, well… maybe tone it down a little.”

You tilted your head. “But I thought I was ‘too much sweetness’ and ‘gets under your skin’—don’t tell me I’m growing on you.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m stuck in a closet with my longtime crush.”

Seungmin froze.

Your eyes widened. Crap. You hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“…What?” he said after a beat, voice lower.

You scrambled. “I mean—not crush crush. I mean like, maybe. Possibly. Okay, definitely. For a long time. Like years-long. But you were always so—”

He took a step forward. You stopped babbling.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you for a moment, then leaned in slightly, voice dry. “Chan told me you’d be here.”

“…Okay?”

“I’ve been trying to act normal since yesterday.”

“That was you acting normal?”

He smirked, just a little. “I don’t flirt like you do.”

“I don’t flirt—”

“Really?” he stepped closer, close enough that your breath caught. “Then what would you call this?”

You were backed against the shelf, heart in your throat, eyes flicking between his and his mouth. He braced one arm beside your head, gaze sharp.

“…Trouble,” you whispered.

He smirked again—wider this time. “Yeah. You’re trouble.”

And then, just before the timer outside buzzed, he kissed you.

Slow, deliberate, and nothing like the annoyed boy who always pretended you were too much.

When he pulled back, lips barely grazing yours, he whispered, “Next time, we skip the game.”

And when the door finally swung open to the cheering crowd, neither of you said a word—but the heat in your face said everything.

Yang Jeongin (brother's best friend)

You hadn’t seen Jeongin properly in almost a year—well you really haven’t seen him much since he’d debuted and got busy with his idol life. But when your brother casually mentioned, “Jeongin’s having a little dinner thing at his place. Just a few of us. You should come—it’s been forever.”  something fluttered in your chest that you tried very hard to ignore.

You’d crushed on him since you were probably twelve, back when he was just your brother’s slightly awkward best friend who always let you have the last slice of pizza. And now? Now he was I.N—idol, heartthrob, and the same boy who still texted your brother dumb memes at 2am.

You didn’t expect much when you arrived—just polite greetings, awkward small talk, maybe a few inside jokes that would go over your head. But when Jeongin opened the door…

Your heart did that stupid thing again.

He looked tired but beautiful, hoodie sleeves pushed up, the kind of soft glow that came from being around people he trusted. He looked mature now—fame-polished, confident, sharper around the edges—but you still saw glimpses of the boy who used to chase your brother through your backyard, who used to steal popsicles from your freezer and grin like he won the lottery.

“Hey,” he smiled, eyes flickering over your face for a second too long. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

“My brother dragged me,” you said lightly.

Jeongin tilted his head, still holding the door open. “Good. I’m glad you’re here.”

The dinner was casual, cozy. Laughter echoed through the apartment, plates clinked, and stories flowed like old times. But something about the way Jeongin kept glancing at you when your brother wasn’t looking—when he refilled your drink before anyone else’s, when your knees accidentally touched under the table and he didn’t move away—it felt like you weren’t imagining it anymore.

It wasn’t until later—when everyone was a little too full and a little too tipsy and began playing loud music—that you slipped away to find some quiet. 

The bathroom was unlocked, thankfully, and you slipped in, locking the door behind you. Only to turn around and freeze.

“Oh?” you exhaled.

Jeongin stood leaning against the counter, arms crossed, he was startled to see you too.

You nodded, suddenly too aware of the small space, the way the air felt heavier between you two. You both stood there in silence, not quite looking at each other. You should leave, your mind said. Step out, apologise, pretend this didn’t feel like something.

But for some reason… you stayed.

His gaze flicked to you, then away. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… needed a break from all the noise,” you said softly. “Didn’t think I’d find you here too.”

He gave a half-smile. “Yeah, well. Guess we’re still in sync.” Then he shifted. “I didn’t think you’d actually come tonight.”

You shrugged, trying to ignore the way your hands felt clammy. “Yeah, well. My brother can be pretty persuasive.”

Jeongin smiled, then glanced down, almost bashful. For a second, he looked like the boy you remembered—the one who got flustered when you caught him singing in your garage.

You stepped back, “I’ll find somewhere else—”

You were about to step toward the door when he suddenly reached out and caught your wrist.

“Wait.”

You turned, startled by the contact. His hand was warm around your wrist, gentle but firm enough to make you pause.

His voice was quiet. Earnest. “How long are we gonna pretend we’re not dying to be with each other?”

Your stomach flipped.

You looked away, jaw tight. “My brother would never agree.”

He chuckled—soft, humorless. “Your brother doesn’t get to decide who I want.”

“Innie,” you warned.

He locked the door behind him.

“Innie?” he echoed, teasing. “You haven’t called me that in a while.”

You froze. “Jeongin—”

“I know. Your brother would kill me.” His voice was lower now, almost a whisper. “But it’s driving me insane, pretending I don’t feel something every time you walk into a room.”

He stepped in. Close. Too close.

“I thought I was imagining it,” he said, finally looking at you. “But the way you look at me sometimes... it doesn’t feel one-sided.”

“It’s not,” you whispered.

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, voice rough.

He pinned you to the counter so easily you couldn’t think straight.

He stepped even more closer before saying quietly. “If I kissed you right now, would you push me away?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you closed the space between you, barely a breath apart. And whispered, “I should.”

“But you won’t,” he said, voice hoarse.

“No,” you breathed, “I won’t.”

And then he kissed you—soft, hesitant at first, like he knew the line he was crossing. But when your fingers curled into his hoodie and he pulled you closer, you both forgot everything but the feeling of finally, finally not pretending.

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

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[inseobts]

I Hate Goodbyes

law × fem!reader

you're luffy’s sister, and after the tragedy at marineford, you join the heart pirates to heal and grow stronger during the two-year wait—but what happens when you start to fall for law, and neither of you knows how to say goodbye?

a/n: btw I have a similar one you might like too if you didn't read it yet 'tides of fate' (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)

words count: 7.1k

tags: marineford spoilers, angst and fluff, hurt and comfort, marineford aftermath, protective reader, slow burn, healing

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The battlefield smells like blood and burning.

You stumble through the wreckage, heart pounding so loud it drowns everything out. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You saw Ace falling, the hole in his chest, the way Luffy screamed like his soul got torn away.

You try to grab Luffy’s arm, but he’s already out cold. Broken.

“Lu! Luffy, come on, stay with me!” you cry, shaking him. His body is limp. His skin is hot, burning with fever and blood.

You fall to your knees beside him, useless, shaking, trying to wake your baby brother who doesn’t even hear you anymore.

Then, a voice, sharp, calm, cutting through the chaos “I’ll take him.”

You look up, eyes wide and wild. A man with dark hair and tattoos crouches beside Luffy. His gaze flicks to you quick, judging, but not unkind.

“You coming too?” he asks simply.

You don’t even think. You tighten your grip on Luffy and nod, tears blinding you.

“Please… Please don’t let him die” you whisper, voice cracking.

He nods once “Trafalgar Law. Captain. Now move.”

His crew surrounds you. You cling to Luffy as the door of the submarine slams shut, cutting off the nightmare behind you.

Amazon Lily is too bright. Too loud. Even the clean air hurts.

You sit beside Luffy’s bed, knees pulled to your chest, staring blankly at the wall. You barely notice the Heart Pirates moving around, whispering and working.

Days pass. Maybe weeks.

Sometimes you touch Luffy’s hand, just to make sure he’s alive.

Sometimes you dream of Ace’s last smile, and wake up gasping, your throat raw from silent screams.

One night, you sit in the hallway outside the infirmary, shivering even though the air is warm.

Footsteps approach. Then Law’s voice, low and firm “You can’t stay like this.”

You don’t answer. You keep your eyes on your hands, wishing you were stronger. Faster. Smarter.

He crouches beside you. His presence is steady, not pushing you but not leaving either.

“You fought to get him here,” Law says “You’re not useless.”

You laugh, but it’s a broken sound “Feels like I am.”

He sits down beside you, arms resting on his knees. His voice drops even softer.

“When he’s ready, Straw Hat’s going to train. Two years. Away from everyone.”

Your stomach twists painfully “I can’t leave him.”

“You don’t have to,” Law says. His eyes are sharp, cutting right through you “You’ll train too. Learn medicine. Herbs. Whatever you already know, I’ll teach you more.”

You finally lift your head to look at him. His expression is calm, but his eyes are serious.

“You mean it?” you ask, voice small.

“I don’t offer things I don’t mean” Law says. There’s the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth “You’re stubborn. You’ll fit right in.”

Later that night, you sit quietly beside Luffy’s bed. He’s awake now, barely, his body weak but his spirit burning stubborn as ever.

Law is sitting a little distance away, pretending not to listen but not going far either.

Luffy’s voice is hoarse when he speaks “You’re gonna train too, right?”

You blink “Luffy, I—”

He grabs your hand weakly, squeezing with what little strength he has. His eyes are serious, more serious than you’ve ever seen them.

“I’m gonna get stronger” he says, voice trembling a little “Strong enough to protect everyone. I’m gonna find my crew again. I’m gonna be Pirate King.”

Your throat tightens.

“But I need you too,” Luffy says. His hand squeezes yours tighter “You gotta get stronger too. So you can protect yourself. So you can sail with me.”

You feel tears welling up again, but you bite them back.

“I will,” you whisper “I’ll train. I’ll learn. I’ll get strong enough… strong enough to protect myself. Strong enough to protect you too, Luffy”

Luffy smiles, even though it hurts “I’ll be waitin’ for you.”

You lean your forehead against his hand, your heart aching with love and hope and fear all at once.

“I promise,” you whisper “I’ll come back stronger.”

A few feet away, Law watches silently. He doesn’t say anything. But for the first time in a long while, you feel something steady beneath your feet, like maybe, somehow, you’ll be okay.

The Heart Pirates welcome you in without questions.

Bepo brings you tea. Shachi and Penguin joke around loudly to make you smile. Even Jean Bart nods at you sometimes when you pass him in the hall.

You try to smile back. You try to act normal. You try so, so hard.

In the daytime, you throw yourself into studying. Law gives you heavy books, scrolls, and old medical charts. He shows you how to grind herbs, how to recognize poisons, how to stitch a wound without shaking.

“Again,” he says calmly when your fingers fumble “Until it’s second nature.”

You nod. You always nod. You’re determined.

You even start making your own little mixes, salves for bruises, sleeping powders (not that you dare take them yourself), small bombs made from herbs and oils.

“You’re like a damn witch” Penguin laughs one afternoon, watching you stir a smoking green liquid in a jar.

You snort “Better than being useless.”

Law watches from the corner of the room, arms crossed, saying nothing.

At night, though, everything falls apart.

You can’t sleep. Every time you close your eyes, you see Ace falling. You hear Luffy screaming. You feel the helplessness crushing your chest until you can’t even breathe.

You jerk awake gasping, heart slamming against your ribs, your clothes sticking to you with cold sweat.

You curl up on your bunk, pressing your fists over your face, trying not to cry out.

You think no one notices.

You’re wrong.

One night, after another nightmare rips you out of sleep, you stumble out of your room, trying to catch your breath. You sit on the cold metal floor of the hallway, pressing your back against the wall.

“Nightmare?”

The voice makes you jump.

You look up. Law stands a few feet away, arms folded, leaning against the wall. His face is calm as always, but his eyes… his eyes are softer. Sadder.

You wipe your face quickly “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t move. Just looks at you for a long moment.

“You’re a terrible liar” he says finally.

You let out a shaky laugh “Thanks.”

Silence stretches between you.

“You’re not weak for hurting” Law says after a while, voice low “Pain doesn’t disappear just because you pretend it’s gone.”

You swallow hard. Something cracks in your chest.

“I lost him,” you whisper “I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t save him. I just watched, just like with Sabo.”

Law’s jaw tightens slightly. He walks closer, slow, like he’s giving you time to push him away if you want.

“You did everything you could” he says “Sometimes… that’s just not enough but doesn't mean you did something wrong.”

You blink up at him, surprised by the rough edge in his voice.

“You talk like you’ve lost someone too” you say, almost without thinking.

His mouth tightens into a thin line. For a second, he doesn’t answer.

Then he says quietly, “Yeah.”

Another silence, heavier this time.

You hug your knees to your chest “It hurts. It hurts so much.”

Law kneels down in front of you. Close, but not touching.

“I know” he says simply.

And somehow, that’s the first thing that makes you feel less alone.

From that night on, things change.

Law still trains you hard. Still corrects your mistakes with sharp words and steady hands. But sometimes, when he catches you zoning out, lost in memories, he’ll tap the table sharply to pull you back. Sometimes, when the nightmares get really bad, you’ll find a cup of calming tea left outside your door. No note. No explanation.

You never say thank you and he never asks for it, but you both know.

Slowly, painfully, you start stitching yourself back together.

One day, you swear, you’ll be strong enough to protect what you love. And this time you won’t lose.

Days turn into weeks.

You spend most of your time training, reading, studying, practicing stitches, memorizing herbs. You work until your hands cramp and your head pounds.

One afternoon, you sit on the deck of the Polar Tang, grinding dried leaves into powder. Your hair is a mess, your fingers stained green, but you don’t care. You’re focused.

Law watches you for a while from the stairs, arms crossed.

“You’re learning fast” he says finally.

You look up, smiling a little “Thanks.”

“But,” he says, walking closer, “the Straw Hats already have a doctor. From what I know, he is… good.”

You blink. The words sting a little more than you want to admit.

“I’m not trying to replace him” you mumble.

“I know.” Law sits down across from you, setting his sword beside him “That’s why I’m telling you this now that you know enough.”

He taps a finger against the deck, thinking.

“You’re good with herbs. With potions. You’re creative,” he says. His eyes narrow a little, studying you like he’s fitting a puzzle together “What if we move on now and you focus on something that makes you stronger in battle?”

You frown, confused “Like what?”

Law leans back against the wall, looking almost lazy but you can tell he’s serious.

“Potions. Weapons. Transfiguration, even” he says calmly “You could craft poisons. Healing salves. Smokescreens. Maybe even weapons that change shape. Things nobody expects.”

You stare at him, heart thudding faster.

“You mean… like a battle witch?” you say half-joking.

Law smirks, just a little “If that’s what you want to call it.”

You stare down at your hands. It feels scary. Different. But also… right.

Something you can be. Not just following in Luffy’s shadows. Your own strength.

“I want to try” you say, voice steady.

Law nods once “Good. Then we start tomorrow.”

You blink “That fast?”

“Battlefields don’t wait,” Law says, standing up “Neither should you.”

He pauses for a second. His voice drops softer “You have potential. Don’t waste it.”

Before you can even answer, he’s already walking away, coat swishing behind him.

You sit there, stunned. Excited. Terrified.

And for the first time since Marineford, you feel something else, too... hope.

And then training starts again, and as hard as always.

Law doesn’t go easy on you just because you’re still healing. If anything, he pushes you harder, drilling you on herbs that can paralyze, potions that heal faster, even how to throw small smoke bombs to cover retreats.

“You can’t just make things,” he says one day, hands folded behind his back “You have to use them. In real time. No hesitation.”

You nod, teeth gritted.

The first mission comes faster than you expect.

A small island. A skirmish. A cargo pickup gone wrong.

You cling to the sides of the Polar Tang as it surfaces just offshore. Your stomach twists with nerves, but you press a hand to the little pouch of potions at your belt.

“You ready, Witch?” Penguin teases, grinning.

Law calls you that sometimes too now “Witch”.

At first it annoyed you.

Now… when Law says it, it almost sounds fond.

You push the thought away “Let’s go” you say, voice steady.

In the fight, everything you practiced crashes into reality.

You duck under a sword swing, whip a vial of sleeping powder at the enemy’s face. It explodes in a soft green puff, the man drops like a rock.

You barely have time to breathe before another rushes you.

Your heart races. You fumble for another potion, a heavier one before a blur of blue and steel slices the air.

Law steps between you and the attacker, katana flashing. In one smooth motion, he drops the enemy without even blinking.

“You’re still slow,” he says coolly, glancing at you “Fix that.”

Your face burns “I’m trying!”

But later, when the battle is over and everyone’s tending to scrapes and bruises, Law walks by you, pausing just long enough to murmur “Good instincts.”

You blink.

You don’t answer, but your heart skips anyway.

Weeks pass.

Your skills sharpen. Your hands move quicker, your ideas flow faster. You make small grenades from seaweed oil. Healing sprays that numb pain instantly. Distraction bombs that flash bright colors.

Law watches you more often now, from across rooms, over the tops of books, during training drills.

At first you think you’re imagining it. Until one day, after you bandage a wound on his arm, quick, clean and professional, and Law looks at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“You’re not the same person you were when you got here” he says.

You smile faintly “Neither are you.”

His mouth quirks, just slightly, like he wants to smile but doesn’t know how.

You notice stupid things now, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he’s tired, the rare rasp of laughter when Bepo does something ridiculous, the low, calm hum of his voice when he explains something complicated just to make sure you understand.

You hate it.

You hate that your chest tightens when he stands too close.

You hate that you look forward to hearing him call you “Witch”.

You hate it because caring about people hurts. You already know how that story ends.

One night, you sit alone on the deck, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the stars. The ocean is quiet. The world feels… less heavy.

You hear footsteps behind you, soft and careful.

Law sits down beside you without asking.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. Then, he says, voice low “You’re still not sleeping.”

It’s not a question.

You close your eyes “Neither are you.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, a real smile this time, small and tired “Touché.”

You breathe in the salty air, heart beating way too fast.

It feels dangerous, but somehow, it feels okay.

Maybe caring doesn’t have to mean losing. Maybe sometimes, it means surviving together.

Months pass.

The Polar Tang feels like home now. The crew jokes with you. Bepo brings you your favorite tea without asking. Jean Bart lets you win at cards sometimes even though he’s terrible at hiding it.

And Law is still Law. Sharp words. Quiet stares. But sometimes, when you pass by each other in the narrow halls, your shoulders brush and neither of you moves away.

One afternoon, you’re hunched over a workbench deep in the ship. Herbs, powders, pieces of metal, tiny vials, all scattered in front of you. Your latest project.

“You’ve been sitting there for hours.”

You jolt, almost dropping your vial. Law stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable look again.

“I’m working on something” you say, defensive.

Law walks closer, glancing over your shoulder.

You bite your lip, a little embarrassed. On the table is a rough design of a kind of weapon. A bracelet lined with tiny hidden capsules you can trigger during battle, potions for healing, poison, smoke bombs, even flash bursts.

“Smart,” Law says, surprising you “Lightweight. Quick access.”

You blink up at him “You really think so?”

He leans in a little closer, studying the rough sketches. His shoulder brushes yours, warm through the thin fabric.

“You could stabilize the capsules with resin,” he murmurs, half to himself “Faster activation. Less chance of them breaking accidentally.”

You nod quickly, grabbing a pen, scribbling notes.

Law watches you work for a second. Then he pulls something out of his pocket and sets it on the table, a small silver clasp, shaped like a skull.

You look at it, confused.

“Found it last mission,” he says. His voice is almost… shy “Figured you could use it. For the bracelet.”

Your throat tightens.

It’s nothing. Just a small piece of scrap metal.

But it’s from him.

You swallow the lump in your throat and pick it up carefully.

“Thank you” you whisper.

Law shrugs like it’s no big deal. But when you glance up, you catch him looking at you, in a way that looks like you’re something rare and breakable and important all at once.

You force yourself to smile “If you keep being this nice, people are gonna think you like me or something.”

It’s a joke. A stupid, nervous joke.

Law’s eyes flash and for a second, just a second, you see something real. But he only smirks, tilting his head “Guess I’ll have to be meaner, then.”

You laugh real, loud, from your gut. And for once, the sound doesn’t feel heavy.

Later that night, you finish the bracelet.

It fits perfectly around your wrist, it's light, strong, deadly.

Yours.

You stand on the deck alone, letting the sea breeze whip through your hair.

Your fingers trace the little silver skull at the clasp. A gift. A promise.

And for the first time, you don’t just feel like someone who survived. You feel like someone who’s becoming.

Eight months.

That’s how long it’s been since Marineford. Since you left Luffy on the beach and promised you’d come back stronger.

You’re not there yet. But you’re close.

Your potions work. Your body is faster. Your mind sharper. You’ve learned how to move through chaos and how to survive it.

Your new mission’s supposed to be simple. Quick trade. Neutral island. In and out. Of course, it goes to hell.

A double-cross. Gunfire. Mercenaries.

You fight your way through smoke, throwing a blinding bomb at the enemy, your bracelet hissing softly as it dispenses the next ready capsule.

It’s working until you hear a gunshot too close.

You whip around just in time to see Law drop to one knee, clutching his shoulder.

Your heart stops.

“Law!”

You run to him, potion already in hand, shoving it into the wound before he can even argue “Don’t move—just let me—dammit, don’t move!”

He grabs your wrist, tight, to steady you “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine!” Your voice cracks “You’re bleeding!”

He watches you, not with pain, but surprise.

You never yell at him like this. Not even during training. But something about seeing him hurt, even a little, rips through you like fire.

You help him to cover. Bepo and the others push the enemy back, and soon it’s over but your hands are still shaking.

Later, back on the ship, the crew patches up the rest of their injuries.

You sit beside Law in the infirmary, cleaning blood from his coat.

Penguin strolls in and drops onto a stool beside you “Not bad back there, Witch. You actually looked kind of cool.”

You raise a brow, smirking “Kind of?”

He grins “Don’t get cocky.”

You snort and keep cleaning. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch Law quietly watching. His jaw a little tight.

He says nothing but you kind of feel the shift in the air.

Two days after the fight, you’re in the engine room mixing new compounds.

Penguin walks in, grinning as usual "Need a taste tester, Witch?"

You don’t even look up "Unless you wanna grow gills or pass out for an hour, I’d wait."

He laughs and leans against the counter "Still impressive, though. The way you protected Law back there."

You pause, hands tightening around the vial you’re holding.

"He’s the captain," you say flatly "I wasn’t gonna let him bleed out in the dirt."

“Still,” Penguin says “You were… intense. I think he even let you yell at him.”

You finally look up, frowning.

Then movement at the door. Law. He’s standing just outside the room, arms crossed. Listening. Watching.

You don’t know how long he’s been there. He doesn’t speak. Just turns on his heel and walks away.

Later that night, you find him alone in the medbay, reviewing some notes.

"You good?" you ask softly.

He doesn’t look up "Fine."

You hesitate "You sure?"

He finally glances at you. His voice is cool, not cruel, just... distant "As long as no one else is talking about how I was bleeding out in the dirt, yeah."

You blink. Okay. So he did hear that.

You try to shrug it off "Penguin’s just messing around. You know how he is."

Law doesn’t answer.

You stay there a few more seconds, then quietly leave.

The next day, on the island, you’re helping organize supplies when you see Law at a vendor’s table, trading herbs with a woman who keeps laughing too loudly at everything he says.

He doesn’t laugh back. But he doesn’t walk away either.

You feel something twist in your chest. You force yourself to smile, to turn back to your work.

Later, when he joins the crew again, you barely meet his eyes.

"You okay?" he asks, voice even.

"Yeah" you lie.

What the hell is happening to you?

That night, you lie awake in your bunk, staring at the ceiling.

You keep replaying the moment Penguin made that comment. The way Law left without a word. The way he stood near that woman. The fact that none of this should matter but it does.

Like why lately you notice things you never noticed before. Like why does it matter to you if a woman flirt with him?

You press your hand to your chest, right where your bracelet rests against your skin.

You don’t know what this feeling is.

You just know you can’t let it grow.

Across the ship, in his own room, Law stares at a half-written report.

He can’t stop thinking about the way you laughed with Penguin. The way you avoided his eyes afterward. The shift in your voice.

He tells himself it’s nothing. He tells himself you’ll be gone in a year anyway.

Still… he closes the report and doesn’t sleep at all.

One year and three months.

You’re stronger now. Faster. Sharper. You know how to fight, how to mix, how to survive.

You’ve lived through storms and gunfire. You’ve taken lives, and you’ve saved them too.

But sometimes, the past doesn’t care how strong you are.

Sometimes it sneaks in when you least expect it.

You’re sitting in the Polar Tang’s storage room, sorting herbs by scent. It’s a quiet job. A repetitive one. Usually it calms you.

Not today.

A smell hits you, one of the dried plants from a southern island. Strong. Burnt. Familiar.

You freeze.

Because it smells like Ace’s coat. The one he used to throw over you when you were cold. The one that always carried smoke and fire and sun.

Your hands stop moving.

Your chest aches like it did that day on the battlefield.

You press your palms over your face. Try to breathe.

You can’t.

You leave the room without thinking. Stumble down the hallway. Find the old supply closet and slip inside, shut the door, slide to the floor. And then you’re crying. Harder than you have in months.

You don’t hear the door open.

But you feel it when someone kneels in front of you.

"Hey" Law says quietly.

You wipe at your face, but your voice still shakes "I’m fine."

He doesn’t answer right away. Just sits beside you. Close, but not touching.

"You’re not."

You swallow hard "It’s stupid. Just a smell. Just—"

"Fire?"

Your head jerks up.

He’s not looking at you. He’s staring ahead, eyes distant.

"It reminded you of your brother" he says.

You nod slowly “It’s been so long. And I still—”

"I know."

You look at him.

And that’s when he says "Corazon… used to smell like gunpowder and old cigars. Not in a bad way. Just… constant. Burned into my memory."

Your heart skips. Because Law never talked to you about Corazon so openly.

You barely breathe.

"I forget his face sometimes," Law says softly “But I never forget that smell.”

The silence after is thick. Full of ghosts.

You sit with it.

Then, quietly, you say, “What happened to him?”

You think he won’t answer but then "He died to save me."

You blink fast, chest twisting "I'm sorry."

Law’s voice is dry "You didn’t do it."

"I know. I just..." You reach up, rub your thumb along your wrist "It hurts, doesn’t it? When someone gives up everything for you. And then they're just… gone."

He doesn’t speak but then you feel his hand, brushing yours. He doesn’t hold it. Doesn’t grip. Just enough to let you know he’s there.

You let your fingers brush back.

Both of you sit there, in the dark and the quiet. Neither of you names the weight in your chest. Or the heat that’s slowly grown between you over the months. The way your breath catches when he’s too close. The way you watch him when he’s not looking. The way you burn when someone else does.

You don’t name it but it’s there, unmistakable.

A minute passes. Maybe five.

Then Law stands.

"You should rest."

You nod, eyes red “You too.”

He steps toward the door. Then pauses.

“You don’t have to forget him,” he says “You just have to keep living.”

Your breath catches.

“Same goes for you” you whisper.

Law doesn’t turn around but you see his hand curl at his side. Tight.

Then he walks out, and the door closes behind him.

One year and six months.

That’s how long it’s been since Marineford.

And you are stronger and sharper.

The crew trusts you. Your skills are unmatched. Even Law lets you take the lead on some missions now.

But underneath all that, something else has grown. You and him, you're close.

He watches your back in battle like it's instinct. You can read the tension in his jaw before he even speaks. You can finish each other's plans before they're spoken.

But there’s a weight behind every shared glance because neither of you says what’s circling in your chest.

And now there’s a clock ticking.

“Four months” you say quietly, looking out over the deck at the open sea.

Law is beside you, leaning against the rail, arms folded.

You don’t look at him when you say it. You can’t.

“I go back to him in four months.”

Law doesn’t reply.

The silence stretches, long and heavy.

You force a smile “You’ll be glad to have the quiet again.”

Still, he says nothing.

Then finally, softly “I won’t.”

You freeze.

He looks ahead. Not at you. Not even close but your heart is pounding now.

You don’t know what to say. So you don’t say anything.

The silence between you shifts after that.

He stands closer now. His fingers brush yours more often. Sometimes, his eyes stay on you too long when he thinks you won’t notice. But you notice everything.

That night, you can’t sleep.

Your chest aches like it used to, only it’s not grief for the past this time, it’s for the future. For leaving this ship, this crew... him.

You lie on your side, staring at the dark ceiling. And just like before, when you’re about to drown in it there’s a knock.

Soft.

Rhythmic.

You already know who it is.

You don’t say anything. Just open the door.

Law stands there. Still in his coat. Still unreadable.

You don’t ask why he came.

You don’t speak.

You just step back and let him in.

He doesn’t touch you.

But he sits on the bed beside you, closer than he ever used to, and he stays for hours.

The two of you say nothing, but in that silence everything hurts, everything burns, because in four months, you leave and neither of you knows how to say don’t go.

You can feel it in the air.

There’s only a month left before you leave the Polar Tang, before you return to Luffy. To the Straw Hats. To the promise you made.

And everyone knows it.

Bepo watches you with round, quiet eyes whenever you walk into the room.

Shachi and Penguin keep pulling you into games and conversations, laughing a little louder than usual.

Even Ikkaku made you a new satchel for your potion tools with stitched initials and everything.

You feel it in the little things.

The way they hover when you pack.

The way Bepo asks if you’ll remember them.

The way Shachi elbows you and says, "Don’t get too famous without us."

They’re hurting but they’re making room for your goodbye.

All of them... except him.

Law has gone suddently cold.

Gone are the long silences in your room. Gone are the late-night conversations, the tea he used to make when he thought you weren’t sleeping.

Gone is the warmth.

Now it’s curt nods. Dismissed glances. Command-voice only.

He walks past you in the halls like you’re already gone, and you hate it so much it makes your hands shake.

You try to bring it up. Carefully.

Sitting at the dinner table with the crew, twirling your fork through your food.

“Hey,” you say “Is something going on with Law?”

The table stiffens.

Shachi and Penguin suddenly become fascinated with their soup.

Bepo clears his throat.

“What do you mean?” Bepo asks, too lightly.

“I mean he’s acting weird,” you say, eyes scanning them “He won’t even look at me. Did I do something?”

“No! No, of course not” Shachi says quickly.

“Maybe he’s just busy” Penguin adds.

You narrow your eyes “You’re all lying.”

Ikkaku chimes in “You’re imagining it.”

But they can’t even hold your gaze.

You drop your fork and lean back.

Something is wrong.

That night, you find him in the medbay.

Again.

Head bent over papers he doesn’t need to read. Same ones as last week. Maybe the week before.

“Hey...” you say, stepping inside.

He doesn’t look up.

You close the door behind you.

“You’re avoiding me.”

“No I’m not.”

“Don’t lie to me, Law. You haven’t looked at me in a week.”

“I’ve been working.”

“Bullshit.”

His eyes flick up, sharp.

You take a breath and step closer “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re pretending I’m already gone.”

“You are going.”

The words slam into your chest.

“I’m still here now.”

“But you won’t be.”

Your voice rises “That doesn’t mean you get to treat me like I’m nothing!”

“I’m trying to make it easier.”

“For who? You?! Because it sure as hell isn’t easier for me!”

“I can’t—” He stops. Swallows.

And then, low, rough “I can’t do this.”

“Do what, Law?” your voice still high.

He finally looks at you and you wish he hadn’t.

His eyes are full of things you don’t understand.

“You’re going back...” he says “To your brother. To your captain. To your real crew.”

"And? These were the plans."

And for the first time since you met him, Law yells... and he yells someting you would have never expected “I’m gonna lose you!”

You freeze.

For you it just doesn’t make sense.

“...I’m not yours to lose.”

The words hang in the air like a slap.

You regret them the second they leave your mouth. But he’s already moving.

Crossing the space between you in two steps, fast and wild and furious, and then his hands are in your hair, his mouth on yours. And your world stops.

The kiss isn’t sweet.

It’s desperate. Like a dam finally cracking after months under pressure. His hands tremble as they hold your face, lips crashing against yours like he needs this to breathe.

You don’t think.

You kiss him back, full of every ache, every longing, every unanswered question.

You grip his coat, pull him closer. Your chest presses to his. Your heart feels like it’ll break through your ribs.

And when he finally pulls away, he looks at you like he’s ruined everything.

His voice is barely a whisper “I’m sorry.”

You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

You’re stunned. Breathless. Heart raw.

So he turns and leaves and you just let him.

It’s been four days since he kissed you.

Four days since his hands were in your hair.

Four days since his mouth was on yours like it was the only way he could speak. And he’s pretending it never happened.

You tried to wait. To give him time. To breathe. To be patient even though your heart won’t stop pounding every time he walks into a room.

But every time he does, it’s like it never happened.

He’s back to clinical, sharp, captain-mode.

“You missed a measurement in this report.”

“Meet me on deck in fifteen.”

“Test batch needs refinement.”

Not a single glance. Not a crack in his voice. And it’s killing you.

Even the crew notices.

Bepo watches you with big worried eyes.

Shachi looks like he wants to say something every time Law leaves the room, but never does.

Penguin just sighs.

You try to keep it together, you really do... until the fifth day.

You find him alone in the engine room, hunched over blueprints. Your stomach turns, but you step forward anyway.

“Law” you say, soft but steady.

He doesn’t look up “What?”

You stare at the back of his head “You’re really gonna act like nothing happened?”

Silence.

He slowly rolls up the blueprint “I don’t know what you mean.”

A hot, bitter laugh escapes you “Unbelievable.”

“Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” Your voice rises “You kissed me, didn't you Trafalgar? You kissed me like I was the last person on earth, and now you won’t even look at me!”

He sets the paper down. His back still to you “It was a mistake.”

Your throat tightens.

“A mistake...” you repeat.

He finally turns, face blank. But his eyes are just dead and cold, like he’s trying to kill something inside.

You step forward “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to pretend I imagined it.”

“I don’t have time for—”

“Stop lying.”

Your voice cracks “I’m leaving in three weeks, and you’d rather throw all of this away than be honest with me.”

“You’re leaving,” he growls “What’s the point in—”

“So what?! So you’d rather throw away everything we are than admit it hurts?”

He says nothing.

Your hands are shaking. Your chest heaves “I know what that kiss meant. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”

You’re close now. Too close. And still he won’t look at you.

So you whisper “…Did it really mean nothing to you?”

He finally looks at you and his mask slips just for a second.

Something flashes in his eyes, something like pain, regret and fear, and you see it, but then it’s gone, and his jaw hardens.

“I’m your captain,” he says, voice low “That’s all.”

You feel like the floor falls out beneath you.

“Right...” you whisper “Of course.”

You turn but stop right in front of the door and without turning to look at him you just say "Honestly? Fuck you."

You open the door and leave.

He doesn’t stop you.

The morning you’re supposed to leave is quiet. Too quiet.

Even the sea feels like it’s holding its breath.

You stand on the dock with your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat hanging heavy on your back. The same coat Bepo helped you patch up. The same bag filled with tonics, vials, and handmade notebooks stuffed with training notes.

You’ve done what you came here to do.

You’ve kept your promise to Luffy.

You’ve survived. You’ve grown.

And still, your heart is aching like it’s being pulled in two.

The crew is gathered to see you off.

Bepo’s ears droop “Write us.”

Shachi holds out a charm he carved, a tiny wooden whale “For luck.”

Penguin hugs you a little too tight and mutters “We’ll miss you.”

Even Ikkaku pulls you in and ruffles your hair with a forced smile.

They all know what this is. What it feels like to say goodbye to someone who became more than just crew.

But still, they try to send you off with warmth.

They all do... except him.

Law isn’t there. Not on the dock. Not by the ramp. Not even watching from the shadows like he usually does.

You glance toward the ship. Empty.

He’s really not coming...

It stings worse than you thought it would.

You pretend it doesn’t. You keep your smile steady. You hug Bepo one last time, gripping him tight like he’s the last safe thing left in the world. And then you step forward toward the small boat waiting for you.

The one that'll take you to Sabaody Archipelago so that the Heart Pirates don't have to change their route.

You’re two steps from the ramp.

And then “Wait.”

Your breath catches.

You turn and there he is.

Law stands at the edge of the dock, coat billowing in the sea breeze, expression unreadable but eyes unmistakably wrecked.

Your heart punches into your ribs.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

So you speak first. Voice soft “You weren’t going to come.”

“I wasn’t” he admits.

Silence.

“Changed your mind?” you ask, half a smile, half a plea.

He doesn't answer that. Just walks closer until he’s a few feet away. Not touching distance but too close to pretend you’re strangers.

He looks at you like he's memorizing every inch.

You want to cry but you don’t, even though your eyes are so full that your vision is all blurry.

“You came to say goodbye?” you ask.

“No.”

His voice is rough. Not angry. Raw.

“I came to say I hate this.”

You blink.

“I hate that you’re leaving. I hate that you’re not staying. I hate that I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again.”

Your heart clenches “I’m not dying, Law.”

“But you’re still leaving.”

“I told you I would.”

“I know.”

More silence but the wind is loud. The gulls are louder. But all you can hear is him.

“I don’t want to lose you” he says, eyes locked on yours.

The same words from weeks ago but this time, there’s no mask.

No cold walls.

Just him.

You swallow “You’re not.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not—"

“I don’t know how else to say it,” he snaps suddenly, and his voice cracks “As you said you’re not mine, and you never were, but I... I still...”

He cuts himself off.

And you’re shaking.

The words hover between you. Unfinished. Alive.

Your throat is tight “I never said I wanted to leave you behind.”

“You’re going back to him. To your new crew with your brother. That’s where your place is.”

“And where’s my heart supposed to go?”

The question spills out before you can stop it.

And that’s it. That’s what breaks him.

He steps forward. Hands trembling, eyes burning.

He grabs your face, not hard, but desperate, and presses his forehead to yours like he’s praying.

“I don’t know what this is,” he breathes “But it hurts.”

You’re crying now. Quietly.

“I don’t know either,” you whisper “But I think I’ll miss you so much it might kill me.”

He pulls you in, arms wrapping around you, burying his face into your shoulder. And for the first time in two years, Trafalgar Law lets himself hold you.

He holds you like he’s trying to burn the shape of you into his bones.

No kiss.

No promises.

Just the truth in the silence between your heartbeats.

And when you finally pull away, when the ship horn calls, when the wind rises again, he lets you go.

Not because he wants to. But because he has to.

You step on the boat.

The ramp is pulled up and you see the crew waving. And you see him still there, still watching.

And you think, I’ll see you again.

No matter what.

You will.

The boat begins to move.

Too slowly.

Too quickly.

Too final.

You're still facing the dock, still watching Law, frozen where you left him. Stoic. Silent.

The others wave. Bepo wipes his nose. Shachi keeps yelling “We love you, stay alive!” while Penguin shushes him with red ears.

But Law doesn’t wave.

He just stands there.

Like if he moves, he’ll lose whatever last piece of you he’s clinging to.

And then you feel it in your chest. That you can't go like this. That he needs more than silence. And so do you.

So you do something impulsive.

Something wildly you.

You cup your hands to your mouth and scream “LAW!”

Heads arount there all turn. The crew jolts. Even Bepo flinches.

But Law lifts his head. Eyes wide.

And you yell again, urgent and fierce and blazing “COME HERE—HURRY!”

He doesn’t ask why, doesn’t think.

He just runs.

For the first time anyone on his crew has ever seen, Trafalgar D. Water Law runs, coat flying, sword swinging on his hip, boots pounding against the dock.

Penguin blurts, “Holy shi—he’s running?!”

Even Bepo looks speechless.

Law reaches the edge just as the boat’s still close enough.

You’re at the railing, knees on the side, hand reaching.

He gets close.

You grab him.

Fist clenched in the collar of his coat, you pull him upward just enough and you kiss him. Fast. Fierce. Final.

You kiss him like it’s the last thing you’ll remember. And he doesn’t hesitate. Not this time.

His hands find your arms, just briefly. But you’re already pulling back, already slipping away as the boat starts to rise off the waterline.

His fingers curl at his sides like he’s trying not to reach again.

You’re breathless, flushed, beaming.

You cup your hands again.

“I’ll come back!” you shoutn“Wait for me, I promise!”

His lips part, chest rising. He doesn’t say anything but you see it in his eyes, that he believes you.

You grin wildly, tug your coat tighter, and shout one last thing “Break it!”

You point at his jacket where your hand was.

He looks down slowly.

Fingers brush his collar. Something’s there.

A small orb. Light, palm-sized, sealed with your initials carved faintly into the surface.

He narrows his eyes then snaps it.

A puff of smoke bursts out instantly, curling into the air in a soft spiral. The wind brushes it aside…

And inside, where the smoke clears a charm. Small. Handmade.

It’s a tiny glass bottle. Inside it, dried blue bell petals, the same flowers from that island you said reminded you of Ace.

The same ones you once said helped you sleep.

Around the neck of the bottle is a black thread.

A single word carved on a tin tag looped around it “Love”.

Law stares.

No one says anything.

Bepo swallows loudly “…She gave him a charm?”

Shachi whispers, “He’s gonna wear it under his coat, I bet."

But Law doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move.

He just stands there, charm in hand, watching your boat fade into the distance.

Watching until he can’t see you anymore.

And only then, he allows himself to close his eyes and hold the charm to his heart.

[petrichoravis]

reblogging this with my favorite writers who don’t (only) write smut, because there are a lot of them and the tumblr algorithm sucks, so we have to take it into our own hands:

— @stevie-petey

come home kept me awake at night because I couldn’t stop reading and/or crying!! It’s super long and full of fluff angst and anything that the heart desires!! m is also currently writing a steve x reader band au which is a little on the spicier side, but still super long and well done

#steve harrington #peter parker

— @headkiss

steve, hotch, spencer, whatever you want anna has it. super fluffy and cute, long fics that make my heart melt!! every year I’m exited to see what she will conjure up for christmas

#steve harrington #eddie munson #aaron hotchner #spencer reid

— @tangledinlove

my love!!! I’ve been here since day one (also previously known as white tshirt lockwood anon, what a time) and not going anywhere!!! I’ve been searching through her works to find a few to put on here but they’re just all so good!!

#luke castellan #anthony lockwood #sam winchester #spencer reid

— @reiding-writing

cold!reader is literally my favorite thing ever and it has so many parts so perfect to dive right in and come out a changed human!! But they also have so many other really great multi parters, so I’d recommend to just scavenge through their masterlist

#spencer reid

— @marauroon

this is the marauders account from reiding-writing and, yeah, has many one shots and a james x reader series that I can’t wait to read when I finally have time to really sit down and enjoy

#james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #poly!marauders

— @ma1dita

literally all of jo’s bibliography is crazy!! I really really lost myself in the trouble verse and it never disappointed. but jo also has so many other fics that I just couldn’t stop reading!!! there is smut in her masterlist, but they’re tagged as such and a lot of her fics are very angst-y and fluffy

#luke castellan #jason grace #remus lupin #james potter #sirius black #spencer reid

— @atlabeth

the literal queen of fluff and angst, series and multi parters!! she has it all!! I’ve literally followed sadie since I downloaded tumblr and never once did she disappoint!! obsessed!! also so many different characters, so there will be something for everyone

#spencer reid #aaron hotchner #peter parker #anthony bridgerton #john b routledge #kiara carrera #jj maybank #pope heyward #rafe cameron #zuko #sokka #asami #korra #aleksander morozova #nikolai lantsov #jesper fahey #anthony lockwood #george karim …

— @januaryembrs

If you want a long series the trouble almost all my life series is made for you!!! So full of fluff and angst and spencer is just so lovely in it!!! It really fueled my spencer obsession, made me giggle and kick my feet and cry. But there’s also some marvel, star wars and game of thrones stuff to enjoy!!

#spencer reid #javier pena #arvin russell #bucky barnes #matt murdock #loki #steven grant …

— @avis-writeshq

my name twin!!! genuinely so obsessed with her sparks fly series!! but honestly just all of her spencer fics are chefs kiss!! I’m not in the fandoms but ik she also has some dc and haikyuu stuff

#spencer reid #aaron hotchner …

— @notlongtolove

so poetic and heart wrenching!! if you want angst, this is the place for you. there is also fluff, do not panic!!! so excited every time she posts

#spencer reid

— @gold-onthe-inside

if you’re more into oc, rucha has a spencer x oc series to go feral over, but if that’s not for you, there is enough of x readers too!

#spencer reid #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss

— @gghostwriter

so much angst, comfort, fluff, you won’t come out of it!! also some oc series and some x reader series, all of them are so beautifully written!!!

#spencer reid

— @certaimromance

tall child, so long, quantico and the next door series shaped me into a new person, crushed me just to build me up again and healed something so deep inside of me at the same time. and that’s not even half of her bibliography. I can’t recommend her stuff enough!!!

#spencer reid #aaron hotchner #dean winchester #peter parker

what is with this new wave of short ass drabbles with porn and zero plot what happened to yearning?? what happened to build up?? what happened to the character being absolutely down bad for reader?? what happened to the 10k words fics?? screaming crying and throwing up i miss it

[tsunodaradio]

past lives ⛐ 𝐂𝐒𝟓𝟓 & 𝐂𝐋𝟏𝟔

the past and present sit together under amber light, waiting to see which of them will speak first.

ꔮ starring: carlos sainz x reader x charles leclerc. ꔮ word count: 14.6k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, hurt/comfort, angst. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity; mildly suggestive content. childhood friends!charles, husband!carlos, ferrari teammates carlos & charles circa 2024. google translated french & spanish, yearning..., not a love triangle, inspired by & references past lives (2024) ꔮ commentary box: this was an insane idea that i wasn’t sure if i could pull off, but i like how this turned out! here’s to things that ache (and heal) over time 🩹 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The classroom smells faintly of glue and crayons, with sun-warmed linoleum beneath your knees and the whir of the ceiling fan stirring the heavy Monte Carlo air.

Outside the window, the harbor glitters like a postcard.

Inside, you and Charles Leclerc learn to count to ten. 

You’re both five years old, sitting cross-legged on a faded rug patterned with cartoon fish. Madame Noelle holds up felt numbers and makes the class repeat after her. Un, deux, trois, she says. The class echoes. You don’t. You’re busy elbowing Charles.

“You skipped seven,” you whisper conspiratorially.

He hisses back, “I did not.”

You raise your hand dramatically. “Madame, Charles skipped seven!”

Charles scowls. Madame Noelle sighs. Monaco is too small for tattling. 

She knows both your mothers, has been to at least one of your birthday parties. Everyone in this principality has bumped shoulders at the boulangerie or shared a table at a family friend’s yacht party. There are no strangers here, only people you haven't seen this week.

Charles kicks your ankle under the rug. You kick him back. It means nothing. It means everything.

At pick-up, your mother is waiting outside the gate, sunglasses perched on her head. You find her chatting animatedly with Pascale, Charles’ mother. They laugh together like they’ve known each other since the womb. Maybe they have.

You tug on your mother’s hand and declare, with all the confidence of a child who has never been told no, “I am going to marry Charles.”

Your mother glances down at you, amused. “Really? Does he want to marry you, too?”

You shrug. “He likes me, so he will if I tell him to.”

Pascale overhears and grins. Your mother shares a look with her that says, Can you believe them? 

But they can. In Monaco, lives are lived out close together—childhoods overlapping like waves on the shore. With the world’s shortest national coastline, you and Charles are just one ripple of many in the glittering state.

Later, when you’re older, you’ll wonder how much of your life was shaped right then. In that kindergarten classroom. In the shadow of that city where everybody knew everybody, where declarations like marriage seemed both innocent and inevitable.

You grow up with Charles like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Playdates become the rhythm of your weekends: afternoons on the beach building sandcastles until the tide claims them, climbing the rocks along the port with scraped knees and competitive shouts echoing off the sea. Your mothers exchange weekly texts like clockwork.

I'll bring them over after lunch.

Can Charles sleep over tonight?

They’re being impossible, but at least they’re impossible together.

One particular Sunday, they coordinate a park playdate. You’re not sure why it’s just you and Charles this time, no siblings in tow. Nonetheless, you go along happily, swinging your legs in the backseat while your mother hums along to the radio.

The park is quiet in that late-afternoon lull—shadows long, sun beginning its descent. Your mothers talk a few paces away from the benches, Pascale’s voice blending with your mother’s. You only catch pieces.

“Next year. Maybe sooner,” someone says. 

“It’s a good opportunity…”

“...How she’ll adjust…” 

You squint in their direction, but before you can piece together the puzzle, Charles nudges your shoulder.

“Race you to the fountain,” he sing-songs, already halfway across the grass.

You bolt after him, the words and worry dissolving like mist. Charles is all laughter and wild limbs, calling out taunts over his shoulder. You chase him through the warm dusk, the weight of whatever your parents are saying left behind in the dust kicked up by your sneakers.

Not too long after—it’s your last week in Monaco, and everyone knows it.

The class of twenty-something ragtag children all stare at you, expectant and wide-eyed. You keep your chin up. You pretend not to notice. 

“Is it true?” asks Delphine, whose pigtails are always uneven. “You’re leaving? For real?”

You nod, folding a worksheet in half just to have something to do with your hands. “Yes.”

“But you’re coming back, right?” Louis chimes in from the next row. “For summer or something?”

“No,” you say, just as firmly. “We are moving. For good.”

There’s a murmur, the kind that ripples through a classroom when someone says something adult-like and absolute. Someone asks, very quietly, “Why?”

You straighten in your seat, full of something that feels like pride but might just be anticipation. “Because I want to,” you declare.

That doesn’t go over well. Delphine frowns, and Louis looks like you’ve just admitted to liking math. So you try again, voice louder this time: “Because nobody from Monaco wins the Nobel Peace Prize for Literature.”

They blink at you.

You blink back.

And then, realizing that your audience is a sea of confused eight-year-olds who still think cooties are a legitimate illness, you amend with a sigh: “Because nobody from Monaco can become a star.”

That, they understand. Or at least they pretend to. They nod in solemn agreement, the kind only children can muster when they don’t really get it but don’t want to look stupid.

Outside, through the open windows, you hear the faint rush of traffic and the Mediterranean breeze tousling the palm trees. Monaco is small, after all. You’ve always known this. It’s beautiful and glittering and good for birthdays at the yacht club, but your parents have always wanted more for you. You’ve inherited their greed, their ambition. 

You wonder if Charles will understand. You wonder if you’ll have to explain it to him at all.

He says nothing of your big move, even as you neatly pack your life—an admittedly short one so far—into boxes and suitcases. He doesn’t say anything even on your last day, where you cry and cry and cry over your classmates’ handmade letters, your teachers’ kisses to your forehead, your friends’ tight hugs intending to tether you to this hometown. 

The afternoon sun stretches long shadows down the narrow, cobbled street. Monaco always glows this time of day, like the buildings are pretending to be golden just for you. The breeze carries salt and something blooming. It’s probably the last time you’ll walk this way with Charles.

He trails you on his bicycle, feet dragging occasionally on the asphalt like he can’t decide whether to coast or stop. You’ve both been quiet since school. Not solemn, just—holding something heavy between you.

He always gets quiet when you cry. He’ll tease you relentlessly until you burst into tears, and then he’ll lapse into silence as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with your sniffles and your bloodshot eyes. 

When you reach your gate, you stop and turn. Charles does too, resting a sneaker against the pavement to balance. He doesn’t get off the bike. He just stares.

You stare back, waiting. He squints up at you under his mess of curls, face red from sun and something else. When you deem him mute and incapable of human emotion, you turn to head into the house you will have to say goodbye to. 

“Hey!” he hollers.

You stop in your tracks, turn around. In all your childlike incredulity, you shout back, “What!”

He opens his mouth, closes it. His hands twist the handlebars.

Then: “... Au revoir.”

You blink. The word hangs there, too formal, too final. It should be bye or see you or even just a shrug. But it’s au revoir, and Charles’s voice cracks just slightly when he says it.

Before you can answer, he pushes off the pavement, pedaling hard. His bike wobbles once, then evens out, then flies. He doesn’t look back. 

He rides like he’s trying to beat you to your next destination, like if he gets there first maybe he can make you stay.

You watch him go, the sun catching in his spokes, the street swallowing the sound of his wheels. And then you start to bawl, enough that when your mother finds you minutes later, she worries if she is making the wrong choice. 

The next day, the ferry leaves early; you are made to wake even earlier.

You watch the orange haze of sunrise ripple over the sea as your parents haul your suitcase over the ramp. The harbor is already busy—tourists heading out, commuters looking bleary-eyed and determined, early-morning joggers looping around the marina in practiced silence. There’s no real ceremony to your departure. Just you, your family, and a handful of belongings you insist on bringing. Your mother lets you carry your books in your own little backpack, though she says it’ll slow you down.

Everything’s happening too fast and not fast enough. The boat rocks slightly as you step on board. You don’t look back.

It’s a long journey. You sleep through most of it, your body curled up in the stiff seat next to your mother’s. You wake to the sound of her voice murmuring into the phone and to the sight of unfamiliar architecture flickering by in a blur through the window.

By the time the ferry and the train and the car ride are done with you, it’s already night. The lights outside your window stretch on and on, and you can’t tell where the city ends. The apartment is bare but warm. Your room has a real desk. Your father says he’ll hang up curtains soon. You nod, exhausted.

Your mother makes you brush your teeth before bed. You’re not too tired to dream, though.

And when you wake up the next morning, it hits you all at once.

You are in Madrid. 

You will be in Madrid for the rest of your life. 

It’s exam season when you finally cave and make a Facebook account.

It’s not something you’d really planned. You’d held out through the first year, ignored the growing notifications from the university group chats, smiled politely every time someone asked if they could tag you in something and you had to say, again, you didn’t have one. But now, holed up in the library with a half-drunk espresso and three books splayed out in front of you like some kind of ritual offering, you finally give in.

Peer pressure wins. You make the account for the lack of better thing to do. If you’re going to procrastinate, you might as well be productive about it. 

You’re careful with the information you put in—just your name, your birthday, your university. No profile picture yet. You don’t even add anyone at first. You just lurk. 

It’s surprisingly entertaining: scrolling through photo albums, stalking classmates’ friends of friends. The world feels smaller somehow, everyone connected by a handful of mutuals and grainy phone camera photos from nights out. It reminds you of the country you left behind a decade ago. 

Maybe that’s why, on a whim, you search his name.

Charles Leclerc.

You don’t expect to find anything. Maybe a tagged picture from a karting event or a blurry group shot at some childhood birthday. But he has a profile, public enough for you to see everything: his cover photo is a racetrack, the Monaco circuit gleaming under dusk. His profile picture is newer—him in a race suit, holding a trophy with an almost bashful grin.

It hits you in the chest, how familiar he still looks.

You scroll down.

He’s posted a handful of times over the years. A race result here, a thank you to sponsors there. But it’s one particular post from three months ago that stops your heart cold. 

A sepia snapshot of the two of you, all missing front teeth and dirt-streaked cheeks. The post has a fair amount of engagement. A dozen likes, a couple of amused comments from elementary classmates. It’s the caption that’s the real clincher. 

Quelqu'un a vu cette fille?

Has anyone seen this girl, Charles is asking. A shout into the void. A prayer to a nameless god. A shot in the dark, except it hits its target. 

You read it once. Then again. Then a third time.

You don’t overthink it. You copy the link to the post, click Message. 

YOU [2:51 PM]: i think i know that girl. 

It’s foolish to think Charles will respond immediately, but you can’t help it. You refresh, and refresh, and refresh, until you feel pathetic and you’re fairly sure you’ve memorized every word on the Facebook masthead. You’re about to log out when you hear two pings. 

A friend request. And a response—

CHARLES LECLERC [3:32 PM]: Might need some proof.

It’s the worst week of your life as a uni student, yet you can’t help it. You smile, your fingers already flying across your screen to figure out a way to prove. 

Skype IDs are exchanged. A schedule is set; 9 p.m. your time. You don’t immediately realize Charles is racing, that he’s in a time zone completely different from yours. That he cuts some corners and loses some sleep to make it possible. 

Later that evening, the video call connects with a faint chime, and there he is. Older and clearer than memory. 

Charles, on your laptop screen. His hair is longer now, flopping a little over his forehead. There’s a sharpness to his jaw that wasn’t there before and a slight dusting of stubble he’s probably proud of. But his eyes? Still the same. Green like the clovers that once grew on your front lawn; flecks of brown and gold that soften when they find you.

“Woah,” he starts, and you privately note his voice is deeper, a little rougher. “It’s really you.” 

“Hey,” you say, grinning. Your voice comes out steadier than you expected. “It’s really me.” 

He leans toward the screen like it might somehow give him more of you. It makes you feel shy, the thought of being reached, being seen, being found. 

“So, uh,” you scramble for something to say, “Como estas?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Was that Spanish?”

You wince. “I meant… how are you. I meant to say it in French.”

“Ah,” he says, laughter dancing at the corners of his mouth. “Trying to impress me?”

“I live in Madrid now, Leclerc. It’s survival.”

“Then survive in French. I missed that voice.”

The words catch you off guard, make your stomach twist in a way that feels both ancient and brand new.

The conversation slips into French, as natural as breathing. You talk about university, about how big the world suddenly feels. He tells you about racing, how fast things are moving—literally and otherwise. You nod along, even when you don’t fully understand the intricacies. What you do understand is the light in his eyes when he talks about it. You remember that look.

It was the expression on Charles’ face when he was hoisted up on his father’s shoulders, watching the racecars zip past Monaco’s famed chicanes. You had sat with the Leclercs in the grandstands, had hung out your window with Charles in hopes of catching glimpses of the famous drivers.

As a child, his hands would curl into fists in the air, as if imagining a steering wheel. As if he was in the car himself, bringing home honor and glory to his own. 

Suddenly, the screen freezes. Charles’ face is mid-laugh, frozen pixelated. The audio drops.

“Charles?” you ask. “Hello?”

For a beat, nothing. Just the whir of your laptop fan.

Then, his voice crackles through. “I’m still here.”

The call steadies. He smiles. “Still here,” he says again, softer now, like a promise. Like a heartbeat.

You don’t say anything. Just nod. Because you are, too.

You lean back in your chair, trying to play it cool. “Well, good. Would be tragic to lose you to dial-up in 2014.”

He laughs. The same laugh. That’s how you know you’ve really found him again.

Something in you settles at that. Some small knot that had been twisted tight since you last saw him on your doorstep.

The conversation finds its rhythm. The first few minutes are spent marveling at how strange it is to hear each other after so long, followed by awkward attempts to remember who last spoke more fluently in which language.

The banter smooths out the awkwardness. Charles tells you about life in Monaco. He mentions his brothers, the narrow streets, the usual local gossip. And then, a little sheepishly, he talks about his time in Formula 2.

“I am hoping to make it to Formula 1 soon,” he divulges sheepishly, like it’s not something he’s allowing himself to hope for just yet. 

Your eyes widen. “Seriously?”

He nods. “I know, I know. It doesn’t even make a lot of sense but…” A beat. A full pause. “Can I say something like this?”

“What do you want to say?”

He lifts his eyes to yours through the grainy screen.

“I missed you,” he says, awkwardly. A little rushed, like he had to leap over a ledge to get the words out.

A short silence swells between you, thick and unexpected.

“Me, too,” you finally say, just as softly. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

And somehow, that makes it feel more real.

The next few months are full of effort. Real effort. Not just the half-hearted, “Let’s keep in touch” people promise and never follow through on. You and Charles really try.

There are Skype calls that happen at three in the morning for one of you and just after dinner for the other. Sometimes he’s bleary-eyed in a hotel room in Malaysia, apologizing for the bad connection as his face turns into a mess of pixels. Sometimes you’re half-asleep on your dorm bed, earbuds in, whispering so you don’t wake your roommate. The conversations are short sometimes, just a check-in—

“You okay?” “Yes. You?” “Tired. But okay.”

—and other times they stretch past midnight, both of you forgetting time zones and alarm clocks. Those are the best ones. The ones that feel like old times, like you’re just two kids again, killing time before dinner, no eight-hour difference between you.

But the connection doesn’t always cooperate. There are lags that make you talk over each other, then both stop, then laugh. There are missed calls. His, because he fell asleep after a race; yours, because you didn’t hear your phone buzz in your bag between classes. There are moments where you’re mad at yourself for missing him, mad at him for not trying harder, even though you know he is. You both are.

He sends you photos sometimes. From tracks you’ve only seen on the television. Podiums. Pit lanes. Hotel rooms with terrible wallpaper. One morning you wake up to a video: him walking through a paddock, the sky overcast, his voice saying, “Thought you’d like this. It’s raining here, just like home.”

You try to send stuff back, too. Little pieces of your life. A snap of the cafe where you study. A blurry photo of your friend’s cat wearing your scarf. Once, a voice memo of you reading a poem you found in a used bookshop that made you think of him.

You both say “Miss you” sometimes. Not often. But enough. Just enough to remind each other that you’re still there, still trying, still looking for the right time to align.

Still wondering what it means to hold on to someone who isn’t really gone, but isn’t really there either.

There is only so much that effort can mean, though. There is only so much that it can do. 

When there are more missed calls than actual ones, when there are less messages of substance and yawning gaps between responses, you can’t blame the frustration from bubbling. The expectations from crumbling much like the sandcastles the two of you used to build. 

You and Charles deny the deposition for a good six months. 

The Last Call connects after three missed tries. His face appears on your screen, half-shadowed by the dim hotel lamp behind him. He looks tired. You probably do, too.

You sigh. Not dramatically. Just... worn out. “Charles, maybe we should stop.”

He blinks, straightens a little. He stutters first in English, but then falls back in French. Your language of choice whenever the two of you were talking about something you wanted to keep secret, something that felt close to both your hearts. “Stop what?”

“Trying so hard to keep up. It’s... it’s not working, is it? Maybe we should just let things happen naturally. If we talk, we talk. If we don’t…”

His mouth opens, then closes again. You see the flicker of something in his eyes before he leans back, smile forced. “Right. Yeah. I mean—it’s not like we’re dating or anything.”

You laugh, but it sounds like a question. “Exactly. We’re not.”

He nods a little too quickly. “It’s probably better, anyway. Less pressure.”

Somewhere on his phone, a flower order confirmation remains open in another tab. A delivery to your dorm; blooms the color of your eyes, with the question he’s been meaning to ask since you first reconnected. He quietly files for a refund while you’re not looking.

You shift in your seat, arms crossed. “So... I guess we’ll just talk whenever. No more trying to schedule around time zones and bad Wi-Fi.”

“Yeah. No big deal.”

“No big deal,” you echo.

You both nod, your heads bobbing up and down in unison. You are both trying to convince each other. Yourselves. 

“I should go,” you lie.

He nods again. “Of course. Good luck with finals.”

“Good luck with Monaco.”

His smile falters, just a little. “Thank you.” 

You end the call. The screen goes dark.

Charles does not win in Monaco that weekend. 

You nurse the heartache the only way you know how: you wander. Feet on autopilot, you find yourself at the little bookstore a few blocks from campus, the one with the crooked shelves and the windows that fog up in the rain.

You trail your fingers along the spines of used novels and yellowing travel guides. The ache dulls in the quiet of it—the soft rustle of pages, the low hum of the radio playing something old and slow. You’ve always liked it here.

The owner, an older woman with thick glasses and a perpetual cardigan, catches you lingering and offers you a job before you even think to ask. Just weekends, she says in lilting English. Just enough.

You take it. Happily. The bookstore becomes a sort of sanctuary. You shelve poetry collections and ring up cookbooks and memorize the names of regulars. You surround yourself with other people’s words, and for the first time in a while, you remember why you left Monaco in the first place.

You wanted to live inside something bigger than the state. Bigger than legacy or expectations. You wanted to become someone you hadn’t already been written into.

One overcast afternoon, the bell above the door jingles. You look up from the counter.

The man who steps inside is tall, dark-haired, sun-kissed in a way that suggests he’s just gotten off a plane. He squints around the shop like it might bite him.

“Hello,” he says in Spanish, smiling a little too politely. “I’m looking for a cookbook. For my mother. She is very picky.”

“Do you know what kind?” you probe. 

“Something European, maybe. But modern? She does not trust anyone under sixty, but also hates anything too traditional.” He shrugs helplessly. “It’s a minefield.”

You laugh, already scanning the shelves behind you. “We might have something. Give me a second.”

He waits, hands in his pockets, looking around with polite interest. When you hand him a hardcover with a bright cover and minimalist title, he grins. It’s a nice smile, you think to yourself, as he turns the book over in his hands as if inspecting the weight of it. 

“This might actually work. Thank you.”

You smile and take the book back so you can ring it up. “No problem,” you say, your eyes lingering a little too long on his five o’clock shadow. 

He’s too distracted giving you equal attention to notice your staring. He pays with crisp bills and shining coins, his fingers brushing lightly against yours when he takes the book he just purchased. You’re convinced the transaction will end there, but then he offers his hand. 

“Carlos, by the way. Carlos Sainz. Not the rally driver,” he adds quickly. “His son.”

A corner of your lip quirks upward. It’s a familiar name and title, but not one you have any particular attachments to. “Should I be impressed?” you ask, taking the hand of the legend’s son. 

He laughs. “Only if you want to be.”

You shake his hand. Warm. Steady.

Something shifts. You don’t know what it is yet. Just that it feels like a beginning.

Carlos keeps coming back.

At first it’s little things: a recipe book for lentils, a thin novella in Spanish, a battered biography of someone you’ve never heard of but pretend to. Then he starts asking for weirder things. A Basque cookbook from the ‘70s. A philosophical treatise on sports. A slim poetry collection by a woman who disappeared in the Pyrenees.

You find most of them. He always smiles like he’s genuinely surprised.

“You’re magic,” he tells you once.

You snort. “No, I’m just stubborn.”

You learn things about him in the quiet way people share when they’re not trying to impress you. He races too, he says one afternoon, fingers brushing the cover of a travel memoir. Karting at first. Then cars.

You try not to ask who he races for, try not to let your thoughts spiral to Charles. You’re not trying to build a replica.

Carlos never pushes. Never oversteps. He just shows up. Makes you laugh. Leaves the space open for something soft to grow.

One day, he buys a copy of Letters to Milena. Doesn’t say why. Just nods when you hand it over.

Then he disappears.

Days pass. Then weeks. Then months. You think he’s ghosted you and hate yourself for how much it hurts.

Then one Saturday, the bell rings. You look up. And there he is.

He looks sheepish, holding a paper bag like it’s breakable. “I was traveling,” he says, by way of apology, “and racing.” 

You open your mouth to say it’s fine, but he’s already placing the bag on the counter.

Inside: dozens of letters. Handwritten. Folded. Numbered. On hotel stationery, napkins, scrap paper. Your name on every single one.

“I didn’t know your address,” he says quietly, nervously. “But I still wanted to talk to you.” 

You stare at the pile. Something rises in your chest, fast and helpless.

You lean across the counter to kiss him, and he sighs against your lips like this is all he thought about while jet-setting across the world.

The kiss tastes like courage and paper and something new.

It feels like the first page of a different story.

You and Carlos have been together for a little over a year now.

It’s quiet, mostly. Private. Not secret, but not something for cameras or press releases either. He doesn’t post you on social media. You don’t go to the races. Not because he doesn’t want you there—he asks, more than once—but because you can’t watch.

You try, once. Sit down with the race queued up, fingers curled into your sleeves. You make it five laps before your stomach starts turning. Before the sight of him—helmeted and flying—makes your breath catch in your throat. Too many angles, too many ways it can go wrong.

You text him afterward.

Good race. I think. I had to turn it off. Sorry.

He replies almost instantly.

That’s okay. I race faster when I know you are waiting for me at home.

And that’s the rhythm of it. He drives. You read. He flies. You shelve books and write.

On one of his rare weekends back home, the two of you are curled up on the couch in your flat, empty takeout containers on the coffee table, his head in your lap. He’s scrolling through something on his phone—team photos, maybe, or grid updates—when he says, absently: “There’s this new guy.” 

“Well—not new. Just new to the grid. Really talented. Weirdly poised,” Carlos says, “Name’s Charles. Charles Leclerc. Ever know him? He is from Monaco too.”

Your heart stutters.

You run your fingers through Carlos’ hair like nothing’s changed. Like the air hasn’t gone tight in your lungs.

“Yeah,” you eventually manage. “I knew of him.”

Carlos doesn’t catch the pause. Or if he does, he lets you keep it. He just hums, eyes still on his screen.

You lean back into the cushions, forcing yourself to breathe steady.

You knew Charles Leclerc once. And you still do, somewhere. Somewhere in the part of your chest that hadn’t quite let go. But Carlos is here. Carlos comes back. And right now, that’s what matters.

You tighten your fingers in his hair. He looks up and smiles.

For a little while, you let yourself forget the name still echoing in your head.

The future doesn’t arrive all at once. 

It comes in quiet mornings and shared coffees, in lazy Sunday afternoons rearranging the furniture, in long drives where nothing matters but the road and the sound of Carlos singing off-key beside you.

You keep dating. Keep building. A life. A rhythm. A future.

By 2021, you’ve settled in Madrid, your days divided between the bookstore and the pages of a manuscript you’ve been quietly shaping for years. Carlos is more than just your partner now. He’s your home. The person you find yourself planning for. Planning around.

That same year, two very good things happen.

Your book gets published. The small, strange novel you thought would never leave your laptop finds a home with a local press. The cover is understated, the first print modest, but it exists. It is yours. You hold it in your hands while Carlos opens a bottle of wine and insists on a toast.

He reads it in one sitting. You catch him wiping at his eyes before he grins and says, “You wrote me into this, didn’t you?”

You shrug, but you’re smiling so wide that there is only really one answer to his question. 

And then Carlos signs with Ferrari.

It’s the dream, the thing he’s been working toward for years. When the offer becomes official, he tells you before anyone else. You scream. He picks you up and spins you around the flat like something out of a movie.

You celebrate both victories in a tiny tapas bar with your closest friends. You drink too much. He kisses you too long. Everything is golden. Not golden like Monaco used to be, but golden in a Madrid way—golden like the stars hanging low from the sky, like the city that often threatens to swallow you whole, like the boyfriend that always keeps his promises. 

It isn’t until a week or so later that you see it. The promotional posters, the news articles putting them side by side. 

Carlos Sainz and Charles Leclerc. Ferrari’s newest duo.

You stare at the name for a while. It doesn’t hit like it used to. No twisting in your stomach. No sharp intake of breath.

Because your life is not a detour anymore.

You live in Madrid. You have a book with your name on the spine. You have a home filled with secondhand furniture and shelves bursting with stories. You have Carlos—his warm hand in yours, his letters tucked in a shoebox under the bed, his jacket draped on the chair you always forget to put away.

Charles is no longer a tether.

Your heart is here, and it is full.

So you keep writing.

The stories come faster now, shaped by time and the steadiness of the life you’ve built. Your second novel wins a regional award. The third becomes a quiet bestseller. Your name is suddenly spoken in book circles, whispered in lit fests, shortlisted for prizes you never dared dream of.

Carlos races in Ferrari red. You watch from home sometimes, peeking between your fingers, your stomach still tight with nerves. But you’re learning. You can watch without unraveling. You can hope without fear.

You remain private. Still keep your names from headlines, still skip the red carpets. It’s not secrecy; it’s sanctuary. Carlos says it best, one late night on your balcony with a glass of wine in hand: “Let them talk about podiums and scandals. I just want to come home to you.”

When the two of you decide to marry, it’s the same.

No press. No spectacle. Just family and friends in the garden of your shared home, chairs borrowed from neighbors, fairy lights strung by your best friend the night before.

Carlos wears a suit that doesn’t quite match and his grandfather’s cufflinks. You wear a dress you found in a vintage shop, altered at the last minute when the zipper gave out.

You exchange vows barefoot, toes curling in the grass.

Carlos’s voice is low, earnest. He stumbles once, laughs nervously, then says, “I don’t know where I’m going to finish every race. I don’t know what the next season will bring. But I know you. And I know I want this for the rest of my life, more than any podium that I could ever have.”

You say, “You once handed me a bag of letters. I have never stopped reading them. I promise to keep reading, and to keep writing—us, together—for as long as you will have me.” 

People cry. Someone drops a champagne flute. Carlos kisses you before they even pronounce you married.

The reception is homemade. Empanadillas on mismatched plates, a playlist you threw together last-minute, your uncle insisting on a toast that turns into a twenty-minute story about how he once met Fernando Alonso in a petrol station.

Carlos spins you around the living room for your first dance. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

Later that night, the house is quiet again. Everyone’s gone. It’s just the two of you, tucked on the couch in your wedding clothes, eating leftover cake with forks straight from the box.

Carlos rests his head on your shoulder. “Married,” he says, tasting the word.

“Yeah,” you hum. “Mi marido.” My husband. 

“Mi esposa,” he responds in the same dazed, reverent tone. My wife. 

And for once, there is nothing left unsaid. No past to outrun. Just the thrilling certainty of a life still being written together.

The news breaks while you’re at the bookstore, helping a teenager find something that will make her cry. Your phone buzzes once, then again, and then it won't stop. You glance down and see the headlines before you can stop yourself; they fly over your lockscreen, obscuring the photo of you and Carlos from your first real date. 

Lewis Hamilton signs with Ferrari for 2025 F1 season. 

The air drains out of the room.

You close the shop early. Carlos is already home when you arrive, slouched on the edge of the couch, remote forgotten in one hand, still in the hoodie he wore to training that morning. He doesn’t look up when you enter.

You drop your keys and cross to him silently, kneeling in front of him. His eyes are red but dry.

“They told me this morning,” he says, voice hoarse, “before the news went out.”

You don’t ask who told him. You don’t ask why they couldn’t wait, or why they chose someone else. You already know the answers wouldn’t help. And you’re not about to lie to your husband, to try to coddle him into believing the team will give up its anointed heir for him.

You want someone to blame. 

Ferrari, for discarding Carlos after he gave them the best of his years. Charles, for staying. God, for the cruelty of it all.

But there’s no fight that matters more than the person in front of you.

So you climb up beside him, pull him in, let his weight fall against your chest.

“They’re going to regret this,” you whisper fiercely into his hair. “You’ll be back. You’re not done.”

His arms tighten around you. He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Eventually, he murmurs, “I’m scared.”

“Me too. But I believe in you more than I believe in anything.” 

There’s a long silence, heavy but shared.

Outside, the world turns without mercy. But inside, you hold the man you married and swear, silently, to weather this with him. Just like you always have. 

That season, Carlos races like he has something to prove.

Because he does.

Every lap, every press conference, every qualifying session. He drives like he’s being chased, like every corner holds the future hostage. You see it in his posture, in the tension in his hands when he laces his boots, in the clipped answers he gives to questions that dance around what everyone already knows: he doesn’t have a seat next year. Not yet. 

You watch now. You watch everything.

Your anxiety still curls under your ribs like it always has, but you’ve learned to carry it. You sit through practice, through qualifying, through the races themselves, heart thudding in time with the engines. You count his pit stops under your breath. You only breathe when the checkered flag waves.

Watching Carlos means watching Charles, too.

It’s strange, after all this time, to see him again so often. On screen. In red. Next to Carlos. Older. Sharper. Still familiar.

He does well. Consistent. Composed. He and Carlos don’t speak much on camera, but you see it in the glances they exchange—in parc fermé, in briefings, in the margins of the paddock. There’s respect there. Maybe even something more complicated. Something rooted in memory.

You feel a pull sometimes. Not quite longing. Not quite regret. Just that soft ache of having known someone deeply, once.

But the man you wait for at the finish line is not Charles.

You watch your Carlos fight for every point. For every scrap of validation. He is relentless. Brilliant. You see the fans rallying around him. The journalists softening their tones. The world beginning to understand what you’ve always known.

Carlos Sainz is not done.

And more than anything, more than your own nerves or history or unspoken what-ifs, you want this for him.

You want him to keep driving. To keep writing his own story. Not just to prove them wrong, but to prove himself right.

Because he is meant to be on that track.

And you are meant to be right here, watching him fly.

Madrid holds its breath on the Saturday he brings it up.

You're folding laundry in the living room, half-watching the news, when Carlos walks in from the balcony, the sun painting warm lines across his face. There’s a careful energy in his step, a wordless deliberation that tips you off even before he says anything.

He stands behind you for a moment, then wraps his arms around your shoulders. “The Monaco Grand Prix,” he says, like it’s just another city, just another circuit.

You pause, folding slowed. “You want me to come,” you say plainly. 

He nods. “It’s... it might be my last one there. Maybe ever, depending how the year ends. And it’s the place you were born, you know? I want to do it with you there.” 

You look up at him. His eyes are hopeful but cautious, like he’s ready for the refusal. Like he’s already preparing to let it go if you so much as flinch.

And you do flinch, but not for the reasons he thinks.

Later that evening, after dinner, you set two cups of tea down at the dining table. Carlos joins you, still in his soft clothes, hair damp from a shower. You don’t know where to begin, but the weight of the past demands light.

You sit down across from him and say, “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

He watches you, quiet.

You tell Carlos. Not the same fantastical way you weave your stories; not the careful tales you chart on Microsoft Word. No, you just give him the truth. The one school in Monte Carlo. The green-eyed boy next door. The Skype calls, and the quiet ending of it all. 

A long pause settles between you.

Carlos is still, absorbing. Then: “And you did not tell me because...?”

You meet his eyes. “Because I didn’t want to make you doubt anything. Because he doesn’t matter now. Not like you do,” you manage. “But seeing him again—through the screen, in the paddock—it made me realize I needed to tell you before Monaco. You think I’m afraid of cameras or press or whatever. I’m not. I’m afraid of ghosts.”

Carlos leans forward, both hands on his mug. “I’m not afraid of him.”

You smile, small and sad. “I know. But I needed you to know why I’ve stayed away. Why it might hurt to watch you drive on a track he’s on, in the city that once knew us.” 

He reaches across the table, takes your hand in his. “Then come,” Carlos earnestly. “Not for the cameras. Not even for me. Come for you. For the part of you that’s grown since then. For the life you chose.” 

You let the silence hold you both for a moment before nodding. “Okay,” you say. “I’ll be there.”

Carlos kisses the back of your hand, gently. Gently. 

“It will be the race I remember most,” he promises. You don’t doubt it. 

Your arrival at Monaco rips through the news like a raging tsunami.

You don a paddock past that declares Guest of Carlos Sainz, and a sort of confidence that indicates this is not the first time you’ve walked down these roads. At first, the media labels you as Carlos’ girlfriend. And then they see the glint of your ring under Monaco’s perpetual sun, and the title changes. Wife, the press whisper amongst each other, their cameras flashing, flashing, flashing. 

Journalists dig for details. They find your writing. They put your accolades in the headlines. Someone interviews an old and withered Madame Noelle, who fondly recounts your aspirations for a Nobel Peace Prize for Literature. You make a mental note to tell her of your nomination.

Mere hours after you show up on the paddock, you get a frantic call from your publicist. “What have you done?” she demands. “Your books are flying off the shelves!”

“I went to a race,” you respond dazedly. 

Carlos stays with you through it all. He guides you past the cameras, past the fans, past the Monégasque who begin to recognize you. Carlos keeps a hand on the small of your back, his presence cool and steady.

Especially when the inevitable happens. 

When you step into the Ferrari motorhome and face your ghost. The one dressed in the same red apparel as your husband. The one with eyes you could make wishes on. 

Charles looks up at the sound of the door opening and his gaze lands squarely on you. 

Carlos doesn’t interrupt.

He sees Charles looking at you and simply steps aside, giving the moment air. Not leaving, not disappearing. Just pausing, the way someone does when they know something sacred is unfolding and their presence might shift its shape.

You step forward. So does Charles.

He’s older than you remember, but not by much. It’s more in the way he carries himself, in the lines near his eyes, in the heaviness that clings to his smile. He looks at you like he’s trying to understand something that changed when he wasn’t looking.

“Hey,” he greets. It’s small. Careful. Am I dreaming is the unspoken question. 

“Hi,” you reply. No, you’re not becomes your wordless reply.

There’s a beat. Then another.

He almost smiles. “You’re here.” 

You nod. “I’m here.” 

At first, something flickers across his face. Something warm, hopeful, almost boyish. For a second, he thinks it’s about him. 

That it was always about him. That the years and oceans and silences had all been waiting for this moment to make sense. That you're here now in Monaco to watch him break the supposed curse, to watch him fight for the title that has eluded him for years.

Then Charles sees the ring.

Then he sees Carlos, not far behind you, giving you space but not really gone.

The realization is slow. Painful. You watch it click into place.

“Oh,” Charles says, voice thinner now. He clears his throat, eyes flicking away for just a second before he finds his composure. “You’re—oh.” 

You try to smile. It flickers and dies. 

Carlos returns then, subtle but certain, his hand sliding around your waist like muscle memory. The touch grounds you. All at once, the nerves unravel. The noise, the flashing cameras, the ghosts all fade. 

You lean into Carlos without thinking. Your body remembers where home is.

Charles watches the way you soften in his arms. The way your shoulders drop, how your breathing evens out. He sees it.

His expression is unreadable.

Not angry. Not sad. Just—fractured.

Like someone watching the ending of a story they didn’t know was being written without them.

Pleasantries are exchanged. You find a corner in the motorhome as Carlos goes off to do his thing. There is something in your chest that you can’t quite name, three languages and decades of writing later. 

Later that evening, the hotel room is quiet, soft light spilling in from the lamps as Monaco murmurs beyond the balcony doors. You move through the familiar rhythm of the evening. Washing your face, brushing your teeth, folding your clothes over the armchair. Carlos is already in bed, shirtless and scrolling through his phone, but you can feel the tension under the surface.

He’s been reliable all day. Every time the press got too close, his hand found yours. Every time you faltered, he anchored you. But now, here, in the private dark of your shared life, the questions rise.

You slide into bed beside him, tucking your knees close.

Carlos puts his phone down, turning to face you. “Do you think he missed you?”

You pause, contemplating. “I think he missed the crybaby he knew a long time ago.”

“You were a crybaby?”

“Most of the time, Charles would just have to stand around and watch me.”

Carlos’s face shifts—just slightly. A flicker of something unspoken. His eyes go distant for half a second before he schools his features into something more neutral.

You catch it.

“Are you upset?” you ask gently.

He hesitates, and then shrugs. “No.”

It’s a lie. A visible one. You’ve known him too long not to notice when his mouth tightens just so, when his shoulders tense even as he pretends they haven’t.

You reach out, brushing your fingers against his arm. “Carlos.”

He looks at you, that flicker of hurt still in his gaze. Not because he doubts your words, but because he wishes he had been there first.

“I don’t have the right to be mad,” he says quietly.

“Of course you do,” you tell him instantly. “You’re my husband. You can be mad, or confused, or jealous, or whatever it is you’re trying to pretend not to feel.”

Carlos sighs, eyes flicking toward the ceiling. “He’s your childhood sweetheart. And it’s not like you’re going to run away with him.”

You laugh without meaning to.

Carlos looks at you again, semi-serious. “Are you?”

“Definitely,” you deadpan. “I’m going to throw away my life with you and run away with Charles to Monaco.”

Carlos doesn’t think that’s very funny.

You soften. “Do you even know me? I’m not going to leave Madrid for some... for Charles.”

Your husband’s eyes hold yours. “I know.”

A pause. Then, more quietly, he adds, “I know you.”

You curl closer to him, your fingers finding his under the covers. The silence that follows isn’t heavy this time. It’s whole.

Between free practices, with the sounds of tires screeching and engines humming just outside the hospitality suite, you scroll through your phone aimlessly. News alerts. Emails. A weather update. And then—

A Facebook notification.

You tap it open.

A message from Charles. The first in years. The app displays the last time you spoke: 2018. It’s a strange timestamp, haunting in its simplicity. A frozen past.

His message is short, straight to the point. 

I know it’s been a while. If you have time while you’re in Monaco, maybe we could catch up? Would be nice.

You stare at the screen for a long time. You tell Carlos about it when the two of you are back in your hotel room, because everywhere else feels too public for a fact so intimate. 

“He messaged me,” you say simply, showing him your phone.

Carlos reads it. Looks up, searching your face. “Do you want to go?”

“I wanted to ask you first.”

He smiles at that, gentle and firm all at once. “You’ve never had to ask for my permission.”

You nod, grateful. As you move toward the closet to pick an outfit, Carlos watches you with a kind of amused affection.

“What?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder.

Carlos grins ruefully. “Just thinking about how good of a story this is.”

“The story of Charles and me?”

“Yes. I can’t compete.”

You frown, turning to face Carlos. “What do you mean?”

“Childhood sweethearts who reconnect and realize they were meant for each other,” he says, half-joking, half-not. Enough to give you in second thoughts on whether you should go at all.  

You walk over, hands on your hips. “We’re not meant for each other,” you say exasperatedly. 

Carlos chuckles, his arms instinctively going to wrap around your waist. “I know, but in this story, I’m the evil Spaniard standing in the way of il predestinato’s destiny.”

You grab the nearest pillow and attempt to smack him with it, a laugh bubbling through your unease. “Shut up,” you huff. 

He catches the pillow midair, chuckling, and you lean over to kiss him quickly before turning back to the closet.

The Oceanographic Museum of Monaco perches over the sea like it’s always been there. Unchanging, while everything else around it has moved and morphed and grown. It’s one of the few places in the Principality that still feels untouched by the glamour and spectacle. It’s where you and Charles used to sneak away on slow afternoons, pretending you were explorers, eyes wide at the glowing tanks and coiled sea creatures.

There aren’t many places Charles can go without being recognized anymore. But there are places that will keep his secrets. Places he grew up in, just like you. Places that remember who he was before the rest of the world knew his name.

You walk past the same entrance where you once lined up on school field trips. There’s a hum of nostalgia in your chest as you step inside, taking in the cool dimness, the sound of water lapping gently against glass, the muffled echo of voices.

You spot him by the jellyfish tank. His posture is looser than you remember, but still unmistakably him—tall, arms crossed, brow furrowed in thought. He’s dressed lowkey: baseball cap, neutral jacket. Still, you’d know him anywhere.

You walk up slowly. “Leclerc.”

He turns, startled. His face softens the moment he sees you. But there’s a beat—a pause like he’s searching for the right thing to say.

So you save him the trouble. You step forward and wrap your arms around him.

He hesitates for a breath. Then his arms come up around you, awkward and homely and unused to closeness like this from you, of all people.

When you pull back, your hands still on his arms, you both take each other in.

You laugh.

It bursts out, sudden and genuine. The absurdity of it. The familiarity. The age on both your faces and the way the years folded in on themselves like they never passed at all.

Charles grins. “Woah.”

“Woah,” you reply, breathless.

For a second, it feels like nothing ever changed. Even though everything has. You hug him again, more out of instinct than anything. It’s clumsy, short, but filled with everything you can’t quite say yet.

Charles sighs as you part. “I didn’t know what I’d say,” he confesses in fluent French. “I still don’t.”

“We don’t have to say anything clever,” you assure him, your French just a touch rusty but not any less sincere. “We’re here. That’s enough.”

You begin to walk the halls of the museum together. You are not strangers to the exhibits. Coral reefs, deep sea creatures, the huge skeletal models you used to dare each other to touch. But neither of you is paying much attention. Your conversation is light, filled with small talk: racing, writing, Madrid, the sea.

At one point, Charles stops by the virtual Great Barrier Reef exhibit.

“I should take a photo of you,” he says suddenly. “You, back in Monaco. It feels right.”

You laugh. “I don’t know if this is my most photogenic light.”

“It’s perfect,” he says, already raising his phone.

You pose at his incessant prodding, your entire form stiff in the blue glow of the exhibit. It casts oceanic shadows over your face, and you can’t help but feel a bit self-conscious.

Then Charles giggles—the sound so much like the laughter you remember from your yesteryears—and it breaks the tension. He snaps a few pictures, and you ease into it, eventually throwing up a peace sign.

When he’s done, he lowers the phone and smiles at you. “I’ll send them to you.”

You nod, heart warm, throat tight. (The photos never find their way to your inbox.) 

It’s strange, being back. But it isn’t bad.

Not yet.

You sit at the far end of the museum, near the panoramic window that looks out over the endless stretch of the Mediterranean. The sun has dipped lower in the sky, and the light filters through the waves of the aquarium glass, painting you both in watery hues. There’s a hush here, the quiet that comes after the reunion adrenaline dies down, replaced by something slower. The final lap after a race. 

You glance over at Charles, who’s scrolling through some of the photos he took of you. His mouth curls slightly at one, and you can see him pause like he’s committing the moment to memory.

“So,” you ask, voice casual. “Are you seeing anyone right now?”

Charles looks up, surprised—not by the question, but maybe by how directly it’s asked. He pockets his phone and responds, “Yeah. I am.”

You tilt your head, smiling a little. “Serious?”

He runs a hand over his face, sheepish. “We just started talking about getting married,” he admits with a hesitance that has you blinking in confusion. 

“Do you not want to get married?”

“I don't know.”

Your brows furrow. “If you love her, why don’t you know?”

He shifts in his seat, his leg bouncing slightly. “It's a little complicated.”

You don’t push, but you do watch him. After a beat, he relents. “I think I want her to marry someone more impressive than me.”

The quiet deepens. Not with discomfort, but with a kind of understanding that doesn’t need words. The two of you feel very old in that moment.

Not just in years, but in the way time has moved through you both. In the way the years have taught you to doubt what you give, to second-guess what you’re worth. The sea outside rolls on, unaffected. Timeless.

You rest your chin on your hand, looking out the window alongside him. “You’re still Charles,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t look at you. Just offers a tired smile. “Maybe that's the problem.”

You don’t respond. What is there to say?

Some people grow into the people they were meant to be.

Others spend their lives trying to prove they were always worth becoming.

And some—some just carry the weight of both.

Charles breaks the silence first. “What about you and Carlos?”

You smile, unable to help the way you grin whenever your husband’s name comes up in conversation. You tell Charles as much as you can without boring him. The bookstore kiss over the counter. The backyard wedding with cheap champagne. The hyphenated surname, the apartment you share. 

You don’t mention the late-night talks, the bruises of uncertainty, the ache of Carlos carving out space for himself beyond the shadow of Ferrari. That part is too tender. Too recent.

Charles waits until you slow down. “I always figured he had someone,” he muses, “but he never said anything.”

“He wouldn’t,” you confirm. “He likes having some things that are only his.”

Charles’ gaze shifts, flickering somewhere to your hand. “I never thought it would be you.”

You can’t answer that. You don’t know how.

Silence slips between you again. This one is sharper, harder to bear. Your wedding ring feels impossibly heavy on your finger, like it’s pulling your entire arm down. You shift in your seat, suddenly aware of the weight of everything—not just the band of gold, but what it means. What it promises.

And what it leaves behind.

You return to the hotel late, just past the hour where the city outside softens and falls silent. The streets are darker now, shadows pressed up against the cobblestones, and inside, the room is gently lit. Carlos has left the bedside lamp on, waiting for you.

He’s in bed already, phone forgotten on his chest, eyes intense when they land on you. He doesn’t ask about your afternoon with Charles. You don’t offer anything. Instead, you slide in beside him, into the familiar ease of his warmth.

There’s no ceremony to it. No need. Just a glance, the softest touch of your fingertips along his jaw. He turns into it, eyes falling shut, and then his lips find yours.

You kiss like people who know each other’s shapes. Who’ve made a home in each other’s arms. The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, his hands tracing the line of your spine as if to remind himself: here, here, here.

You let him. Letting your hands cup the back of his neck, letting yourself be unraveled with quiet sighs and whispered nothings. The world narrows to this. To the hush of skin against skin, to the reverent way he holds you, to the way your name sounds like a promise on his lips.

In the afterglow, you lie curled against him, chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. The silence is gentle, not heavy.

Then, Carlos speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do you know that you speak in French when you talk in your sleep?”

“I do?”

“You never sleep talk in English, or Spanish. Just French.”

You tilt your head up. “I didn’t know that. You never told me.”

Carlos is quiet for a moment, fingers idly tracing patterns on your bare shoulder. You realize it’s his—your; a shared thing, now—surname. S-A-I-N-Z. 

“Most of the time, I think it is cute,” he mumbles. “But sometimes... I don’t know. I get scared.”

You shift slightly. “Why do you get scared?”

He exhales slowly. The deep and dying breath of a weight he has carried for God-knows-how-long. “You dream in a language that I can’t understand,” he says in a voice so small that you don’t immediately believe it’s your husband you’re speaking to. “There’s this whole place inside of you where I can’t go.”

Your heart tightens at that. You reach up, brushing his hair back, and press your lips against his. The kiss is soft, lingering. A gesture that tries to say: come in. Come close. I’ll show you.

The Monaco sun is high and soft at once, glittering off the Mediterranean like sequins scattered by the gods. In the Ferrari garage, the air hums with nerves and reverence. You are here as Carlos’ guest. As his wife. But the Monégasque crowd, ever discerning, ever nostalgic, knows your face too well. They know you are here for Charles, too.

Charles’ mother finds you first, arms warm and familiar as she pulls you into a hug. Her voice is full of joy, like no time has passed. “Tu as grandi,” she says. You’ve grown up. You smile, because you know she means more than just your height.

Charles’ girlfriend, standing nearby, offers a polite smile. Tight. Controlled. She’s beautiful in a sharp, curated way. You return the smile, equally curated. This is not your moment. Not anyone’s, really. Not yet.

Carlos starts at P3, the sun catching in his visor as he climbs into the car. You squeeze his hand before he goes, press your forehead to his briefly, whisper something soft and private. A murmur amid the noise. A prayer to all higher powers. A ritual, as sacred as the vows you exchanged on your makeshift altar. 

Charles is at P1.

The race runs steady. Smooth. Monaco is a street circuit notorious for its tight corners, but today it moves like silk beneath the tires. You stand with the engineers and crew, your eyes locked on the screens, barely blinking.

Lap after lap, Charles holds the lead.

Something blooms slow and aching inside of you. Not betrayal. Not regret. Just a deep-seated knowing. Of inevitability. Of time folding in on itself.

You remember it all: how you and Charles would sneak down to the port as children, watching the grandstands rise piece by piece, pretending the world was being built just for you. How he once said he’d win here someday, and you told him you’d be watching.

Is that a promise? he had asked, and you sobbed at the thought of him thinking otherwise. 

Years and years and years past that afternoon, Charles Leclerc crosses Monaco’s finish line first.

You don’t hear the cheering right away. Not over the rush in your ears. Your heart feels stretched, as if it’s holding two lives at once.

A hand presses a tissue into yours.

You startle, realizing your cheeks are wet. You hadn’t noticed the tears. Not until someone—perhaps one of the crew, perhaps someone else entirely—offers comfort in the silence that follows greatness.

You take the tissue. You press it to your face.

Charles has won Monaco.

And for reasons too vast to name, you are crying.

Carlos finishes P3. The moment he finds you after the awarding ceremony, he is champagne-soaked and bright-eyed. His face is alight with something close to joy, but not quite. The smile he wears is wide, yes, but not as full as you hoped it would be.

Still, he doesn’t hesitate. He pushes through everyone—engineers, media, crew, well-wishers—to get to you, to honor the first race you have watched in person. 

He wraps his arms around you and kisses you with the kind of devotion that carves out a space in time. When he pulls away, he whispers against your lips, “That one was for you, mi amor. For the little girl from Monaco.”

You close your eyes, and your heart stirs with something profound. You don’t know if Carlos knows the full weight of what he’s said, but you appreciate it. So much.

You try to tell him, try to choke it out, and it’s a mess of gracias and merci and thank you, like you can’t settle on which language you want to be grateful in. All of them, perhaps. It’s what he certainly deserves. He wills your indecision away with another kiss that feels like a promise in its own right. 

After the moment quiets, after he’s pulled away to do media and you’re left watching from the side, your eyes drift. 

And there’s Charles. He’s fresh off the podium, hair tousled from the cap, face flushed with the unmistakable color of victory.

There is too much that cannot be said. 

You reach out your hand, and he sees it, understands it. He takes it. You squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back. Just once.

And in that moment, you think back to a classroom high on a hill, where you once told Charles, told yourself, that nobody from Monaco becomes a star.

You want to laugh. Or cry. Or both. You want to go back in time and shake your younger self by the shoulders, to tell her Vous avez tort. You are wrong. 

You are holding Monaco’s star in your hands right now.

The bedsheets rustle as you and Carlos get ready for bed. He’s uncharacteristically contemplative, sitting at the edge of the mattress with his towel still slung over his shoulders from the shower. His hair, damp and curling slightly. His gaze, a thousand miles away. 

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at the floor with an intensity that makes your chest ache. You reach for the lamp switch but hesitate, sensing something lingering in the air.

Finally, he says, “I’m trying not to think of it as a metaphor.”

You shift until you’ve settled beside him. “What do you mean?”

He glances at you, a weak smile barely tugging at his lips. “Charles finishing P1. Me finishing P3.”

You let the words sit between you before replying, gently, “You’re forgetting the part where I love you.”

Carlos exhales and turns his face toward you fully. “I don’t forget it,” he admits. “I just have trouble believing it sometimes.”

Your heart fractures at the edges.

“It’s not you,” he says quickly, earnestly. “It’s not anything you’re doing wrong. It’s just…”

“The noise,” you finish for him, knowing of the voices in his head that he wars with everyday. They are commentators; they are his parents. They are you, too, sometimes, but they are also his own voice.

He nods, ashamed. 

You reach up, thumb tracing the curve of his cheek. “Then let me be louder.” 

He blinks, eyes dark and wide, as you lean in. The kiss you press to his lips isn’t urgent or rushed. It’s deliberate. Patient. A whisper of devotion, spoken without words.

He melts into you slowly, and you keep kissing him like a promise—like if you keep your mouth on his long enough, he’ll never again question the truth of your love. Like your lips could spell out every assurance in a language only the two of you understand.

Carlos pulls you closer, and when you break apart to breathe, his forehead rests against yours.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

You are his proof.

And you hope, as he closes his eyes and holds you tighter, that tonight he believes it in every bone of his body.

Carlos is already awake when you stir the next morning, his arm heavy around your waist, his breath warm and steady against your shoulder. You turn slightly to face him, eyes still adjusting. His gaze is soft, but a storm brews beneath it.

“Charles invited us out for a drink,” he says, voice low, like he’s not sure if he should be saying it at all.

You try to blink the sleep out of your eyes. “When?”

“Tonight. After press.” He hesitates. “I thought about not telling you.”

The confession lands gently, but not without weight.

“But you did,” you murmur, which loosely translates to Apology accepted.

Carlos’ hand tightens slightly around your side, grounding himself. “I could not keep it from you. Even if I wanted to. My conscience would not shut up,” he grumbles. 

You breathe in slowly, watching the way his eyes won’t quite meet yours. You understand. How could you not? The history. The years. The tangle of past and present between the three of you, unspoken but undeniable.

Your fingers go to brush through his hair, still a little mussed from sleep. “We don’t have to go. Not if you don’t want to,” you reassure him. 

His brow furrows. “I want you to go. That’s the problem.”

You let that settle. The truth of it.

Carlos shifts, pulling you closer. So close you can hear his heartbeat against your ribs. He holds you like he’s scared he already lost you. Like saying the words out loud made the fear real.

You wrap your arms around him in return.

And you think: maybe this is how you survive the past. By meeting it, side by side, in the present.

By bringing it to a dimly-lit speakeasy tucked away beneath the facade of an unassuming storefront. Velvet drapes and low jazz hum in the background. The amber lighting casts soft shadows across the walls. It smells of aged wood and whiskey, and even before you descend the narrow staircase, you can feel Carlos’s fingers brush yours for reassurance.

He doesn’t hold your hand. He rarely does in public. But this, tonight, is a little different.

Charles is already there, seated with a drink in hand at a table tucked into the farthest corner. He looks up as the two of you approach, eyes flicking first to Carlos, then to you. The smile that spreads across his face is genuine, if a little tentative.

Carlos is the first to speak. “Charles.”

They hug—tight, familiar, and briefly forgetting whatever weight still hangs between them.

You and Charles meet eyes next. The sight of him feels like catching your breath halfway. You step in, arms wrapping around him in a hesitant embrace. He holds you a second longer than expected, like memory pulled him in. When you pull apart, his smile is softer.

“Alexandra couldn’t make it,” he says, voice low and smooth. “But she sends her regards.”

You nod, offering a polite smile. “Tell her thank you.”

The three of you settle in, the velvet booth hugging you in close. Carlos sits next to you; Charles, across the two of you. Carlos’ thigh rests against yours beneath the table, grounding you. You can feel the tension in his leg.

Charles orders a round for the table. The server doesn’t ask for names. Of course they don’t. Everyone in Monaco knows who Charles is, who Carlos could be, who you once were. Even here, in the quiet corners of this exclusive speakeasy, the walls feel like they’re watching.

Drinks arrive. The ice clinks.

No one speaks for a moment. Then Charles clears his throat. “So... this is nice. I wasn’t sure you’d say yes.”

Carlos shifts slightly beside you, and you glance at him before replying. “We figured it was a good idea.”

Charles meets your gaze again. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Good idea.” 

He takes a sip of his drink. Carlos rests a hand on your knee beneath the table.

And for a moment, the past and present sit together under amber light, waiting to see which of them will speak first.

You’re halfway through your drink, something citrusy and burning slow, when the conversation finds its rhythm. Easy, like skipping stones across a still lake. Carlos and Charles laugh about something from the garage, a story involving Lando’s half-zipped fireproofs and a mistakenly swapped helmet.

You lean back, watching them with a kind of quiet wonder. They’re good together, you realize. Not just on the track, but here too, outside the cars, outside the race. Carlos glances at you when he says something particularly ridiculous, like he’s checking if he’s still funny to you. He is.

The three of you have settled comfortably into English, but it meanders. You break into Spanish when Carlos exaggerates a story. 

“Mentiroso,” you chide, nudging your husband beneath the table.

Charles grins. “What did you say?”

You look at him slyly. “I said he’s full of it.”

“Which is probably true,” Charles says, lifting his glass.

Later, you tease Charles with Frenchisms, dropping a mon pauvre when he recounts a rough stint in the simulator. He shoots you a pointed look, mock-offended.

“She says that when she’s trying to make me feel small,” Carlos stage-whispers.

Charles chuckles, then, almost offhandedly, says, “Well, he did ask me for French lessons once.”

Your eyes dart to Carlos, eyebrows raised. “Did you?”

Carlos hesitates for a beat, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. It was to understand you better.”

The warmth from your drink rises to your cheeks. You search his face. “Because of the dreams?”

He nods. Something in your chest pulls tight. Tender and aching. The idea of Carlos, awake in the middle of the night, trying to catch scraps of your unconscious language and learning a new one just to keep pace—it overwhelms you.

The irony is not lost on you, of course. The happenstance of him having asked Charles, of all people. But that is only second to the sheer affection you feel for your husband in that moment.

You reach for Carlos’ hand beneath the table, and he squeezes it twice in a wordless Te amo. 

Charles, for once, gives you both a moment. He looks away, sipping his drink. But there’s a softness in the silence that settles. A quiet knowing.

You think, perhaps, he understands what it means to still be learning the language of someone you love.

With a little more alcohol in your systems, you and Charles slip into your native tongue. 

Carlos scrolls on his phone, thumb lazily flicking past a feed he’s not really reading. He’s two drinks in, one leg bounced lazily beneath the table, but he hasn’t said much since you and Charles code switched.

You and Charles speak quietly, close enough to be overheard, yet cocooned in a language Carlos doesn't quite live in. You laugh softly at something Charles says about your shared childhood, but the ease falters when he leans in, eyes fixed on yours like he’s carrying something too big to keep anymore.

Charles says, “It is good that you immigrated.”

“I agree,” you say, words already beginning to slur just a bit. As if you’re unable to keep up with all the words within you.

“Monaco is too small of a country for you,” he muses. “It’s not enough to satisfy your greed.”

You both laugh, the kind that makes your shoulders shake and your cheeks ache. Carlos looks up briefly, sips from his drink, goes back to watching a video on mute. 

And then Charles drops a quiet bomb, almost offhand. Spoken in the French that Carlos tried and failed to learn. 

“I didn’t know that liking your husband would hurt this much,” Charles confesses lowly. 

Stunned silence. 

The air crackles around the three of you. 

It’s as if something invisible but potent unfurls between you and Charles—a door that had always been there, just never opened. Now it’s swinging, slowly, soundlessly, wide.

Charles is not done. “When we stopped talking,” he says, “I really missed you. Did you…” 

He trails off. You know what he means to ask. “Of course,” you respond. Bien sûr. 

Charles’s tone sharpens, almost accusing. “But you met Carlos then,” he says. 

You stiffen. “You met your girlfriend then, too,” you reply, the defensive edge in your voice unmistakable. You feel the shift in energy between you. Even through the buzz of alcohol and the nostalgic glow of memory, there’s a thin, tense wire stretched tight across the table, taut like a rubber band.

Are the two of you really being jealous of each other—here, now, with your husband sitting right next to you?

Charles catches himself, remembers his place. His expression softens. “I’m sorry,” he says. Je suis désolé.

You breathe out. “It’s okay.” C’est pas grave. 

“I guess seeing you here again has made me have a lot of weird thoughts.” 

“What kind of thoughts?” 

“You know.” Charles hesitates, then seems to decide he’s gotten this far. “Seeing my first love after all these years. I shouldn’t have let her go. Thoughts like that.” 

Carlos doesn’t look up from his phone, but somehow, the room feels smaller now. Like it knows too much. Like all three of you do, even as you try to protect your husband from it through the smokescreen of language. 

Charles’ voice comes low, like he already knows this is the last time he'll speak this truth aloud. He goes on, the hypotheticals spilling out of him in one fell swoop.  “What if I'd gone and found you in Madrid? What if you could have come back to Monaco? What if you had never left?”

Your breath catches.

“If you hadn’t left like that, and we just grew up together, would I still have looked for you?” Charles goes on. “Would we have dated? Broken up? Gotten married? Would we have had kids together?”

The room fades. The soft jazz, the warm laughter from another booth, the low murmur of Carlos's scrolling. All of it falls into a hush.

Charles pauses. His eyes are steady now, holding yours with a painful clarity. “Thoughts like that,” he finishes lamely. 

You don’t speak. You can’t. Because there’s a weight to the moment—one that sits heavy in your ribs, tearing you up from the inside.

And then, he adds, gently: “But the truth I learned here is, you had to leave because you’re you. And the reason I liked you is because you’re you. And who you are is someone who leaves.”

There it is.

The ache spills into your chest before you even realize it’s taken root. Because it’s not unkind, what he says. It’s not bitter. It’s worse—it’s honest.

In that honesty, something beautiful and impossible hangs between you. A version of your life that will never be lived.

Charles sits back then. Just slightly. As if he’s letting go of a memory before it can burn him.

You sit across from him and let the ache settle in quietly, like a language you’ve always known how to speak.

Quelqu'un m'a dit drifts from the bar’s speakers like a whispered secret, Carla Bruni’s voice smoky and lilting in the familiar French. You recognize it immediately. The lyrics stir something in you. You let them settle into the silence between you and Charles, where his confession still hovers like dust in a beam of light.

I am told that our lives don’t have great value, Carla sings. I am told that the time that slips away is a bastard and that it’s making coats from our grief.

You finally speak, your voice half-swallowed by the velvet dark around your booth. “The girl you remember doesn’t exist here.”

Charles looks up. His eyes are soft. “I know.”

You nod once, slowly. “But that little girl did exist. She’s not here in front of you, but it doesn’t mean she’s not real.” A beat. You breathe in, steady. “Seventeen years ago, I left her with you.”

Charles exhales. He looks like something fragile just cracked inside him.

“I know,” he says again. “And even though I was a kid, I loved her.”

There is no shame in his voice. No hesitance. Just the truth. 

You both laugh; the sound, an exhale of something too old to cry about.

The song goes on. Someone told me that you still love me, Carla croons.

Charles adds—softly, earnestly, even as his heart breaks in real time—

“To Carlos, you’re someone who stays.”

You don’t say anything back. Because that, too, is the truth.

Carlos looks up at the mention of his name, brows lifting as if surfacing from deep thought. His eyes shift between you and Charles, searching for context. Charles smirks, the crooked kind of smile that’s equal parts tease and defense mechanism.

“We’re talking shit about you,” Charles teases, the way only an old friend can joke, as though time hadn’t passed and no lines had been drawn.

Carlos’ expression flickers through something complicated—surprise, amusement, a flash of wariness. But it softens when you lean into his side, your head resting against his shoulder for a fleeting second. The kind of gesture that makes things make sense.

A minute later, you excuse yourself to the bathroom.

The table goes still. The music, ambient and moody, flows like a whisper through the speakeasy. Carla’s voice is now a distant echo.

Charles watches your retreating figure. He doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, out of nowhere, he says to Carlos, “Thank you.”

Carlos turns to him. “For what?”

Charles doesn’t answer. He just shrugs, looks away like the answer should be obvious, or like saying it out loud might ruin it. The words aren’t necessary. Not here.

Carlos studies him for a moment, quiet. “You are welcome,” he says simply. Accepting grace for the time spent as teammates, for the woman he loved well enough that Charles became nothing but a footnote. 

The moment stretches out. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.

And then, Charles—perhaps for the first time in years—lets the emotion rise unchecked. His lips press together, nostrils flaring just slightly. His jaw tightens. The tears don’t fall dramatically. They come silently, one blinking past his lashes and trailing down his cheek like a secret.

Carlos sees. He does. But he says nothing.

He turns his gaze away, choosing not to acknowledge what should never be spoken between them. It’s the kindest thing he can do.

When you return, the two men are sitting just as you left them. The moment is already buried, tucked between the folds of music and memory, where it will stay.

You tell Carlos you’ll walk Charles to his car. He nods once and stays seated, watching as the two of you slip past the velvet curtains and back into the night.

The speakeasy door closes behind you just as the last notes of Carla’s song follow you out, fading like breath in winter. 

I am told that destiny is making fun of us. It doesn’t give us anything and it promises us everything.

Charles walks beside you, his hands in his coat pockets. The streetlights cast soft halos on the pavement. There are no paparazzi here, no fans, no noise. Just you and him and the silence of streets that seem older than memory.

“We should do this again sometime,” Charles says. His voice is light, but the words are heavy.

“Definitely.” 

You both know it’s a lie.

Monaco will likely never be in your orbit again. Not like this. Not with this kind of ache. Not with this kind of clarity.

The walk to the parking lot is slow, like your feet understand what your heart refuses to say out loud. You think about destiny—how strange and cruel and circular it can be. Charles, golden child of Monte Carlo, boy who was born to drive. He fulfilled his. You know it just by looking at him.

You have yours too. One that took you far from the Riviera, far from childhood ghosts, and into a life that is yours.

Somewhere between the beginning and the end, you and Charles became people who no longer quite fit into each other’s stories. Maybe you were never meant to. Maybe that’s the point.

He stops at his car, turns to you with that soft, sad smile. You hug him one last time. He lets go slower than he should.

“Take care of him,” he says.

“I will,” you promise. You would do it even if Charles didn’t ask you to. 

He nods. Then, quietly: “Take care of you, too.”

Charles gets into his car. You stand there a moment longer, watching him ready to drive off into the city that raised him.

You don’t cry then.

Destiny doesn’t owe you that.

You turn around, the weight of Charles’ goodbye already settling in your chest, when you hear him call out—

“Hey!”

It’s just a word. Just a sound. But the way he says it, like it comes from somewhere deep, somewhere old, turns the air electric. For a moment, it doesn’t feel like you’re in the present. That single word—“Hey!”—rewinds everything.

It’s summer again. You’re a child. You’re in Monaco. You’re at your front door, and Charles is on his bicycle. He says au revoir instead of je t’aime because he is too young to understand the latter. He bikes the entire length of Monaco and back, passing by your house a dozen times even though you’ve already been taken away by a ferry that Charles will curse for months to come.

The memory flickers on like a fluorescent light about to burn out.

You turn to look at Charles now, in the dim glow of the parking lot. For a moment, you’re fooled. You could believe he’s still that boy, standing at your front porch and watching his whole life as it’s about to split in two.

Charles has stepped out of his car. His face is flushed with everything he doesn’t say. There’s conflict written all over him.

The desire to speak versus the need to stay silent. The affection versus the reverence. The sting versus the respect. His hands twitch slightly where they hang by his sides.

Finally, he says, voice softer than it's been all night, “In a past life. Do you think...?”

A supposition. It is the closest you will get to each other without betraying what you both currently have.

Smiling sadly, you manage, “Maybe.” 

He tongues the inside of his cheek. An old habit, one that kept him from crying. “Okay,” he croaks. “Alright.”

“Charles…”

“No, no,” he says quickly, holding up a hand, the tiniest of smiles breaking through the storm in his eyes. “I’ll take 'maybe'.”

You swallow, and it feels like you’re swallowing every version of the past that could’ve been. “Okay.”

His gaze lingers. The moment stretches, enough that you feel every second like you’re learning how to count for the first time again.

Un. Deux. Trois. Quatre. Cinq. Six—

“Maybe in a next life, too,” he says. 

You blink. “Charles—”

“See you then?”

Your mouth stays parted, but the words don’t come. This one is an invitation you do not know how to RSVP.

Charles gets back in the car. The door shuts with a soft finality.

He drives off.

And just like that, the spell breaks. The memory fades. Monaco is now. Monaco is then. And you’re walking back to Carlos.

You head back into the speakeasy.

You begin crying.

With each step, you cry harder.

You are crying like the little girl you once were, except Charles is not there to watch you cry. He is not the one with a hand hovering awkwardly over your shoulder, not the one with a conflicted expression at the sheer enormity of your emotions. You cry alone.

Your heels click across the floor as you re-enter the bar, the sound too loud against the low music and warm hush of patrons. No one looks your way, but you feel like a spectacle anyway. A walking memory unraveling at the seams.

Carlos is waiting for you.

He’s not on his phone. His drink is untouched. It’s like he’s been watching the door the entire time, as though he truly wondered if you might not come back. If you might run away with the boy you once loved and never stopped missing.

When Carlos sees you in tears, his expression crumples. His mouth parts slightly, his brows pull in. There is no jealousy in his face. No accusation. Just sorrow. Just heartbreak, raw and unhidden, like he’s feeling your pain along with his own.

You stand in front of him, unable to say a word.

Carlos doesn’t speak either.

He watches you for a brief moment. Then he reaches for you.

You fall into his arms. He wraps them around you, strong and warm and sure, and holds you while you cry. And cry. And cry.

You bury your face into his shoulder, hands clutching the fabric of his shirt like it might anchor you to the earth. He strokes your back slowly, murmuring something you can’t hear but feel in the weight of his hold. It could be English, or Spanish, or French. You’re not sure. 

You are crying like the little girl you once were, except this time—this time—someone does something about it. Someone stays. ⛐

[massiv3tr33p3rsona]

Home | Annie X Smoke X Lucinda (Black Fem OC)

Part I.

Pairing: Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore (Sinners) x Annie (Sinners) x Lucinda (Black Fem OC) (Woman in GIF: Yseult)

Summary: Lucinda is doing her chores at Annie’s shop when the latter’s estranged husband, Smoke, returns following a long stay in Chicago, where they engaged in a very tense conversation that ends in a long session.

Warnings: SMUT, 18+, a bit lengthy, threesome (f-m-f), oral (m receiving, f receiving), fingering, mastrubating, handjob, titty sucking/playing, slight choking, slight vouyerism, face riding, slapping, slight worshipping, angst, snowballing (hehe), saliva play, creampie, aftercare, emotional feelings, mentions of death, Hoodoo practicing, slight knife play, cursing, smoking, drinking, slight pregnancy ritual (but it’s not who you think), slight spoilers

Dividers Made By: @uzmacchiato

THIS IS MY WORK, SO PLEASE DO NOT STEAL IT.

Inside a wooden brown home, on a huge king sized bed, laid two curvy black women, sleeping peacefully with nothing on in the hot airy room.

Surrounded by candles, minerals, jars of different liquids and herbs, this was the work done by Annie, who practices Hoodoo and her Louisiana Creole girlfriend that follows and helps around, Lucinda.

The sun shines through the window, reflecting on the women. A few minutes go by and Lucinda is awoke, rubbing her eyes. She sits up, looking around to make sure nothing seemed off before looking at Annie, who is still sleeping.

She traces over her face, admiring her beautiful features that enhances her face as she checks to see if she’s still wearing her mojo bag necklace Annie made her as soon as they started seeing each other.

“Annie.” as she kisses her cheek, waiting to see if she moves.

Annie moves a bit, but is not fully awake. Lucinda laughs, gently moving herself between Annie’s legs as she kisses her lips a few times, placing her arms on the outers of Annie’s hips.

“Get up. We have to open shop really soon.” Lucinda whispers as she traces over one of Annie’s breasts, hearing her breathing pitch up a bit.

“Stop…..just a….few more…minutes.” she said in a sleepy voice, gently pushing Lucinda back before adjusting her head on the pillow.

Lucinda chuckles before taking herself into Annie’s mouth, giving her a sloppy kiss and massaging her breasts. Annie slightly fights back, letting herself succumb to Lucinda’s attack.

She breaks the kiss, beginning to place them on her neck, breasts, and stomach as she trails lower and lower to her pussy, stopping as it comes into her view.

“What are y….you doing, Lucin…da?” asked Annie.

“I’m hungry.” replied Lucinda as she spreads Annie’s legs open, placing one leg on her shoulder as her hand traces over the outline of her clothed lips.

Annie lets out a quiet moan, rubbing Lucinda’s arm as she pushes her underwear to the side, feeling her breath blowing at her dripping heat.

Lucinda pushes on her clit, watching more essence spill out of her, wetting up her finger. She looks at Annie, who is still half asleep before placing her tongue inside her hole, beginning to suck and flick around it.

“Fuck….” moaned Annie, now fully awake and arching her back a bit.

Lucinda smiles, letting out a POP! sound as she removes her tongue, seeing a trail of her saliva connecting to it.

“You’re so wet for me…” she whispers, licking her clit before diving back in, speeding up her pace.

Annie lets out a few expletives, feeling herself getting hotter and intense the more quick Lucinda’s tongue and mouth was moving.

Suddenly, Lucinda stops, sitting herself up. Grabbing her hips, she pulls Annie into a lay down position, but her waist and legs are bent towards her, making her have easier access to her pussy.

“You good?” she asked, locking eyes with her.

Annie nods feverishly before Lucinda resumed, this time rubbing her clit in a circular, right motion, causing Annie to squirm a bit.

“Don’t. Do tha—fuck!” yelped Annie as Lucinda inserted a finger inside, pumping in and out.

“I don’t run from you when you got me like this. Don’t do that with me.” said Lucinda.

She stops, placing her mouth over her hole again and begins eating her out, causing Annie to let out a variety of moans.

Lucinda slaps her thighs a few times, feeling her tense up a bit before relaxing again as she continuously licks over a sweet spot, making Annie speak in a different language.

“Maṣe dawọ duro. Ahọn rẹ jẹ ki inu mi dun! (Don’t stop. Your tongue is making me feel good.)” yelled Annie, trying to filp them over, but Lucinda holds her in position with her legs pinned against her, licking and slurping everything in a sloppy way.

Annie feels her climax building with each swipe, making her cry out in tears as she tugs on the sheets, being unable to move. She looks at the picture of her and Smoke at their wedding on her nightstand, slamming it down before placing her hand on Lucinda’s hair and pushing her face deeper into her heat.

Lucinda obliges, pushing in to the point she can’t breathe, but is consumed by lust to finish making Annie release all over her.

“Let me cum please. I need it.” whispers Annie, grabbing one of Lucinda’s hands and cupping it around one of her breasts.

Lucinda squeezes it, speeding up her finger and tongue, feeling Annie gripping around both. She moans, letting the vibrations add on to her attack.

“Cumming. Cumming!” yells Annie as her release washes over her body, making herself squirt and spaz in Lucinda’s grip.

Lucinda lifts up her head, face fully soaked from her essence as she watches Annie come down from her high, gently laying her lower half down on the bed before getting up going to the bathroom.

Annie catches her breath, reliving the moment that just happened while filling the soreness grow. She slowly drifts back to sleep when suddenly, she felt something wet between her legs.

She opens her eyes, seeing Lucinda wiping away her essence with a wet cloth, holding a bowl in her hand. She dipped the cloth into the ball and brings it up to her breasts, wiping her chest.

“You know you don’t have to do this..” said Annie.

Lucinda chuckles, bringing the cloth to her hands and wiping them as well.

“We’re behind schedule. Today feels like it’s gonna be one of those chaotic days.” She replied, placing a kiss on one of them.

“Every day is chaotic when practicing what we do. Life can be very unpredictable.” said Annie.

“Mmhm. Now get dressed so we don’t have angry customers questioning why we’re not opened.” said Lucinda.

She gives Annie a kiss before walking to the bathroom, pouring the bowl out as she starts washing her face.

Annie gets up, walking toward the closet and vanity as she looks through what she wants to wear. She sees the photo of her, Smoke, and their infant daughter hanging up, making her grab it to hold.

“Oh how I miss the both of you..” she whispers, holding the photo to her chest as tears begin to form in her eyes.

Lucinda watches from the bathroom, knowing how much pain him leaving to go to Chicago with his brother and the death of their daughter caused on Annie.

Inside the small shop consists of candles, herbs, oils, incenses, tarot cards, bowls, books, statuary, posters, and altars as both women are working, fixing up the shop.

Lucinda is refilling the mini jars of cinnamon and different herbs as Annie organizes the candles, making sure they are aligned perfectly.

Small movements on the steps caused both women to look at the door, seeing two small children enter.

“Afternoon, Miss Annie and Miss Lucinda!” said the little girl as she and her little brother walked up to the counter where Annie was.

“Afternoon, little ones.” said Annie, a smile formed on her face.

“What can we help you with?” asked Lucinda.

“Our mama sent us here to pick up some snack powder.” said the little brother.

“Sack, Donny. Saaack.” said the little sister, looking at her brother, who laughs.

Lucinda chuckles, adoring the mispronunciation of satchel from both kids as Annie steps up, walking them to a shelf of different ones.

“I think I can help with that. Did she say which one in particular?” asked Annie.

“Something with luck. And….benny mat?” said the little girl.

Banishment. The word she’s trying to pronounce is banishment.

Annie nods before taking out a tray of them, looking through each one. Lucinda finished the last jar, placing them on the table. She grabs a sun hat and puts it on, walking towards a corner.

“Ima go water and trim the flowers and herbs, Annie.” she said, grabbing the water can and garden tools sack.

Annie nods as she watches Lucinda walk to the back, turning her attention back to the children.

In the small garden that stays behind the shop, Lucinda is trimming branches and dead plants, throwing them into the bag near her.

“My, my. You blue hydrangeas have gotten so beautiful the last time I see ya.” she said, rubbing her fingers over the petals.

She moves to the sage and flax seed next to it, adding a bit of water to it so it doesn’t get ruined. She cuts off some lavender, placing them in her chest pocket, before resuming watering and trimming.

It took a lot of conviction to Annie to add flowers to the garden to update its appearance when they first began to see each other. She was against the idea, saying they were “ruin” her herbs with all of their different chemicals, but Lucinda convinced her to expand the garden to give each plant some space and making sure that they don’t mix in with each other.

She notice a group of blooming baby breaths next to the chamomile, gently picking them out instead of cutting them. She examines them, taking in its very soft and small details that Annie was telling her about, understanding why she likes them so much.

She gets up, walks over to the grave of Annie and Smoke’s daughter, which had a bottle of sugar, a blueish paper, and a rock with the baby’s hand print laying on top. She gently places them next to the bottle, fixing their appearance before standing up.

“You don’t know me…but your mama has told me about you, little one.” she said, looking at the hand print.

The story of how Annie and Smoke met is a little confusing to her, but she remembers some important details: they met after him and his brother returned from serving in World War I. He was a bit weirded out with her Hoodoo practices, but respect it everything she did. Their relationship caused a slight strain between him and his brother, who clearly had different lifestyles as his brother was running around, getting himself in trouble and fucking other peoples women. They got married very fast and soon after that, she became pregnant with their daughter. However, just a few weeks after she was born, she passed unexpectedly.

Lucinda never asked how, but she always felt the pain each time Annie mentions her. This caused a strain in their marriage as Smoke blamed her practices for her death as it should’ve protected her as well and immediately left to work in Chicago with his brother, never contacting her once ever.

She doesn’t understand how can someone who married and welcomed a child with not contact their spouse for years, but life goes on and hopefully, Annie moved on.

Lucinda walks back to the garden, resuming her work. As she dumps out the sack of dead plants and branches into the trash, she hears a car pulling up.

Taking out her knife, she hides behind the cornerstone, making sure she isn’t visible to whoever it is in that car. The car door slams, with footsteps moving. She peers from the corner, waiting to see who is this individual walking back here.

Coming into her view, a man in a blue plaid tailor suit, wearing a blue wool hat, walks up to the grave, holding a bouquet of white hydrangeas. He kneels, gently placing them behind the rock before tracing over the grave, sniffling.

“Pa was here.” he mumbles. “Pa was here.”

Smoke. That’s who that was is what Lucinda said to herself.

She walks out, carefully not making noise or else, he will see her until she stops when Annie comes out, looking at her.

“What’s going on?” she asked before turning her head.

Seeing Smoke at their daughter’s grave, she pauses, intensely breathing quiet as she watches him get up and look at her, stunned at her and Lucinda standing there.

“You’re back.” said Annie, with anger slightly peaking in her tone.

He removes his hat, showing more of his tearful face, wiping them away.

“Yeah. I am.” he replied, a small smile appearing on his face.

As much as she wanted to hear the reason why he hasn’t contacted or sent anything to Annie in the years he’s been gone, Lucinda can feel herself getting anger, not wanting to snap at him.

“Mm.” whispered Lucinda, grabbing the things and walking towards the shop.

“I’ll let y’all talk.” she utters, ignoring Smoke’s intense gaze.

Annie nods, walking forward to stand more in his view.

“How you been?” he asked.

“Busy. Running the shop and living my life to deal with the emptiness you left me with.” Annie replied bitterly.

Lucinda pulls the blinds shut, not wanting to hear more of the conversation. She looks at the children, who are still here, examining each powder, trying to figure out the ones their mother wants.

“Y’all doing okay?” she asked.

“Yeah!” they said in unison.

“Alright, let me know if you need any help. I’ll be here, cleaning off the tools and wash my hands.” she said, placing the tools in the sink.

The children nodded, continuing to look at the powder as Lucinda turns on the water, grabbing the sponge and soap.

A few minutes goes by and Annie reenters the shop, walking to Lucinda, who just finished washing her hands after cleaning the tools.

As she’s drying her hands with a towel, Annie wraps her hands around her waist, pulling into an embrace.

“Woah. What are you doing?” ask Lucinda, cut off guard by that.

“I can’t give you love?” asked Annie, placing a kiss on her neck.

“Yeah but…. You still got some young customers in here and I don’t think they should see that.” whispered Lucinda, tilting her head towards the children.

Annie pecks her lips, gently squeezing her hip before walking towards the kids.

“I’ll take care of them.” she whispered, winking at Lucinda before turning her attention back to the kids.

Lucinda smiles, removing her sun hat placing on the counter before turning around to see Smoke in the door frame, staring at her before walking in and examining the whole room. Lucinda stares back, a fiery scrunity now settling over her.

“That’s all for you guys?” ask Annie as she places some of the powder into a little bag.

”That’s all, Miss Annie.” said the little girl.

The little boy hands over the two dollars to Annie, who takes it as she hands the bag to the girl.

“Be careful with walking home with that powder now. I don’t want your mama coming in here, crazy because of something that happened.” she said, stepping aback and placing the money on the counter.

“Thank you, Miss Annie.” said the little boy.

“Bye, Miss Lucinda!” the little girl.

Lucinda waves at them as they walk out, leaving her, Annie, and Smoke in the shop, silence brewing in the air.

“Why do you like taking that money when I can give you real money?” he asks, picking up the money off the counter.

Annie whips out her blade, holding it to Smoke’s throat as he takes out a band of money to hand to her.

“I don’t want that blood money you bought up in here.” she replied.

“Girl, if you don’t get that blade away from me-“

“Or what? You’re gonna abandon her again, but take her money along with you?” asked Lucinda, cutting him off.

Smoke snapped his eyes at her, annoyed that she butted herself in.

“You’re gonna let this woman—“

“Lucinda is my name, thank you.”

Smoke huffs, clearing his throat before looking at Annie.

“You’re gonna let LUCINDA talk to me like that?” he said in a loud voice.

“She can do what she wants. Considering she filled in what you left. Now give me my money back before I cut you.” said Annie, pushing the blade slightly into his neck.

Smoke sighs, handing her back the money. She takes it, putting the blade away. Lucinda rolls her eyes, taking out the lavender in her pocket.

“You know which bowl is not filled with any of the sands?” she asked, looking at each bowl on the surface.

“The cracked white one.” said Annie.

Lucinda grabs it, placing the lavender inside and crushing it with a pestle. Grabbing a rolling paper, she sprinkles some lavender inside before grabbing some grinned chamomile in a jar and sprinkling some of it as well.

“You’re not gonna tell me more about your little follower you got in here?” said Smoke, walking around the front of the shop.

“You come back after eight years of no contact and now wants to run shit because your little adventure with your brother has ended. I guess that’s how the relationship of the SmokeStack twins goes, huh?” said Lucinda, rolling up the paper into a cigarette.

“Mm. You just like Stack. Running your mouth, knowing what trouble you might get into.” said Smoke, sitting in a chair.

“That’s funny. I don’t see any trouble in this room right now. Better yet, a real man.” she replied, cutting her eyes to Smoke.

Annie looks at her with a pleading expression, begging her to stop.

“Really? What does a real man look like to you?” he asked, looking at the both of them.

“Supportive. Loving. Communicative. Happy. Making sure his family, including his wife, is good. Not just leaving because life is getting tough and you need a way out.” she replied, crossing her arms together.

“Huh….” is all he could say, his anger slowly rising.

“Mmhm. I get it’s common for you to do that since you did fight in the war. But wow. Abandoning your grieving wife is quite a new low for you, Smoke.”

“Lucinda, that’s enough!” said Annie, standing in front of her.

“No, no. Let her continue. Pretty sure it’s the practices you’re teaching that’s coming through.” he said, standing up.

Annie looks at him, infuriated as Lucinda chuckles, placing the cigarette in her pocket before slowly walking up to him.

“Teaching, aye? You mean the teaching that has protected you and Stack over the years you’ve been gone? How you’re still able to stand up here with all limbs and how you haven’t put a fucking bullet through your head? I wish I had discovered this much sooner this because if I did, maybe my husband, who served in the same war you fought in, would still be here with me haven’t he not gone crazy and took himself out.”

“Baby, please.” whispered Annie.

“No.” she replied, looking at her. “Because I’m sick of him constantly shitting on this as if every bad that has happened to him was avoided because of it and you’re only taking it because you married him. I’m not doing that shit this time because if it’s all such hearsay to him…”

She rips open Smoke’s coat, revealing a mojo bag necklace he’s wearing underneath, shocking him. Annie, with a surprised look, walks up to him, touching the bag.

“Why is he still wearing it? Hm? You would think he took that shit off, but surprisingly, no. Just all talk like the rest of them..”

“All talk? Like I’m not the one who keeps my brother in check every single time we’re doing something?!” he yells, getting in Lucinda’s space.

“Both of you, stop!” said Annie, pushing him back a bit.

“You wanna know why I don’t believe in it, but I’m still wearing this? She made it. Every single day I was gone, I always remember that Annie was with me. Through the good. The bad. The ugly. I never took this off, even when I was showering. That’s my ode to her.” he said, holding the mojo bag up.

“What I don’t understand how can all this work for me…..but did nothing when our daughter died? Was she a sacrifice for all of the things we did? Can you answer that? Or you don’t know either?” he added, staring her down.

Annie looks at the both of them as a hazy vision comes over, making the room blurs out a bit as Lucinda looks at him, matching her energy.

She questions if it’s even worth responding, considering he’s hardheaded and anything he says could make things worse. She looks down, noticing how tense his body was until she got to his dick, which was throbbing through his pants.

Is he getting hard off this? she asked herself, contemplating if she should mention it or just let it go. She sighs, looking at him again, who was waiting for a response.

“….I couldn’t tell you. But what I do know is I would never bring up a dead person in the midst of a conversation. Especially calling them a “sacrifice”. Cause that was her child too. And that was something you were just crying over when you first got here. You can believe in anything you want…..but I would never disrespect a deceased baby of someone I love. That’s all I have to say.” said Lucinda, turning away.

Smoke is about to say something, but Annie silences, taking the mojo bag off his neck. Lucinda blinks, trying to prevent the tears from falling as she grabs a glass from the cabinet, a bottle of whiskey, and a lighter.

Annie opens the mojo bag, pouring all of it into a bowl as she lights up candles and an incense as Smoke grabs a smoke pipe, lighting it up.

“Bring that whiskey to me, please.” she asked, looking at Lucinda.

The latter walks over, pouring some in her glass before placing the bottle on the table. Before she sits down, she looks at Annie, gently rubs her face before giving her a kiss, squeezing her ass.

Smoke smiles a bit, inhaling the pipe as Lucinda breaks the kiss, taking a seat in the chair near the table. Annie licks her lips, pouring a bit of a whiskey into the bowl and on the table before citing a spell quietly, bowing her hands as they watch her.

“Why are you here?” she asked, looking at Smoke.

“Stack and I are having our grand opening of the juke tonight.” as he blew some smoke out, not looking at her. “We was hoping you and her can cook for us. Was thinking some catfish. About a 1000 people.”

Lucinda sideeyes him as she lights up her cigarette, inhaling some of the lavender and chamomile. Annie stares at him, not believing what he’s actually saying.

“Elijah…..” she said, making him look at her.

“Why are you really here?” she asked again, the candles flickering.

Smoke looks down, clearing his throat as he looks at Annie again, guilt running all over his face. Lucinda downs her whiskey before pouring a new one.

“…..I love you. And I miss you. I miss us. I’m sorry….” he said, his voice trembling on the last one.

Lucinda looks at Annie, who is now on the verge of tears. She walks over to Smoke, who pulls her into an emotional embrace, laying his head on her chest as she consoles.

Lucinda looks away, wondering if she should leave and let them be as she feels like she’s invading their privacy. As she looks up, she sees them making out with each other, with Annie wrapping her hand around Smoke’s throat.

Lucinda becomes enthralled at the sight, feeling herself getting wet as Annie moves her other hand toward Smoke’s private area, gripping his throbbing dick. He winces, feels himself get harder as her grip around his throat tightens a bit.

“Ara rẹ ko gbagbe mi (Your body didn’t forget me).” she whispered, moaning at his hot breath breathing over her chest as he stands up, putting his mouth over hers again.

Lucinda puffs out the remaining of her cigarette before getting up, slowly walking over to them. She stands behind Annie, caressing her side as she begins kissing all over her neck and shoulder.

Annie moans, pulling away from Smoke to make out with her, turning her body to rub against hers as she rubs her ass against Smoke’s print, earning a few slaps on her cheeks.

She breaks the kiss, moving to the side as she pulls Smoke and Lucinda close, stopping at a certain distance.

“Go ahead. It’s just me here.” whispered Annie.

Lucinda and Smoke hesitated for a bit before kissing, both fighting for dominance. Annie smiles, turned on by her husband and her girlfriend making out with each other. Carefully, she slides her hand under Lucinda’s dress and into her panties, fondling her clit as she slide her other one into Smoke’s pants and into his underwear, jacking off his dick.

Both lovers break the kiss to gasp and moan, but Annie stops, shaking her head.

“I didn’t say you can stop now. Continue and I’ll resume my play.” she said, looking at the both of them.

Lucinda grabs Smoke’s face and continues kissing him, biting his lips in the process as Annie resumes, speeding up her pace.

Annie growls at Lucinda’s essence and Smoke’s pre-cum wetting up her hands, forming a puddle in her panties. She removes her hands, standing up to remove her dress as they broke the kiss again, lips all swollen.

“Strip. Now.” utters Annie, removing her panties.

The lovers followed, with Lucinda being the quickest to removing her clothes as Smoke got his underwear off finally, his dick swaying up and down.

“Sit.” she orders him, point at the chair.

He obliges, sitting down and making sure his legs stay open. She walks up, kneeling in between them as she turns to Lucinda, motioning her to do the same, scooting over a bit. She obliges, getting into her exact position.

“Follow along.” she whispers before giving Lucinda a kiss.

She grabs Smoke’s dick and begins jerking it, making him flinch a bit. She grabs Lucinda’s hand and places it above her, motioning her to stroke. Both women began moving their hands, creating a sensual sensation for Smoke, who is fighting so hard to not release all over them.

Annie takes his tip into her mouth, beginning to bobble her head up and down as Lucinda fondles her breast, watching in awe.

“Fuck……” mumbled Smoke, throwing his head back.

“Suck that dick real good, Annie.” whispered Lucinda, placing kisses all over her shoulder.

Annie sucks for a few more minutes before removing her mouth, bringing Lucinda’s mouth to his tip and watching her engulf it, moaning at the sight. The latter begins moving her head up and down at a fast pace, her saliva coating her and Annie’s hands.

“Mo fe ki o gun oju mi (I want you to ride my face).” whispered Annie as she removes her hand and gets into position under her.

Lucinda lifts up a bit without missing a beat as Annie guides her back down onto her face, positioning her pussy over her mouth, tighten her grip as she begins to eat her out.

“Mmm fuck!” she moaned around Smoke’s dick as she begins grinding her hips over Annie’s face, creating a rhythm.

Smoke grabs a handful of her hair and begins pumping his hips against her face, practically face fucking her. She makes incoherent sounds, taking in the arousing position she’s currently in.

“That’s right. Slop my shit up with that reckless mouth of yours.” he said, forcing her to look at him.

He pulls her off, slapping the tip all over her face and tongue before reinserting it, watching her bop her head up and down. Annie begins rubs her clit fast, making her whimper and try to get up, but Smoke hold hers down, grinding his hips into her face.

“You don’t run from her when she got you like this. Don’t do that now that I’m back.” he added.

Lucinda feels herself getting close to release, speeding up her hips and mouth, not caring about how sensitive she’s about to feel afterwards.

Finally, her release washes over her, with her moaning loud, her hips bucking, and squirting all over Annie’s face as Smoke holds her head down, shooting his seed down her throat as he lets out so many expletives.

Lucinda falls to the side, catching her breath as Annie lays next to her, catching hers as well.

Smoke stands up, jerking his dick as he looked at the two beautiful women glistening from the sun reflecting on them. He smiled, looking at the time on his watch before looking back at them.

“We ain’t got much time, so who wanna go first?” he asked with a smirk in face.

Both women smiled weakly as they opened their legs, exposing their soaking pussy to him.

“Oh? I see I got options.” he mumbled before kneeling in front of them.

Sounds of excessive moaning, skin slapping, and the floor creaking fills the room as Smoke fucks Annie while she and Lucinda are in a 69 position, with the latter slobbing down her pussy.

“You missed this, didn’t you?” he asked, pulling Annie close to his chest.

“Yes, yes! Don’t stop please!” she replied, feeling him kiss her ear as Lucinda flicks, her tongue fast.

Smoke slams his hips into her ass hard, filling himself poking a sweet spot inside her, which is making her moan loud.

He stops, push her down towards Lucinda’s pussy, where she began sucking on her clit as he resumes fucking her.

“Oh shit!” cried Lucinda, feeling very overstimulated.

Annie kisses her lips a few times before slurping it, gently plumping her fingers inside. Smoke chuckles, slapping her ass a few times before speeding up his pace, giving her brutal strokes.

Annie whines, squeezing around his shaft as his tip continuously hits her sweet spot, rubbing Lucinda’s clit very hard.

“I’m about to cum.” said Lucinda, gripping down on Annie’s fingers.

“Same, mmm! Same!” said Annie, throwing it back to speed it up.

Smoke wraps his hand around Annie’s neck and slightly chokes her, feeling his own release approaching at well while matching her pace.

“Let’s all cum together then!” he grunted as he continuously slams into Annie, feeling her walls tightening around him.

A few moments later, Lucinda and Annie’s release washes over both women, with each squirting all over each other’s face, moaning in unison.

Smoke yells “Shit!” before filling Annie up with his cum, coating up her womb, moaning at the feeling. As he removed himself, he watches his seed slide out, drip down Annie’s lips and into Lucinda’s mouth, who slurps every last bit of it up.

“You’re so nasty….” he whispered, rubbing his tip all over Lucinda’s mouth.

A dazed Lucinda smiles, sucking the tip as Annie removes herself, watching these two from afar. Suddenly, an idea came into her head, making her get up to grab something.

“Everything okay?” asked Smoke with a concerned look on his face.

Annie goes through the bottles of oils, looking at each one until she finally found the sandalwood and lavender, walking back over to them.

“I have an idea and you have to trust me on it.” she replied as she kneeled next to Lucinda.

“….dont tell me it’s one of those bullshit magic things you’re attempting.” he said, getting up but is stopped by Lucinda.

“You’re hard again…..” she said quietly, gently stroking his dick.

Smoke tenses, wanting to remove her hand but won’t as Annie looks at him, tears slightly forming.

“Please……it’s for me and you. She’s perfect for it and it can help us heal from her.” she whispers, grabbing his hand.

Smoke sighs, looking at the time on his watch again before looking at her.

“Guess I can spare some more time. But if it’s doesn’t work…..we’ll try naturally again. Understood?” he said, grabbing her hand.

Annie nods. Smoke repositions Lucinda on her back as Annie opens and rubs the oil over Smoke’s dick and Lucinda’s pussy.

“Mu oyun ni ilera ati ọmọ. Ko si ohun dudu ti yoo wọ inu rẹ. (Bring her a healthy pregnancy and baby. Nothing dark will come inside her).” is what Annie chanted as she rubs some over her breasts, hearing her whimper a bit.

“It tingles a bit.” said Lucinda.

“That means it’s working. Come on. Get in position, Elijah.” she added, bringing Lucinda’s legs to her chest, holding them open.

Smoke spreads the excessive oil around his balls and pelvic area before lining himself up at her entrance, rubbing the tip around it.

“You ready, Lu?” he asked, looking at her.

“We’re at nicknames now?” she replied, smiling a bit.

“Yeah now that you about to be family.” he replied, grabbing her legs to hold them down.

He inserts slowly, making her groan a bit and him cursing under his breath.

“Careful now.” said Annie.

“You just took all of me when you were riding me while Annie was on my face. How you tight yet again?” he asked, filling her up with the rest of him, making her pant hard.

“I think it’s the oil…..you feel much bigger inside me now.” she replied, wrapping her hands around his waist.

Smoke looks at Annie, who motions him to start. Going at a steady pace, he begins fucking, gripping her legs to hold himself up.

“Shit….” whispered Lucinda, feeling him getting closer and closer to her sweet spot.

He removes his hands and wraps them around her neck, adding some pressure. She begins rubbing her clit, slowly building up her release as Smoke speeds up his strokes.

“God, you look sexy as hell, doing that in front of my wife.” he grunted, slamming a little rough into her, making her moan louder.

“Annie..please. Touch me.” she whimpers, locking eyes with her.

Removing her hands from holding her legs, Annie wraps her hands around Lucinda’s breasts and begins fondling them, earning a moan from her.

Smoke chuckles, kissing Annie before grabbing Lucinda’s face and giving her a fat sloppy kiss as he deepens his strokes, moaning at her getting adjust to his size again. Her incoherent sounds overpowers his, making her fall into a deep sexual haze.

“Oh my god….I’m getting close.” he moans, grinding his hips. “I can feel myself aching for a release.”

“That’s good. Continue doing her.” said Annie, removing her hands and getting up to grab the oil.

Lucinda whines about Annie not touching her anymore, until Smoke lowers his head, taking one of them into his mouth to suck and using one of his hands to find out the other, his strokes becoming sloppy.

“Keep doing that. You’re about to bring me to mines.” she said, wrapping her legs around his waist, which he groans in response.

Annie stands behind them, pouring some oil into her hands. She massages his balls, hoping it will help with his release.

Finally, he gives one final stroke before shooting inside her, letting out tearful moans as he pulsates as a gleeful Annie watches. Lucinda’s release follows, letting out some whimpers as she holds onto Smoke tightly.

He lays on an exhausted Lucinda, catching his breath as Annie heads to the sink, filling a bowl up with water.

“What the hell did you…mmm. What did you put in that shit?” he asked, feeling himself shooting even more inside Lucinda.

“Special ingredients that will help with having a healthy pregnancy. And a healthy, long lasting baby.” she replied, grabs a towel before walking back over.

“Or babies.” added Lucinda, feeling Smoke smirk.

Carefully, Smoke pulls out, making sure nothing spills out before lay against the chair, catching his breath.

Annie kneels next to Lucinda, dipping the towel into the ball, and begins wiping her skin at a gentle pace.

“……I love you.” said Smoke.

“I know, Smoke.” replied Annie.

“….her too.” he added.

Lucinda laughs weakly, closing her eyes a bit to rest as Annie cleans her.

The trio rides in the car together, with Lucinda sitting in the middle of the couple, rolling up a lavender cigarette for Smoke.

“You know I only smoke tobacco, right?” said Smoke.

“Well, this is much healthier cause I don’t want that smell getting all over my clothes…..or the baby.” replied Lucinda, lighting up the cigarette before placing it in his mouth.

Smoke inhales, blowing some out before nodding his head, impressed with the taste. Lucinda hands it over to Annie, who takes it to finish the rest.

“You sure it’s gonna be a thousand people tonight?” asked Annie.

“More like a 100 probably. We just wanna have enough catfish for everyone to eat.” he replies.

“You guys are not worried about the KKK showing up?” asked Lucinda.

“They won’t. Or else, Stack and I will gladly take them out.”

She nods before laying her head on Annie’s shoulder. She’s excited to see their juke joint come to life, but something inside tells her that this night is not gonna go smooth but can’t detect why….

A/N: Started this Sunday because I can’t get this damn film out of my head and now I’m glad that I finished this today. I am hoping to finish the other three parts that are planned. Otherwise, thanks for reading!

[oddballwriter]

Hey there, i love how you write Ena! If you’re still doing BBQ Ena requests, could you one of a reader thats kinda of doting on Ena when they’re together? Not in like a super clingy sense but it’d be super cute to see a fic where reader kinda reminds Ena that although work is important, burning herself out isnt good for her and that it’s okay to ask for help. Like maybe Ena’s been on edge bc of a particularly difficult job that has an extremely naggy and judgmental client and it’s kinda getting to Ena but shes trying to suppress it and the reader notices and comforts her. Some hugs and cuddles maybe while Ena tries to be more comfortable with being vulnerable as she’s most likely not used to it bc of how other entities tend to be hostile towards Ena(s). Fem or Nuetral reader is good!

Doting

BBQ ENA x doting!reader

Summary: ENA can work herself to the point of collapsing, literally, and sometimes you need to help her calm down and take a minute for herself so that she doesn’t make herself worse.

Warnings: ENA being a people pleaser and not being able to say no to people and exhausting herself. Gender and pronouns of reader is never specified or mentioned. Reader doting on ENA. But of angst that turns into some super sweet fluff.

Author’s Snip: This was actually so nice to write. I hope I did your request justice anon! 🤍♥️

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

Word Count: 1.5k

You swear, people give ENA stupid and hard jobs on purpose. There was this southern-sounding lady made completely of knit yarn complaining about how her sheep got loose and she can’t catch them. That wasn’t too bad. If anything you felt for her a bit. But it was when ENA came up to her to ask questions about the new task she was given that the lady seems to completely turn around and be extremely rude.

“Oh, ENA? Ha! What are you doing ‘round here, huh? Causing no good, I bet. Why don’t you go botherin’ someone else? Can’t you sees I’m doin’ somethin’ important?” she spat.

“My apologies, Miss.” her salesperson side said, “But I fear me and my partner here are at a bit of a short end conundrum. We require assistance to get back in the right track-” she said before her meanie side butted in, “SO TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW SO I CAN GET OUT OF THIS DUMP!”.

“Ha! Yelling like a little child again, are we? Tuff tarts, spitfire. I have rampant sheep to attend to and I can’t waste it on a two-colored-hussy like you.” she said before a thought seemed to cross her mind. “On second thought… you look like you can run just fine. What do you say about being the one to catch all my sheep for me and I tell you what you wanna hear?” she suggests. You immediately try and demand that she just tell you and that her sheep will most likely come back on their own, but the worst happens.

“This seems like a great exchange if you truly mean your offer of currency.” you hear ENA say.

You cringe, knowing that she already has a million other tasks that she’s taken from millions of other people who wanted to take advantage of her salesperson’s need to please ‘customers’. You know for a fact that all the other things on her plate are stressing her out.

The paper crane who wants a good fortune.

The merchant who complains about how someone stole the fabric that covers his stand.

The geisha doll who stole the fabric from the stand to cover herself from the sun and refuses to give it back unless ENA finds her parasol that got blown away in the wind.

The lady hiding in the cave who’s just her upper torso, saying that someone put salt on her lower half while she was flying around last night, and wants ENA to find it walking around somewhere.

The sentient wad of chewed gum that’s covered in a bunch of trash and wants it all off.

The monochromatic mermaid swimming in the fountain with the shrill voice who demands something shiny or else she’ll keep splashing the people who pass by. You’re still a bit wet by the way.

Oh! And there’s even a little boy who just gave ENA the grocery list that his mom sent him out to do, which just says salt, because he didn’t want to do it.

And a ton more.

With that, the lady of yarn hands ENA an old lasso and tells her to get to work and that she’s got six sheep and a lamb to collect, “And they’re the running type.” she says. And the running type they were.

That’s why ENA is running around all over the place as she chases the first sheep, with you trying to help by attempting to flaunt them. But they knew how to avoid the both of you and your tricks.

You can tell that ENA is getting flustered and frustrated at this job. You could hear it in her meanie side yelling and shouting as she lost the sheep again, and again, and again.

You’ve tried asking the lady for some more advice or suggestions on how to catch them, but she’s still being snarky and rude. Saying that ENA was a sore and lousy cowgirl and couldn’t catch a snail even if it was heading towards her.

Apparently, she’s got a horse that she usually uses to catch the sheep when they get loose, but it’s “got a sniffle and needs rest”.

You seriously think she just finds ENA running around chasing the sheep funny.

As you head back from trying to beg for a crumb of advice, you see ENA in a pile on the ground. Her limbs are all disconnected from her body and you see her pale side is active while her red side is just gone and covered in black. She groans and mumbles things to herself, some of which you can only decipher as cuss words. She’s exhausted. But when she sees you standing over her she tries to hide her face by turning it.

“Don’t look at me like that.” she demands weakly, her detached arms slinking toward her head to shield her face from your gaze. “I just… need to...”, her pieces shake like she’s trying to pull herself back together, but she can’t do it even with all her might. She gives up and groans in defeat. “I’m so pathetic. I can’t even wrangle stupid sheep.” she grumbles.

You sigh and sit down on the ground just above where her head and upper torso lay. Gently leaning the torso against your chest and then picking up ENA’s head to place it on her torso.

“Put me down!” she barks. “I can do it myself!” she says. “I - just - need - to -”, she tries pulling herself back together again but she just ends up exhausting herself even more.

“Damnit!” she shouts. Her hands clenched into fists, grabbing and ripping out some of the grass as she slams her fists onto the ground in frustration.

You gently shush her, petting her hair and telling her it’s alright.

“We’ve been running around a lot today. I’m pretty tired. Aren’t you?” you ask her. She wants to say no, but she can’t argue this time since her current condition proves otherwise. “Why don’t we take a minute, hm?I’m sure the sheep are fine. I don’t see anything here that would eat them. They can run free a little longer.” you suggest as you continue to pet her hair. You look around and eventually find your gaze looking up towards the sky, which is just a generic sky blue color with drawn clouds images that drift by above you. “The weather is nice here. I wonder if it ever rains.” you comment.

You feel ENA’s head tilt up, following yours. She doesn’t speak, but you feel her let go a bit.

“Maybe, if we decide this job with the boss isn’t suiting us anymore, we can build a farm here somewhere and enjoy the easy life.” you say, semi-jokingly. “We could herd hourglass dogs and let them roam freely on a big plot.” you suggest. “Or walking trees and we can see what birds come and perch on them.” you add.

“Or am I thinking about a ranch? I always get the two mixed up.” you question before shrugging and saying “We can have both. Live off the land and be away from all these weirdos and no one can bother us. Just you, me, our little human board, and whatever we decide to have on our ranch.”.

You let a few beats pass by and feel like your jabbering about a nice calm life is helping ENA relax and take her mind off all these tasks she needs to complete. So you continue.

“Or maybe, if we save up enough chocolates on both our retirement funds, we can buy a big fancy house by the blood ocean and watch the legs swim around and migrate when it’s hatching season. Or a cottage. I don’t like big houses. Too much space and it’ll really only be us walking around it.” you ration out.

“Maybe we can travel.” you suggest. “Why stay in one place when there’s a whole lot of digital space out there? Am I right?” you pitch.

“I hear the pop-up-ad meadows bloom so pretty this time of year.” you mention.

“You’d really like to do that?” you hear ENA ask. You look down and see her staring up at the sky longingly, seemingly envisioning everything you were saying. “Yeah!” you answer. “Though, we might have to plan to go next year instead. I hear pop-up-ads come all at once and wilt within a week or three.” you add.

“I’d like that.” she says, no more, not less. But you can tell that she’s fond of the idea of maybe getting one break to see something nice with you.

You both sit in a nice silence, with ENA’s lower torso, legs, and arm slowly making their way back together and joining her upper half, and her salesperson half regains its signature red color.

You both get up, but ENA stumbles a bit since she only seems to have her red arm when she tried using both to help her get back up. Confused, you look around only to find that the sheep had, at some point, come near and picked it in an attempt to eat the clump of grass that was still clutched in its hand.

“That’s all we had to do?!” you hear ENA shout, “Lure it with some stupid grass?!”.

It feels so nice to hear her back to her usual self.

[russo-woso]

Ugh can I request anything with Steph catley?! I’m down bad, maybe some jealous angst, and ending with happy fluff

She’s just a friend || Steph Catley x reader

A/N sorry this took a while to get to you and sorry it’s a bit short :)

Summary Steph gets jealous when you meet up for coffee with an old friend

You’d never seen Steph as jealous as she was today.

In fact, you’d never seen Steph jealous at all.

Your relationship with Steph was built with love, respect and trust.

Which is why when you bumped into an old friend who was in the local area unexpectedly, you hadn’t told Steph.

Steph was training and you were out doing some shopping and had bumped into an old friend who suggested you had some coffee together.

It was a harmless get together between friends.

You didn’t see the problem.

Steph however… she saw a big problem.

Unbeknownst to you, training had finished early and a few girls had planned to go to a local coffee shop - ironically the coffee shop being the one you were in.

You were deep in conversation with Melissa - your friend - when you saw Beth walk in, followed by Alessia, Kyra, Emily then Steph.

Steph hadn’t seen you at first, none of them had.

Although you had only been dating six months, you’d met her teammates plenty of times and were friends with them now too.

“Y/N?” Beth questioned, looking your way as she waved happily - realising it was you.

That had caught stephs attention, her head whipping round to your direction.

She had a confused look on her face to begin with before her eyes settled on the woman opposite you.

From that moment, her face reddened, anger consuming her.

“Hiya, Beth.” You smiled, getting up to hug her.

Steph didn’t even walk over to you, instead storming out the coffee shop.

“What’s wrong with my Stephy?” You asked Beth, who shrugged, just as confused as you were.

“She’s been perfectly fine till now.”

“Hang on Melissa, I won’t be long.” You said, excusing yourself as you followed Steph out the door. “Steph? Hey, babe. What’s wrong?”

You settled on the chair next to Steph who sat with her arms crossed.

“Who is that?” She mumbled

“Who’s who?”

“That woman you’re with. You weren’t meeting up with anyone today. Who is she?”

“That’s Melissa. She’s an old friend. We went to college together and was in the same class as me. It was funny, I bumped into her in that health store getting that protein drink you liked - I thought it would be a nice surprise for you when you got back from training. Anyway, she suggested we went and got a coffee and I said yes.” You explained, taking Steph’s hand in yours.

“So she’s not some secret girlfriend?”

“Steph, I love you, baby. Only you. Melissa’s just a friend.”

Steph nodded slowly but surely, allowing you to press a kiss to her cheek.

“My jealous girl.” You teased, rubbing your thumb over her cheek.

“I was not jealous!” Steph protested, her mouth widening in shock at the accusation.

“Yes you were! Don’t even try and deny it.” You continued to tease her

“Fine, maybe I was a little jealous.” Steph admitted, hiding her face in embarrassment.

“It’s cute when you get flustered. Do you want to come and meet her?”

Steph nodded again, this time a small smile on her face as you began to walk inside, hand in hand.

“Melissa, meet my girlfriend, Steph. Steph, meet Melissa, an old friend. What do you want to drink, darling?”

Steph told you her order as she sat down opposite Melissa, both of them making small talk.

“Did we have a jealous Steph?” Beth asked

“We did indeed.”

[princesseilish]

KINDERGARDEN

Paige Bueckers x MOM!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, emotional moments, child angst, light humor, minor tears

Synopsis: Hazel’s first day of kindergarten is a momentous occasion, but for her little sister, Violet, it’s a whole new world. Violet has never spent a day away from her best friend, and the realization that her sister won’t be around for hours hits harder than anyone expected.

I will post pregnant!reader soon, I promise !!

Y/N had really thought they were ready.

Hazel was glowing. Kindergarten-ready. Backpack slung over her shoulder, hair half up in the sparkly barrettes she picked “because they make me look like I read chapter books,” and talking a mile a minute about meeting her teacher and maybe starting a bug club at recess.

“I think today I’m gonna make three friends,” Hazel declared at breakfast. “But I’m saving one slot in case Violet gets old enough and wants to join.”

Violet, still in her pajamas, chewing the ears off her waffle, didn’t respond. She just stared at Hazel like the world was ending.

Y/N and Paige had exchanged a glance over coffee.

Uh-oh.

The car ride to school started in silence.

Not the peaceful kind. The ominous kind.

Hazel sat in her booster seat, humming to herself, already unzipping her backpack just to “double check” her pencils hadn’t run away overnight. Violet was in her car seat behind Y/N, clutching her battered turtle plushie and sucking the inside of her cheek like she was trying very hard to be brave.

Paige looked back once, then again. “She okay?”

Y/N whispered, “She’s trying to be.”

Hazel, blissfully unaware, started humming the “Bug Queen March” she made up last summer.

“and then vi you say—”

And then, quietly at first, Violet whispered, “Hazey don’t go.”

Hazel paused. “What?”

“I don’t want you to go.”

And just like that, the dam broke.

She was sobbing by the time they pulled into the school parking lot.

Real, full-body crying. The kind where her nose ran and she couldn’t catch her breath and kept yelling things like “DON’T BE A BIG KID” and “KINDERGARTEN IS BAD” and “I HATE LEARNING.”

Y/N parked and reached back, trying to rub her arm. “Oh, honey…”

But Violet only cried harder.

“Mama, don’t let her goooooo!”

“She’s coming back, baby, it’s just a few hours.”

“I don’t got anyone to talk to about snails!”

Hazel, now clutching the straps of her backpack, looked like she was seconds from crying too.

“I—I can maybe ask my teacher if she can come?”

“She’s THREE, Hazey,” Paige muttered, already unbuckling her seatbelt. “Okay, switch. I’m in the back.”

Y/N slid into the front seat as Paige climbed in beside Violet’s car seat and scooped her up, holding her like she was three months old again instead of three years.

“Oh baby,” Paige murmured, rocking gently. “You never cry like this.”

“She’s my bes’ fwen,” Violet hiccuped. “I can’t go a whole sun without her!”

Hazel let out a choked little breath. “But I have to go, Vi. I wanna learn stuff and meet other bug kids and maybe read real books!”

“Take me too!”

“You don’t even like shoes!”

“I’ll wear them for you!”

Y/N buried her face in her hands. “This is harder than labor.”

Eventually, Paige got Violet calm enough to at least hold her turtle again, though the little girl refused to let go of her leg.

Hazel looked heartbroken, but determined, and Y/N knelt in front of her.

“You’re going to be great today,” she whispered. “But your sister’s gonna need a little extra love after drop-off.”

Hazel nodded solemnly. “Can I write her a letter at school?”

Y/N kissed her forehead. “She’d love that.”

Hazel turned to Violet, knelt on the car floor, and whispered, “I’m coming back after snack. You’ll see. And we’ll play all the garden bugs when I get home.”

Violet sniffled. “No big kid friends?”

“I’ll tell them I already have the best one.”

Violet blinked at her. “Me?”

Hazel nodded. “You.”

Y/N and Paige watched Hazel walk into the school, tiny but brave, waving with both hands.

Violet pressed her face to the window and waved like Hazel was going off to war.

Then she whispered, “I wanna go to school when I grow more.”

“You will,” Paige said gently. “But for today, we’re gonna go home, and you can help me and Mommy make her a ‘Welcome Back From Big School’ sign, okay?”

Violet nodded slowly. Then: “Can I pick the marker colors?”

“All of them,” Y/N promised.

That afternoon, when Hazel ran out of the building with marker on her hands and stickers on her knees, Violet screamed across the parking lot, “HAZEY I MISSED YOU!”

Hazel tackled her in a hug.

Violet whispered, “Was it fun?”

Hazel grinned. “It was so fun. But it’s more fun telling you about it.”

That night, Violet snuck into Hazel’s bed, wrapped around her like a koala, and whispered, “You can go back tomorrow.”

Hazel kissed the top of her head. “I was gonna anyway.”

[chexxycheol]

Fall Into Desire || 18+ MDNI

☁ Park Seonghwa x Reader x Song Mingi

title Fall Into Desire

synopsis Seonghwa and Mingi argue over who can please a girl best with their tongue "Why don't we let our girl decide"

genre Smut, Fluff, little angst

tags Non-Idol! Seonghwa x Fem! Reader x Non-Idol! Mingi, Seonghwa x Reader x Mingi

warnings Petty arguing, confessions, smidgen angst, smut, oral (f recieving), aftercare, dirty talk, overstimulation?, 18+ minors DNI

nicknames used sweet girl, sweet angel, doll, baby, love

if i missed any warnings, please let me know!

⚘ author first ateez fic to get back into the groove of writing, along with my first smut. please be gentle with this one cause it is my first time writing smut. i will give attention to 13 Forget-Me-Nots but i'm still trying to adjust from my work trip. constructive criticism is welcomed!

this is a work of fiction and should be separated with reality. thank you and enjoy!

—chery

wc 3k

It was quite stupid, watching your two friends argue over who’s better at giving oral. They both sat on opposite sides of your apartment's living room going back and forth over this.

“Dude I told you I can make a girl cum with just my tongue” Mingi said to the elder, his eyes darkening trying to stay calm.

“I don’t know Mingi, I didn’t even know you hooked up with girls” Seonghwa shook his head chuckling. You sat there on your phone deciding to let the two argue it out before asking them what they wanted to eat.

“Who do you think is better Y/N?” Mingi called out to you. You finally looked up from your phone giving him a questioning stare before shrugging and turning back to look at your phone, waiting once again for them to finish this petty argument.

“Why don’t we let our girl decide” Seonghwa suggested, looking at you “Of course, if she’s okay with it” You snap your head to look towards the eldest with a look of disbelief of the suggestion.

Mingi’s expression darkened when you looked at him, you wouldn’t sit there and lie that your two friends were undeniably attractive or that you thought of them in more of a friendly way more times than you’d like to admit but you didn’t want to possibly break your friend group and or cause turmoil between everyone. 

Mingi and Seonghwa noticed your look of uncertainty and Seonghwa waved you over to him and you stood up hesitantly and walked to him, now standing in front of your elder friend he looked at Mingi and patted the seat next to him so they both could talk to you, Mingi got up and sat next to Seonghwa leaned back relaxed with that dark look in his eye. He looked like a predator ready to pounce on its prey if you made the smallest movement.

“Now sweet angel, what’s going through that pretty head of yours?” Seonghwa asked, grabbing your hand softly, letting you fidget with it to keep yourself grounded. 

You looked between both of them before answering honestly “I don’t want to cause turmoil between not just us three, but the whole group” Mingi’s eyes turned soft before he sat forward and grabbed your waist to move you in front of him and let his hands move on to your hips.

“Doll, you could do no wrong in our eyes, in any of our eyes. If anything the others will be jealous we got to have you first before them” Mingi looked you in the eyes continuing to talk now with uncertainty “We all love you as one of our own and we’ve all talked about you in a more than appropriate way” 

The look on his face was now an uncertain one, he didn’t know if you’d run away at the fact that all eight of them had thought of you in a sexual way, or even a possibly romantic way. Seonghwa had a serious look on his face now but his heart was racing at the possibility that you could run away from them, or even all eight of them.

“Please say something sweet girl” Mingi pleaded, he couldn’t stand your silence now that you knew the truth with your friends. Seonghwa now had that glassy look in his eyes waiting for your answer.

“I have thought about all eight of you in a more than platonic way, but I didn’t want to ruin our friendship or cause turmoil between all of us. I didn’t want to lose you all” The last part came out quietly but they now knew your feelings, and you knew theirs.

Both men let out a breathe they didn’t know they were holding before Seonghwa grabbed your wrist and pulled you to sit on his lap now straddling him, one hand rested on your hip while the other grabbed your chin so you could look him in the eyes before he spoke “Sweet girl, we all want you in more than a platonic way, you’ve had us wrapped around your finger since your first week of uni when we found you in our study room”

“It’s up to you, you can tell us to get out of your apartment and we never talk about this or you can let us indulge you, settle our argument and we can continue this talk with the others” Seonghwa moved his hands off you to rest on his legs giving you an out.

“Fuck it” Before either of them knew it, you moved forward to kiss Seonghwa and wrapped your hands around his neck, he was shocked and didn’t move for a split second before finally kissing you back and wrapped his hands around your waist.

Mingi groaned from beside the both of you, breaking your kiss to look at him “Come on sweet girl let’s get you somewhere comfortable” He stood up and you stood up off of Seonghwa and in one quick movement Mingi grabbed you and threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing and smacked your ass at your protested kicking at him to put you down.

Both men made their way to your room and Mingi set you in front of him and grabbed your jaw making sure you looked him in the eye before you could start to protest being carried.

“I’ve waited too long to taste your pretty pussy, fantasized for far too long on how sweet you would taste. I’ll be damned if I wait a minute longer” He kissed you hard and let his hands drop to your waist, you could feel Seonghwa behind you move your hair to the side to kiss your neck.

Seonghwa broke his kiss from your neck to focus on stripping you, starting with the flannel you were wearing he let out a guttural groan when he saw you weren’t wearing anything underneath it, he moved down towards your shorts that had risen up your thighs letting the underneath of your butt peek out from them, and it took all his power to not rip them off you.

Mingi broke the kiss to soak in your naked figure standing in front of him. Seonghwa motioned for Mingi to sit against the headboard before picking you up and placing you between his legs, your back against his chest and Mingi grabbed under your thighs and spread your legs exposing your pussy to Seonghwa. You could feel his hard cock through his sweatpants pressing against your back.

Seonghwa groaned at the sight before laying between your legs and pressed wet kisses to your inner thigh, you let out the tiniest moan holding back “Come on sweet girl don’t hold back those moans, let us hear you” Mingi said from behind you, one of his hands moving from your thigh to now pinch your hard nipple causing you to let out a loud moan. Both men almost came in their pants from it, your moans sounding melodic to them.

“Baby, you need a safeword before we start” Seonghwa looked at you before giving another kiss to your thigh, Mingi halted his movements upon hearing Seonghwa and spoke up from behind you “It’s just to be safe doll, we want to make sure this is enjoyable for you as well”

You pondered for a moment before settling on “Penguin” Seonghwa and Mingi chuckled at how cute you were before they decided to continue “Penguin it is”

Seonghwa went back to leaving a trail of kisses getting closer to your pussy, while Mingi resumed giving attention to your nipples. You knew Seonghwa was taking his time, but you were starting to get impatient with him.

“Please do something Seonghwa” You started to beg, he looked up and saw your breathing was ragged. He looked at your pussy and licked a small stripe testing the waters and once he heard the loud moan you let out, he lost whatever little control he had and began to devour you like you were his last meal.

You started squirming around and closed your thighs around his head before he pushed your legs open and pulled away causing you to shudder at the cool air on your now soaking wet pussy “Keep her still” He said and Mingi put his hands back on your thighs keeping them open.

“Fuck baby, you taste so sweet” Seonghwa let out Mingi moved one of his hands towards your needy pussy, slowly pushing in a finger causing you to squirm around and let out a string of moans. Upon hearing your moans, he added another finger and as fast as his fingers were in you he pulled them out and brought them to his mouth. He kept his eyes on yours as he sucked on his fingers tasting you before throwing his head back with a groan “He’s right baby, god you taste so good” 

Before you could comprehend anything more Seonghwa was back to working his tongue on your clit, you were now a panting and moaning mess. You could feel the build up in your stomach getting close to your breaking point, and all it took for you to come undone was him sliding one finger into you.

Right as he slid his finger in and curled it, you were a mess all over him “Fuck! Hwa” You cried out while he kept his rhythm going until you came down from your high and left your pussy with a small kiss that left you shuddering “If I could i would stay between your thighs all day just to hear you come all over my face” 

Seonghwa now hovered over you and moved to kiss you, you heard Mingi groan from behind you both as his patience was definitely wearing thin on having to wait to have a moment with you.

“Move Hwa, I have to taste my doll. She tasted so sweet on my fingers” Mingi spoke up and Seonghwa chuckled at the younger's impatience but moved off you to sit at the end of the bed. 

Mingi moved your head to look up at him from behind you and kissed you softly before pulling away and motioning towards Seonghwa. “Go sit with Hwa for a second, love. I’m gonna go grab you water and let you relax for a moment” Mingi got up and ran to grab water for everyone. You moved towards Seonghwa to lay your back against him like you were with Mingi.

“Thank you Hwa” You followed his eyes to see he was staring at both of your reflections in the mirror in the corner of your room facing the edge of the bed where you both sat.

“You see how pretty you look sweet angel” He grabbed one of your thighs to give you a glimpse of yourself spread open for him. You instinctively tried to close your legs but he had grabbed your other thigh and held your legs open. He held your stare in the mirror with his hair casting a shadow on his eyes making them seem darker. 

You feel your face getting warm and you try to look away before Seonghwa grabs your jaw and moves your head back to look at the mirror “Look at yourself love, I’ve never seen such perfection until now” Your eyes wander over your body before looking at Seonghwa through the mirror.

“Fuck baby, you look so pretty” Mingi’s was leaning against your door frame holding three water bottles in one hand and admiring you. You watch as he moves from the door frame and sets the water down on your nightstand, stripping his shirt off leaving his sweatpants hanging low barely exposing his v-line. 

“Come sit on my face baby” He looked up towards you. Mingi’s sweatpants barely did anything to hide his hard on and you could still feel Seonghwas against your back. Your concern for them now comes to the front of your thoughts.

“Can’t I help you both with your hard ons?” Your voice now quiet and shy but they chuckled and shook their heads “No need to worry about us sweet girl, we could cum at the sight of you” Seonghwa answered then Mingi added “Especially the sight of your fucked out face from our tongues” He groaned before palming his sweatpants.

Seonghwa looked at you “Don’t you think you should go to him? He’s been waiting patiently doll” You looked at Mingi before getting off Seonghwa and climbed onto Mingi, resting on his chest before lifting yourself up and lowering yourself on his face, not fully putting your weight on him but shivering feeling his cool breaths against your pussy.

Mingi grunted at your hesitation “Doll, I'm gonna warn you once. When i say ‘sit on my face’ i mean sit” You hesitated again but lowered yourself more until he grabbed your hips and slammed you down on his face. You gasped and tried to pull yourself up worried about suffocating him but he held you there and started tongue fucking you. 

Your mind becomes fuzzy and every moan or whimper you let out they felt themselves getting close from not even touching themselves. 

Mingi would switch from tongue fucking you to giving attention to your sensitive clit, the rhythm he has was fast and impatient compared to Seonghwas soft but calculated approach.

You heard movement and looked over at Seonghwa who was now naked and lazily stroking his cock, your eyes caught his and smirked a little before picking up his pace then slowing down.

Mingi lifted you up for a moment, pulling your attention back to him “Your pussy is the best dessert i’ve ever had in my life, I don’t want to share with the others” He sat you back down on his face, indulging on you once more.

You could feel yourself get close and Mingi could tell from your quickening breaths and moans falling from your lips. Seonghwa didn’t want to cum until you did, and Mingi knew he was close and would come undone when you did.

Mingi decided enough was enough and started devouring you like you were his last meal, they both devoured you like your pussy was their last meal. You could feel yourself getting close before falling back onto Mingi’s chest but he grabbed you and moved you back onto his face.

“Mingi! Please!” You begged the man under you, the slurping sounds he was making were filthy but his determination to get every drop of you was prominent. Hearing Seonghwa’s pants and soft moans were getting you dangerously close to your second climax until Mingi moaned around your clit and sent you over the edge from the vibration it caused.

Moans bounced off your bedroom walls as Mingi and you came together. Mingi moved you back and forth grinding on his tongue to ride out your high. The room filled with all of you panting as you sat back onto Mingi’s chest.

Once you came down from the fuzziness of your high, Seonghwa lifted you off of Mingi, laid you down next to him, and now stood over you with his cock still in his hand stroking it.

“Fuck angel can I come on you?” Seonghwa asked desperately as he slowly pumped his cock. You nod looking up at him and he came all over your stomach moaning and leaned down to kiss you through his high. Seonghwa pulled away and smiled at you leaving a kiss on your forehead.

Mingi got up to grab a wet towel, handing it to the older to clean you both off before going through your closet to find all the spare clothes all of the boys had left at your place. He grabbed a change of clothes and headed towards the bathroom.

“You did so well love” Seonghwa praised you while grabbing a water bottle, opening it, and handing it to you to drink. “Thank you Hwa” you blushed before taking a sip of water as Mingi emerged from your bathroom in new clothes.

“I started the bath for you, let's get you washed up before the rest all get here” You stood up to walk and they let out a loud laugh noticing your legs shaking with every step you took, you flipped them both off.

“The rest are coming?” You asked, making your way past Mingi towards the tub. “Yeah, they sent a group text that I saw when I went to grab us all water, they should be here pretty soon” Seonghwa got dressed and grabbed you new clothes.

Finishing your bath they dressed you and left kisses all over your body while giving praises in between.

“You look so pretty when you cum” Mingi said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, slipping his hoodie on you.

“I wish I could’ve taken a picture of you covered with my cum” Seonghwa groaned.

They finished dressing you and Mingi picked you up heading back to your living room where everyone else now sat and turned their heads toward the three of you.

“I thought this was something we all would talk to her about before whatever happened between the three of you” Hongjoong spoke up. You hid your face in Mingi’s chest and leaned up towards his ear to ask “Is he mad at us?” 

“He’s probably more upset with Seonghwa and I. He could never be mad at you” Mingi said before setting you down on the couch and the other two sat on the ground in front of you facing everyone else.

“Nobody here is upset with you love, we're upset with these two idiots for having a talk we all should’ve had without the rest of us” Hongjoong voiced hearing your question.

“Well I know now. Let’s talk this out” 

Seonghwa’s earlier suggestion came back into your mind. The suggestion that landed you getting tongue fucked by two of your best friends. Hopefully at the end of this long awaited talk you could let more of your desires come to light.

divider @cafekitsune

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[lieutenantsluvr]

what the quiet hides | oneshot

masterlist

pairing: jackson!joel miller x f!reader

❝ I'm the escape to somethin' that's worse I am the shadow drivin' the hearse ❞

synopsis: Joel struggles to readjust to life in Jackson—a quiet life untouched by the constant specter of death that once followed him. Learning to live as someone who's no longer a killer is no easy thing. When does a monster cease to be a monster? Simply put, when you love it.

a/n: i'd like to say this is the semi parallel universe as death trapped, clad happily—in other words, you know him, you know the terror he's caused, the lives he's taken. hell, you probably encouraged some of it. you aren't someone random. you're important—important enough that he keeps you an arms length away. I like writing the reader as someone who is just plain tired. you want to love, but you're also exhausted from the hell you've been through—and joel can be a frustrating man. you love him, definitely, but at the end of the day you're tired of the wall he's forcing you behind.

warnings/tags: heavy fluff, angst, sexual suggestions, implied intercourse, semi-established relationship, reader is downbad for joel, he's traumatized ofc, lots of dialogue, you play with his hair, something about domestic reader and joel makes me start crying andshitting at the same time

w/c 10.2k

“You have to talk to him,” Tommy says, low and slow, teeth grazing his bottom lip like the thought’s gutting at him. At this point, it’s less a suggestion and more a quiet plea. His fingers twitch against the warm surface of his coffee mug—white, plain. Trembling just slightly. Nervous energy in every motion.

“I don’t know who you think I am to him,” you say, the words scraping out of your throat like sandpaper. You inhale sharp and dry, coffee clinging to the back of your tongue like a ghost. “Whatever he’s doing, whatever he’s not saying—that’s on him. That silence? It’s his choice.”

“Maria’s on my ass—” he starts, but you cut him off before the rest can tumble out.

“I know how she feels about him, Tommy. I know how the whole damn town feels about him.” The words spill out hot, too fast, like you’ve been holding them in too long and they’re finally clawing their way free. “But I can’t just—fix it. He hasn’t said a word to me since we got here. Hell, I don’t even live with them.”

You pause, breath shaky, eyes fixed on anything that isn’t him.

“I traveled across the goddamn country with him—and Ellie,” you say, softer now, voice rough at the edges. “And this is where we ended up. Right here. Barely a word between us.”

The silence that follows chews at your throat. You try to swallow it, try to make it into something cleaner. Something that hurts less.

“You’ve known your brother a hell of a lot longer than I have,” you say, voice low, frayed at the edges. You drag a tired hand down your face, like maybe the weight behind your eyes will go with it. It doesn’t. Your fingers find the mug again, still warm, still useless.

“So, why don’t you tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do?”

The words hang there—sharp, bitter, hollow in the way grief is hollow. You’re not angry at Tommy. Not really. But the question is more than a plea; it’s an admission. You're out of road. Out of maps. And out of whatever thread was holding all this together. Before there was a plan, a mission. Now? Nothing. It's all freewill.

Tommy doesn’t speak right away. Just stares, jaw tight, like he’s weighing the truth against the damage it’ll cause.

“I think…” he starts, then trails off, eyes dropping to the mug in his hands like maybe it’ll give him courage. “I think he’s scared. And Joel… don’t know how to talk when he’s scared.”

You scoff, dry. “Yeah, well. I don’t know how to wait around for someone who won’t even look at me.”

Tommy doesn’t rise to meet your frustration. He lets it pass, steady and silent. He understands—probably better than anyone ever could. He shared blood, breath, and a womb with that man. But more than that, he sees the truth for what it is. Sees it clearer than you’re ready to admit. Two people, equally wrecked, equally stubborn, and completely in love. It’s written all over both your faces, even when you won’t look at each other.

A few heartbeats drag by in silence. Heavy ones. Worried ones.

“Have you talked to Ellie?” he asks finally. Not so much a question as a sideways shuffle—dodging the heat of your words, giving himself something safe to stand on.

“Every day,” you reply, with a tired breath. Your fingers tap out some nervous rhythm against the table, soft and restless. “She drops by. Talks shit. Makes me laugh.”

You pause. The next part stings, but it’s true, and you owe the truth to Tommy, even if it’s ugly.

“She makes jokes, too. About Joel and I—says we’re professionals at pretending the other one doesn’t exist.”

A humorless chuckle slips out before you can stop it. “She’s not wrong.”

Tommy doesn’t smile. He just looks at you like he’s waiting for you to say the one thing that matters most. The thing you keep dancing around like broken glass on a kitchen floor.

“I think she gets on him about socializing,” you mutter, words slipping out like they’re trying to escape your throat before your heart can catch up. “Hell, I know she does.”

And still, he doesn’t come around.

The confession comes quiet, bitter, reluctant.

Truth is—you miss him. God, you miss him more than you’d ever admit out loud.

You miss the almost-smiles, those fleeting little ghosts of warmth he used to give when no one else was looking. You miss the gravity of him—how the air changed when he was near, how the silence always seemed heavier, fuller. You miss the scent of coffee on his skin, like he carried the morning with him wherever he went.

You miss the way his eyes found you in a room like they were built for it. Always watching. Always knowing. Seeing right through you without ever asking too much.

You miss that laugh—barely a breath, a half-hearted exhale that said more than words ever could. You used to live for that sound. Now it’s just an echo in your skull.

And those eyes. God, those deep, forest-dark eyes. Like dusk caught in human form. The kind that made you feel seen. The kind that burned. The kind that made you want to stay.

You drag your fingers across your mug again, fingertips numb from the cold now. You’re not even drinking the coffee. Just holding onto it like it might hold you back.

“Tommy, I—” you start, voice catching on the edge of something you’re not sure you want to say. “I don’t want to look desperate. I don’t want to seem like I need him. Knowing damn well he doesn’t need anyone, not really.” You swallow, trying to shake the weight off, but it’s there. Always there.

A long, suffocating beat of silence stretches between you.

And then, quieter, as if saying it aloud makes it more real: “I don’t want to… get hurt.”

The words hang in the air, brittle with honesty, and they taste bitter on your tongue. The weight of them presses down on your chest like something you’ve been carrying too long, but never dared to unpack.

Tommy doesn’t rush to answer. He leans back in his chair, hands resting on his knees, his eyes searching your face like he’s weighing something heavy. He knows this—he’s been here before, watching people break without ever meaning to.

“Hell,” he says, voice quiet but firm, like he’s been carrying this truth for a long time and it’s finally time to share it. “You’re not the only one scared of gettin’ hurt. We all are. Joel, me, you, Ellie…” His gaze softens just a fraction, the edges of his expression sharpening with something that feels like regret. “We all keep our walls up, ‘cause it’s easier than lettin’ someone in and watchin’ ‘em leave. Easier than lettin’ them hurt you.”

A pause, long and measured, before his eyes flick to the empty space between you both.

“But you know what, kid? You can’t keep livin’ like that. You can’t keep waiting for the hurt to come before you decide to feel anything. ‘Cause it’ll eat you alive, piece by piece.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, voice softer now, a little more worn. “You can’t fight what’s real. Not forever.”

You laugh—more of a bitter chide than anything else. The sound of it barely even feels like yours.

“What, you think your brother loves me?” Your eyes lock with Tommy’s, deadpan and heavy with a kind of dark amusement, though the smile you offer is anything but genuine. It’s a fragile thing, a mask you slip on just to hide the ache beneath.

Tommy’s expression hardens at your words. For a moment, there’s a sharp edge to his gaze—something that goes beyond the casual brotherly concern. It’s raw, almost desperate, like he’s reaching through the layers of sarcasm and deflection, trying to make you see the truth.

“You think I don’t see what’s goin’ on here?” His voice drops, low and urgent, as if every word matters too much to waste. “I’ve only watched you two—hell, for a few months, tops—and I see it. The way you look at him. The way he looks at you.” He shakes his head, frustration in his tone. “But neither of you want to admit it. Both of you too goddamn stubborn to let the walls down.”

Tommy leans in, eyes locked on yours, a kind of plea in them that cuts through the sarcasm.

“Look, I know my brother,” he says, his voice strained with a rawness you don’t often hear from him. “He’s broken. But goddamn, he cares about you. He wouldn’t let himself care, but he does. And you—” He pauses, “You’re no better. I know you’re scared of getting hurt. Hell, I get it. But if you don’t stop pushin’ him away, you’ll lose him before you even get the chance.”

You'll lose him before you even get the chance.

A beat of silence hangs in the air. His voice softens, almost pleading.

“I want this for you both. I want you to make it work.” He exhales sharply, like the weight of it all is finally catching up. “But you’re gonna have to stop running, or you’ll end up with nothin’ but regret.”

You're gonna have to stop running. You'll end up with nothin' but regret.

You shift uncomfortably in the diner booth, your eyes drifting over the busy room, lingering on the Tipsy Bison—a familiar chaos of voices, laughter, and clinking glasses. It's louder than usual today, the air thick with chatter and the smell of fried food. You don’t even register it, though. Your mind’s elsewhere, caught in a storm of what-ifs.

“It’s complicated, Tommy…” you start again, voice hesitant, like you're not sure if the words will come out right—or even if you want them to. “What if Ellie doesn’t want us together? What if—”

Your throat tightens, and you break off. There’s a lump there, one you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Ellie. She's a part of this too, in ways you can't ignore, in ways that make the whole thing feel like walking on glass. You can’t just pull Joel out of the wreckage of his past without considering her, without wondering if you’re tearing apart something she holds together.

Shit, maybe you're making excuses at this point.

“I don’t want to make things harder for her, or him,” you mutter under your breath, eyes flicking back to Tommy’s. But even you can hear the uncertainty in your voice. It doesn’t feel like you’re talking to him anymore, but to the fear inside you.

Tommy’s gaze hardens, but there’s something in his eyes—an understanding, mixed with the frustration of seeing you wrestle with the same doubts he’s been carrying for a while now. He leans forward, hands pressing into the table as he speaks, voice low but firm.

“Ellie’s not gonna stop you from doing what you feel is right,” he says, the words carrying a heaviness that suggests he’s had this conversation with himself a thousand times. “She’s smart. She knows what’s goin’ on between you two. Hell, she probably sees it clearer than either of you do.” He exhales sharply, “And if you think for one second that you’re doin’ her any favors by staying away, you’re wrong.”

He pauses, staring at you with a kind of raw honesty you don’t often get from him. “Ellie’s already lost enough people in her life. She knows the damage of keepin’ people at arm's length. And I think she wants you and Joel to make it work. She wants him to stop runnin’. But you—” Tommy leans in closer, voice growing softer, more insistent. “You gotta stop runnin’, too. The both of you are too goddamn old, and scared of gettin’ hurt to even take a chance on what could be good.”

He pulls back, letting his words hang in the air, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. “If you’re waitin’ for things to be perfect before you let your guard down, you’re gonna be waitin’ forever. And by then… it’ll be too late.”

Christ.

You exhale—deep, shaky. The kind that comes from somewhere buried, where you've been holding it all too tight for too long. Your forehead drops into your hands, elbows on the table, the weight of everything finally pressing down.

“You gotta stop clocking me like this, Tommy,” you mumble through your fingers, voice muffled, worn thin with exhaustion. There's no bite to it—just a hollow kind of resignation. The truth hurts worse when someone else says it out loud.

For a second, neither of you speaks. The noise of the Tipsy Bison hums around you, distant, like you’re underwater.

Tommy leans back, arms folded, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter—gentler.

“I’m not tryin’ to call you out. I’m just tired of watchin’ two good people pretend they don’t want the same damn thing.”

“Fine.” You say it like a weight’s being dragged out of your chest. Your eyes flick up from the mug, settling on Tommy—guarded, but less so than before. “I’ll try.”

The words taste strange coming out, like they don’t quite belong to you yet. But they’re real. And for the first time in what feels like weeks, the wall you’ve been holding up cracks just a little.

You lean back in the booth, staring past Tommy now, past the crowd, into the blurry space where you let yourself imagine something different—something softer.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna say to him,” you admit. “But I’ll try. If he still wants to hear it.”

. . .

It’s later now. The sun’s long gone, buried beneath the horizon, leaving the sky painted in shades of deep blue and silver. The moon hangs heavy above Jackson, casting a soft, almost mocking glow over the dirt roads and still porches. The air’s thick—hot in that suffocating way that clings to your skin. You tug at your shirt, the fabric damp and stubborn where it sticks to you, like even it doesn’t want to let go.

Joel’s house stands quiet in front of you. Still. Heavy. That same heavy stillness he wears like armor. He's intimidating. Fuck, even his house is.

You stare at the door like it might lunge at you. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to turn around. To walk back home. To pretend like this never happened. But your feet don’t move.

You can’t run anymore. Not from this.

Your hand rises before you even realize it—slow, shaking just enough to betray you—and you knock.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Each one lands like a heartbeat, louder in your chest than it is in the air. And then nothing. Just silence pressing down on you like a second skin.

You swallow hard, already halfway regretting it—but it’s too late now. You’re here.

And he knows it.

You wait, your breath catching somewhere between your ribs and your throat, like your body can’t quite decide whether to brace for impact or run. The seconds stretch—long and hollow—and just when you’re about to turn away, the door creaks open.

But it’s not him.

It’s Ellie.

You blink, your posture faltering ever so slightly. She’s standing there barefoot, hoodie slung half-off one shoulder, a brow raised like she’s been expecting something, just not you.

“Oh—” you exhale, breath slipping out in a sigh you didn’t mean to let go. “El, hey.”

Ellie leans on the doorframe, chewing the inside of her cheek for a second, eyes scanning your face like she’s reading a book she’s already halfway through.

“Hey,” she says, casually enough, but there's something knowing behind her tone. “Tommy send you?"

You glance past her, instinctively, but don’t see him. Just low light and a half-finished glass of water on the table inside.

“Is he here?” you ask, softer than you meant to.

Ellie nods, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “Yeah. He’s in his room. Pretending he’s not listening.”

She steps aside, wide enough for you to enter, then adds, dry as ever, “Try not to break anything, yeah?”

“Yeah, ’boutta wreck your house,” you tease, giving her a gentle nudge with your shoulder.

Ellie snorts, but her smirk is soft. “Figured. Thanks for the warning.”

You step just inside the doorway, letting the air of the house settle around you—familiar and heavy all at once. The door clicks shut behind you, but it still feels like the world’s wide open, pressing against your back.

“I’ve missed you,” you say, the words leaving your mouth on an exhale like they’ve been sitting in your lungs for weeks. Maybe longer.

Ellie’s smirk fades, and her eyes meet yours, more serious now—older, somehow. “I know,” she says, simple, sincere. “Me too.”

You nod, pressing your lips together to keep the ache at bay. “I know things have been… weird.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, shrugging one shoulder, “Weirds definitely the word.” Then she looks at you again, more gently this time. “But it doesn’t mean they’re broken.”

A silence passes between you, one that feels less awkward and more like mutual understanding. She takes a step back toward the hallway and jerks her chin toward Joel’s room.

“He’s not gonna bite,” she says, almost teasing—almost. “Probably.”

You stand there, staring down the hallway like it’s the mouth of hell itself—dark, quiet, unforgiving.

“Well,” you mutter, squaring your shoulders with mock solemnity, “just so you know… you’re in my will.”

Ellie quirks a brow, arms crossed, already bracing for the punchline.

“And if I don’t come back from this,” you go on, dramatic, waving a hand toward the hallway like you’re heading into battle, “I want you to have my jacket. The one with the fleece inline."

Ellie scoffs. “Wow. Generous.”

“Also, my stash of knitting spools. And—” you glance over your shoulder, dead serious for a beat, “—burn my journal. Don’t read it. I mean it.”

Ellie’s laughter finally breaks through, light but real. “You’re such a dork.”

You flash her a shaky smile, one that barely masks the pounding in your chest. But it’s enough to steady your feet. Enough to take the first step down the hallway.

“Yeahhh,” you breathe, voice low now. “… You're my dork.”

And then you're moving—one slow, inevitable step at a time toward his door.

You take those few agonizing steps toward his door, each one louder in your ears than they should be. The hallway feels longer than it is, stretched by nerves and silence, the soft creak of the floorboards underfoot like a countdown.

You stop in front of the door—his door—and for a second, you just stand there. Your hand lifts before you can talk yourself out of it. A soft knock. Barely audible.

Your voice follows, thinner than you meant. “Joel…?”

Silence.

Then something shifts behind the door. A quiet sound—maybe the creak of floorboards, maybe just your own heartbeat in your ears. The air feels too still, like the house itself is holding its breath.

You swallow. Everything in you feels crooked, like you’ve walked into the middle of something fragile and sacred and utterly unknown. Your knuckles hover near the door again, but you don't knock a second time.

Instead, you speak—awkwardly, gently. “It’s… just me.”

Still nothing. But you know he’s there.

Because that silence? That’s Joel’s kind of silence. The kind packed with meaning. The kind that makes you want to run and stay all at once.

“I guess you could say… Tommy got to me.” You offer it like a half-joke, your voice barely carrying through the door, but it’s all you’ve got. “Wouldn’t shut up, really.”

Nothing yet. Not a sound. But you keep going, because if you stop now, you won’t start again.

“I wanted to talk about… things.” The words stumble out in a rush, awkward and unpolished. You wince the moment they leave your mouth, like you already hate how vague they sound. “About us. About what happened. About what… didn’t happen.”

You let out a shaky breath, one hand ghosting against the doorframe.

“I don’t even know if you want to hear it. Maybe you don’t. I wouldn’t blame you. But I… I’ve been carrying it. All of it. And it’s getting heavy, Joel.”

There’s a quiet inside that doesn’t feel empty—it feels held. Like someone’s standing just beyond the door, rooted in place. Listening.

You lean your forehead against the door, lowering your voice like a secret. “I miss you. Even when you’re right in the same room, I still miss you.”

“I know things have been awkward since we came back… since Salt Lake City.”

The words slip out, slow and uneven, like they’ve been stuck in your throat for months.

“I’ve thought it over a million times in my head,” you admit, your voice softening, fraying at the edges. “What I could’ve done. What I should’ve said. If I made you upset, angry… shit, happy.”

You laugh under your breath, bitter and breathless. “I don’t know. You never told me.”

There’s still nothing from the other side of the door. But you don’t stop. Can’t.

“I don’t want it to be like this,” you whisper. “This thing between us. This silence. I want us to be whatever we were before.”

You pause, your hand resting on the wood like it might anchor you. “Friends?” you offer, the word clumsy on your tongue, too small for what you really mean. “I don’t know.”

And it’s the truth. You don’t. All you know is the ache in your chest and the ghost of what you had—whatever it was—flickering in every quiet second he doesn't speak.

“But I’d rather fumble through it with you… than keep pretending I don’t care.”

You pause, chest rising, falling. Waiting.

The silence is thick—almost suffocating now. Like the walls are leaning in, like the air is pressing too close.

And you know.

You know it deep in your gut, in the stillness that follows your words like a cold wind after a flame.

He won’t talk to you.

He’s not going to.

Maybe he never was.

You pull your hand back from the door like it burned you. Your fingers curl into your palm, like they’re trying to hold something that’s already slipping through.

Your throat tightens, and you bite down on the lump rising there, hard enough to hurt. It’s all unraveling now—the hope, the effort, the trembling truth of how much you wanted this to go differently.

But it didn’t.

And maybe it never would.

You hear it before you see him—a deep, guttural clearing of his throat. The kind of sound that carries years of whiskey and smoke, rough around the edges, just as familiar as the gravel in his voice.

You freeze.

And then you turn—slow, too slow, as if your body can't quite catch up to the pounding in your chest.

Your eyes fall first to a chest too broad, just a little too close. The worn fabric of his shirt stretches tight across his shoulders, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

But it’s when your gaze rises—slowly, reluctantly—that the air hits you like a punch.

It’s him.

Standing there.

You blink, the words coming out softer than you meant, almost lost in the rush of your heartbeat. “Oh.”

The stupid thing is, you thought he’d been in his room, behind that door. You thought he was keeping his distance.

He was never in his room. He was right fucking behind you.

You clear your throat, the sound cutting through the thick air. Your fingers curl into fists, but you don’t look away. Not now. Not when you’ve come this far.

“I had… a lot to say to that door… in case you couldn’t tell,” you say, your voice smooth, confident—maybe even a little too sassy. But it's a mask. And for once, you're not hiding behind it.

Joel's eyes flicker, dark and unreadable, like he's weighing the space between the two of you. His jaw tightens, and there's a flicker of something in his gaze—a mixture of anger, sorrow, and something softer, something dangerous. He steps forward, closing the gap between you, but not too much. Just enough to remind you he’s there, that he's always there. Even when you don’t see him.

“You talk to doors often, now?” His voice is rough, like it’s been sitting under layers of dust and regret.

You shrug, trying to keep the snark, the bravado, up even though it’s crumbling under the weight of his stare. "I thought I’d give it a shot. Guess it didn't work."

Joel exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face like the whole world’s suddenly too damn heavy. Because it is. Your presence alone is heavy. His shoulders are stiff, tense, like he’s holding back an ocean of things he doesn’t want to say—or maybe things he’s too terrified to admit.

“You don't know what you're asking for,” he mutters, voice low, gravel rough. "You think you do, but you don’t."

Your heart kicks in your chest, but you don’t flinch. “I think I just want you to talk to me.”

Joel's eyes narrow, his chest rising with a deep breath. You see it—the way his gaze flickers toward the floor, the way his hands twitch like he’s holding himself back from doing something he’ll regret. “You don’t know what it’s like. What I’ve done. Who I am. I—” He pauses, shaking his head like the words won’t leave him, even though they’re clawing at his throat. "I'm not the man you think I am."

You take a step forward, closer, but just enough to show him you’re not afraid. You’re not backing down this time. “I don’t think you're a damn saint, Joel. I know that. I've seen that.” Your voice softens, just a fraction. "But I don’t care about that. I care about you. And I want to fix this. Whatever this is."

Joel’s eyes flick to you—deep, tortured—and for a second, just a second, you see it: the war inside him, the cracks that he’s been trying to keep sealed. His lips press tight, and you can almost feel the weight of his self-loathing hanging between you like a wall too thick to break through.

“You don’t know what I could do to you.” His voice is raw now, quieter. Dangerous. "I ain't good for you."

You shake your head, every bit of your soul pushing back. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

The silence settles between you again, thick and heavy, but you don’t look away. Not this time. Not when you’re finally here, finally saying it. Whatever happens next—whatever he says, whatever he does—you’ll face it. You’ll face him.

“What do you think you’re going to do to me, Joel?” You exhale sharply, feeling the anger bubble in your gut, each word sharp as glass. “Break my heart? Shit! You’re halfway fuckin’ there!”

The words leave you faster than you can control them, a slip of frustration, of everything you've been bottling up for far too long. You hope it doesn’t come off as a confession, but the weight of what you just said lingers in the air between you. The ache you’ve been carrying around—growing like an open wound—is bleeding out. And you hope to God it doesn’t hit him wrong. That whatever oozed from your heart doesn’t make him pull away even more.

You wipe your palms against your jeans, trying to ground yourself before the next words come out, but they do anyway.

“I don’t know what we are, or what I want us to be—but I do know I can’t go without talking to you. Seeing you.”

Your voice is quieter now, but still laced with the same fire. The same desperation.

“Tommy coming to me like you’re already halfway in the ground, begging me to get you to talk to somebody around here. Fuck, Maria thinks you’re a liability.”

You’re pushing, and you know it. But it’s not without reason. The words burn like gasoline on your tongue, and part of you is waiting for him to snap—waiting for that goddamn wall to crack, for any emotion to spill out of him. Anything.

You pause, just long enough for the words to settle between you, before they fall out, heavy and reckless.

“Thinkin’ that if I walked right into that bar and grabbed the first man I’d see… would you do anything about it?”

Joel’s gaze hardens as you speak, each word you throw at him building tension between you like a fuse to a bomb. He’s still standing too close, but this time, it feels like more of a challenge than an invitation.

His jaw tightens, his fists flexing at his sides as if he's trying to hold onto something—control, composure, whatever's left of him.

“You think I’m going to break your heart?” His voice is low, a rough growl that cuts through the air, but there’s something strained in it—something raw, something rabid. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing to you?”

He steps closer, a fraction. “You really think I want to keep you here in this mess?” His eyes burn, a flash of anger now, but something darker, too—fear, regret, maybe guilt. It’s hard to tell with him. But you see it there.

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots like he's pulling the anger and pain out of him, trying to keep it from spilling over. His words are like gravel now. Rough, jagged.

“Tommy came to you about me, huh?” His voice drops a little, bitterness creeping in.

“Figures. He’s always had a way of making everyone else carry my weight.” He shakes his head, eyes flicking away momentarily, before settling back on you. “Maria can think whatever the hell she wants. She doesn’t know a damn thing about me. About what I’ve done.”

He doesn’t back away from your challenge. If anything, his presence becomes more imposing, like he’s daring you to push harder.

“Do you really think I wouldn’t care?” he mutters, his voice quiet but thick with something unspoken. His eyes narrow, hard and unyielding. "Do you really think I wouldn’t do anything about it?"

His fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t touch you—doesn’t move a muscle, as if holding himself back from something he can't control. The silence between you swells. He’s trying to choke back whatever’s clawing at him, and you can feel it in the way he holds himself, rigid and cold.

“I’ve never wanted you to walk away," he says, his tone softer now, "But I’m not the kind of man who deserves you. Not the way you think. I’m trying to keep you safe, and you… you just don’t get it.”

A beat of silence passes.

“Please,” you breathe, the word escaping more like a crack than a whisper, jagged and raw.

Your voice trembles under the weight of it, tears burning behind your eyes—thick and hot, pressing hard against the dam you’re trying so damn hard to keep in place.

“Just let me help.” It slips from you like a split thread, like hope stretched too thin. “Let me do something.”

You blink, once, twice—but the tears don’t fall. Not yet. They just sit there, glassy and defiant, blurring the edges of him as you fight to keep them at bay.

“I don’t want to beg,” you murmur, softer now. Almost ashamed of how close you are to breaking.

But it’s already there—in your voice, your eyes, the way your hands tremble like they’re reaching for something that might never reach back.

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

His face shifts—barely—but you catch it. A flicker of pain that cuts through the stone of him. His mouth opens, then shuts again, like the words hurt too much to form.

“You think I want you to beg?” he growls, but it’s not anger. Not really. It’s fear dressed in anger’s skin. His hands flex, jaw tight, like he wants to grab something—you, maybe—and shake some sense into both of you.

“I hear you talk like that and it makes me feel like I already broke you.”

His voice is low and uneven, the kind of sound that comes from a man who hasn’t cried in years but might start now if he lets go for even a second.

He shifts, takes a step back like he’s trying to create distance between your pain and his guilt, but it doesn’t work. It never works. He may not want it to work.

“You wanna help?” he mutters, not looking at you. “You are the help. Just being here, standing there—looking at me like I’m not… like I’m not some monster—I don’t deserve that.”

He finally meets your eyes again, and this time, there’s no armor left. Just Joel. Just the tired, hollowed-out man beneath all the grit.

“I don’t know how to let you in without ruining you.”

There it is. The truth.

But even then—he hasn’t walked away.

You pause, eyes locked on him, heart pounding so loud it might as well reverberate through the damn room. He looks like something cornered—scarred and tired, a man built of walls too high and wounds too deep.

A feral thing, wounded. Backed into himself. An animal.

“Do…” you falter, swallowing the tightness in your throat. “Do you trust me?”

It's not a weapon. Not a trap. Just a question.

Laid at his feet like an offering. Like maybe, if he says yes—just maybe—something in both of you can finally rest.

His brow furrows slightly, like he doesn’t understand how anyone could still ask him that. How anyone could look him in the eye and mean it.

Then—quietly, a rasp, low and broken like gravel over ash:

“…Yeah. Yes.”

His voice shakes on the word.

“God help me, I do.”

He looks at you like it costs him something to admit it. Like handing you that truth took a piece of him he’ll never get back.

Your breath stumbles out, ragged and quiet, and then—you move.

You reach for him with care, like he’s something fragile under all that roughness. He is. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, steady and deliberate, guiding it upward with a kind of grace that feels almost reverent. Like you’re not just moving his hand—you’re inviting him in.

You press his palm to your skin—just there, along the slope of your collarbone, your jaw. Not forceful. Not demanding.

It’s not control. It’s not surrendereither.

It’s trust. A quiet way of saying: I’m not afraid of you.

Not like you’re afraid of yourself.

And he feels it—how you don't flinch, how you don’t recoil. How you let him in, even here.

Your voice comes low, breath warm, eyes searching his like you’re trying to stitch together something he’s long since torn apart.

“There’s a moment,” you murmur, “before and after someone learns the truth of you… the real you. What you’ve done. What you carry.”

“And in this moment… this world after?”

You tilt your head into his hand, just slightly. Just enough.

“I still choose you.”

Joel doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t blink.

Just stands there, frozen in the raw gravity of your words like they physically hit him—like you knocked the air clean out of his lungs. His hand stays where you placed it, warm and heavy against your skin, but his fingers twitch—once, like he’s unsure if he should pull away or hold tighter.

He should walk away. That’s what the voice in his head screams—the voice that’s always screamed. The one that’s kept him alive through blood, betrayal, and loss. Sarah.

But for the first time in years, he ignores it.

Because the way you're looking at him? Like he's not just a wreckage of a man? It breaks him.

His palm spreads wider, thumb grazing the edge of your jaw like he’s memorizing it, religiously.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he rasps, voice low, nearly pleading, almost broken. “You think you do, but—God, darlin’, you don’t.”

Still, he doesn’t pull away.

He steps closer.

So close the heat from his chest radiates through your skin like fire licking at every nerve. His breath fans against your face, hot, unsteady.

"I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

And then, something shifts—snaps.

His other hand comes up fast, almost desperate, cupping the back of your neck, pulling you in. Not rough—not this time. But there’s a bite to it, a hunger barely contained. His forehead leans against yours, the closeness almost unbearable.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he mutters, barely audible. “One day, you’ll see me for what I really am.”

Fuck, you hope so.

His mouth hovers near yours—right there—but he stops. Breath trembling, lips barely apart. Waiting.

For you to move. To choose him again. Even now. Even like this. It's selfish. He doesn't care, he wants to be selfish. Selfish with you.

You lean in, slow and surrendering, your hand resting over his—where it cradles your jaw.

Your body leans into his, like a tide drawn to the gravity of something larger, heavier, older than reason.

It's not an act of bravery.

It's not even hope.

It's desperation—that aching kind. That aching, pathetic kind of deal people make with the devil when they’re too tired to run anymore.

If he wanted you whole, he had you. And if he wanted to ruin you? You’d let him.

Because some part of you knows… he already has. And you're still here, reaching for him like ruin is worth it if you end up with him.

Whatever restraint he was holding cracks apart, splintering into ash. He surges forward—not rough, not angry, but hungry, lips crashing into yours with years of silence and grief behind it. His mouth claims yours like he’s been dying for it, like the taste of you might pull him back from the edge he’s lived on for too damn long.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, the other anchoring at your waist, pulling you tight, flush, his. There’s nothing gentle about it, not after everything. It’s messy. It's flawed.

It's real.

When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s only by a breath, foreheads touching, eyes shut.

“You ruin me,” he whispers, voice frayed. “Every damn day.”

He moves his weight forward, free hand pushing down on the bedroom handle. A quick push and it's open, softly guiding you inside.

The moment the door clicks shut behind him, a quiet weight settles between you—backing you into the cool, dim light of the bedroom. His hand still grips your neck, but it’s softer now—more possessive than forceful, as though he’s trying to make sure you’re real, choosing him.

His lips graze your ear, his breath uneven against your skin. The heat from his chest against your back makes it feel like the world outside doesn’t matter—like it’s just the two of you, everything else lost to the storm inside.

His hand slips from your neck, trailing down the curve of your spine, a soft press against the small of your back, urging you closer. And still, he doesn’t speak—only guides you to the bed, each movement slow and deliberate, like the space between you matters.

When your legs hit the edge of the mattress, he pauses. He doesn’t push you down. He stands there for a moment, breathing, letting the tension settle like dust between you.

Joel runs a freehand through his hair, eyes not leaving yours. “I’m not the man you think I am,” he says, voice low, broken. "I can’t be."

He steps closer again, his presence overwhelming.

“But if you’re here,” he breathes, “if you’re still here… then I guess we both got somethin’ to prove.”

His lips meet yours again, this time gentler, more desperate. As if he’s trying to hold onto something fleeting—something he’s terrified of losing, even as he’s the one pushing you away.

. . .

The morning light slips through the cracks in the blinds, casting soft slivers of gold across the room. The chirping birds outside are a reminder of the world that continues spinning, oblivious to the quiet, intimate war that’s just been fought between you and him.

The ache in your body? It tells its own story—one of tangled sheets, and a bit more aggression than you thought he'd unleash.

You stretch a little, muscles sore but in the best way, the warmth of his body still lingering like an imprint. A soft, lazy yawn escapes your lips as your eyes flutter open, trying to gather the fragments of last night while the day begins to creep in.

The familiar blue comforter. The dark walls. The desk cluttered with wooden shavings, remnants of the life he’s built—a life that always felt like a fortress to keep people out, but last night? Last night, you breached it. You might have even been the main character of it.

You glance over your shoulder and, sure enough, his weight is there beside you. The soft, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the faded sheets. You must have rolled over at some point in the night, tangled yourself up in him without even realizing it. His arm is draped lazily over your hip, like it belongs there—like you belong there.

The faint marks on his collarbones—darker now in the pale morning light—are yours. A trace of the night’s heated exchanges.

That was you.

It feels almost surreal, the contrast between the man he’s always been—gruff, distant—and the one you just saw, the one you touched, held. The one who let his guard down and let you in.

You can still feel him on you, in you. His weight, his warmth, the echoes of his lips against your skin.

The stillness of this moment is almost too much, too peaceful for the chaos you both carry inside. But for now, you don’t think about it. You don’t think about what happens after—about where this goes, what he really means when he says he doesn’t deserve you, or what the hell happens when everything falls apart again.

Instead, you focus on the weight of his hand against your skin, the feel of his chest rising and falling beneath your fingertips, the soft rasp of his breath so close it makes your pulse quicken. You close your eyes again, breathing him in, and for once, the world outside feels just far enough away.

You lift your hand slowly, carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile quiet around you. One fingertip escapes the safety of the blanket and drifts toward him—toward that single curl that’s fallen stubborn across his brows. You brush it back, gentle, and it coils around your finger like it knows you. Like it wants to stay there.

He doesn’t stir.

You stare at him—really stare—and something settles in your chest. Heavy. Bitter. Tender.

It's cruel, you think. Unforgivably cruel, that the world has been so merciless to a man like this. A man who carries so much weight in his shoulders, in the lines carved deep around his mouth and eyes. A man who’s learned to bury softness just to survive.

Because the man before you now? Lying there half-wrapped in sheets and sleep, his hand resting against your hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world—he's nothing like the monster he thinks he is. He feels sweet.

Sweet in the way his fingers twitch in his sleep, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Sweet in the quiet tension of his jaw, even now—like he’s still fighting demons. Sweet in the memory of his mouth on yours, rough, desperate, demanding.

It’s almost unbearable. It feels like something holy.

Your fingers drift lower, slow and reverent, tracing the hardened edge of his jaw—rough with stubble, sharp from years of clenched teeth. It’s not a perfect jawline, not clean or pretty, but it’s his.

Your thumb grazes the corner of his mouth, then down, brushing gently over his bottom lip. He stirs just slightly, not fully waking, but reacting. His breath hitches faintly, and you pause, holding your touch steady.

You wonder if he’s dreaming. If, in that dark, quiet place behind his eyes, he still sees fire. Blood. Regret. So, you touch him like you can rewrite it.

"Handsome," you murmur, more to the moment than to him.

Because he is. Handsome in a way the world would never see. In the way he loves, fiercely and silently. In the way he breaks apart at night and still holds people together by day. Always a protector. Never protected.

You lean forward just enough to press a barely-there kiss to the corner of his mouth—soft, chaste, real.

And when you pull back, his eyes are open. Heavy-lidded. Watching you. He heard you.

His eyes don’t move at first—just stay fixed on you, heavy and unreadable, like he’s still trying to wake up from something deeper than sleep. You feel the weight of that stare settle into your ribs, slow and silent.

Then, finally, he blinks. A breath. A shift in the sheets.

"Good morning," you whisper, a little softer this time—as if saying it too loud might break the spell of him staying.

You try to lighten it, teasing to fill the silence. "I can’t promise I wasn’t doing anything weird while you were sleeping,” you murmur, your voice playful, lips curling as you roll onto your stomach. Elbows press into the plush give of the mattress, propping yourself up just enough to face him.

Only then does the flick of your gaze drop—chest bare, collarbone exposed. The comforter barely modest where it rests along the dip of your spine. He’s just as bare. Both naked. Still.

Joel exhales through his nose—soft. His hand flexes slightly where it’s still tangled in the sheet between you, then reaches, slow and unsure, to tuck the corner of the comforter back across your back. His knuckles drag against your skin. Not by accident.

“You always talk this much in the mornin’?” he rasps, voice thick with sleep and gravel.

You watch the way his eyes settle on you again, less guarded now, like whatever armor he wears hasn’t quite returned to him yet. He sees you—not just in his bed, but here. Still here.

“Only when I wake up next to someone handsome,” you murmur, "…which doesn't happen often."

Joel huffs a breath—something between a scoff and a laugh—and drags a hand down his face. He doesn't say anything right away. But then his fingers drift toward you again, rough palm finding your hip under the covers.

You move closer—slowly, deliberately—testing the weight of the morning, the strength of what last night left behind. The sheet shifts with you, sliding down your back just enough to expose more skin to the chill of the room, but you don’t care. He’s warm.

Your hand drifts upward, fingers threading into his curls—messy from sleep, soft in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him. You let your nails scrape gently against his scalp. Soothing and affectionate.

He leans into it. Barely. But he does.

"Regret your decision yet?" you whisper, voice teasing at the edge, daring him to pull back. To throw up walls. But there’s tenderness laced in the words, too—a crack in your own armor.

Joel’s eyes flicker open wider, finding yours in that hazy glow of morning. His jaw works for a second, like he’s chewing over every version of no that he doesn’t know how to say right. Then, his hand slips from your hip to your waist, palm warm and grounding.

“No,” he says, low and solid.

Then quieter—more broken: “Just scared you’re gonna wake up and regret yours.”

And there it is—laid bare between you. Not lust, not anger, not even love.

Fear.

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t need to. The silence after his words says everything: he’s afraid he’ll ruin this. Ruin you. That whatever passed between you last night was a kindness he’s not meant to keep.

But his hand stays. And his eyes stay. And so do you.

You study him in silence, eyes drifting across the lines etched into his face—Every scar, every shadow, you take in as if remembering them.

Then, softer, a little teasing: "What's your favorite thing to eat for breakfast?" Your smile curves as you lean deeper into the sheets, the warmth between you still lingering in the air.

He grunts—barely more than a sound, but it’s a start.

“You ask a lotta damn questions,” he mutters.

The bed shifts as he moves, sitting halfway up with the sheet tangled around his waist. His back’s to you now—broad, scarred, tense. Like he’s already regretting last night, or maybe just the part where it meant something.

He runs a hand through his hair, rough. “Don’t got a favorite,” he says, after a beat. “Food’s food.”

But it’s a lie, and you both know it.

Another beat.

“… Pancakes,” he adds gruffly. “With butter. None o’ that syrup crap.”

He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t let you see the look on his face. Keeps his voice flat like it doesn’t matter. Like you didn’t just break something open in him he’s been holding shut for years.

"So, I'll make pancakes." You stir, sitting up against the sheets. Softly—you lean over and embrace him in warmth. Hugging him from behind. Bare chest pressed against scarred and ripped skin, hands softly tracing against his hips.

Joel stiffens under your touch like he's not used to it—like the idea of someone holding him just to hold him sets off alarms he can’t quite silence. Your cheek rests between his shoulder blades, skin against scar, breath against memory.

He doesn't move at first.

Then his hand lifts—hesitates—and finally lands on yours, resting where it’s wrapped around his hips Not gripping, not pulling you closer. Just there.

“I didn’t ask you to,” he says. Gruff.

You can feel his heartbeat—strong, steady. Alive.

“Pancakes,” he repeats, quieter this time. And you catch the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close enough.

“Don’t burn ‘em.”

His voice is softer now. Still rough, still Joel.

You slide from the bed in a hush, the sheets whispering behind you. Before distance can settle in, you lean in close and press a kiss to his temple—fleeting. Like it might ward off the ghosts for just a moment.

Your bare feet tap gently across the worn hardwood, and the air bites a little colder when you aren't caged against the warmth of him. The room is dim and quiet, dust caught in slivers of early morning light. It smells like old wood, whiskey, faint cedar. Him.

You scan everything—the way he lives, the wooden spooled mess he doesn’t clean up. Everything here is stitched with the weight of a life survived, not lived.

Your hand finds his flannel slung over the back of a chair, worn soft from time and habit. You slip it on — oversized and heavy with warmth—and spin once as you finish buttoning it up, grinning through a small exhale.

“Feelin’ like Joel Miller already,” you say, half to yourself, half to him.

From the bed, he lets out a small scoff. Doesn’t sound amused. Doesn’t sound angry either.

“Careful,” he mutters, voice raspy with the morning. “That ain’t somethin’ you wanna catch.”

You glance back at him — the way he’s still sitting there, one arm draped over his knee, body cut from shadow and silence. He watches you like you're some dream that he doesn't know how to comprehend.

“I dunno,” you say, quieter now. “Might be worth it.”

He looks away, jaw tight. Like he wants to believe you but doesn’t trust belief.

You round the corner, still in his flannel, steps light, almost playful—until the smell of coffee hits first. Familiar, grounding. But something else follows, quick on its heels. A shift. Presence.

“Joel? Did you make coff—” You stop.

She’s already there. Leaning against the counter, mug in hand, eyes too sharp for someone her age.

Ellie.

Your breath hitches half a beat, and you straighten instinctively. She somehow still manages to fill the room like she owns it — like she’s been here longer than time itself.

She nods toward the two mugs on the counter, smug as anything. “Made you coffee,” she says. Then, with a shit-eating grin and a wiggle of her eyebrows: “I guess the talk went well… last night.”

It’s not even a question. You blink, caught between embarrassment and a laugh. “Jesus… Ellie.”

“Not quite,” she shrugs, sipping from her mug. “But thanks.”

You lean against the frame of the doorway, tugging the flannel a little tighter around you. She catches the motion—notices it’s Joel’s—and her eyes glint with mischief.

“What time did you… get back last night?” you ask, trying to recover.

She shrugs again. “Early enough to hear him snore like a dying bear. Which, by the way, you might wanna get checked out. I thought something was in the walls.”

You let out a soft laugh despite yourself, shaking your head.

There’s a pause — just enough time for the teasing to fade. She looks at you for real now. Not cruel. Not guarded. Just watching.

Ellie nods, satisfied enough for now. Then she pushes the second mug toward you.

“Drink up, Flannel Thief,” she says. “You’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Your eyes practically roll in your head. "Listen… I can't be teased about this forever… Can't you just say… ew gross old people, and get on with it?" You lean against the countertop, fingers reaching for pancake things. Measuring cup… bowl… something to mix with…

Ellie snorts, clearly delighted, and sips her orange juice with exaggerated smugness.

“Oh no, no no. See, you wish that’s how this worked,” she grins, watching you pull out a mixing bowl like it’s part of a comedy routine. “But unfortunately for you, I’m a mature and emotionally evolved young woman who believes in holding adults accountable… for being disgustingly affectionate in my presence.”

You groan, grabbing the nearly empty pancake mix box and shaking it, “You're 15.”

“Old people sex,” Ellie says flatly, grinning into her mug. “Right in the next room over. You should be ashamed. Honestly.”

You shoot her a look, but there’s no heat in it. “Alright, alright, Jesus. I’m already dying inside.”

She shrugs. “Then my work here is done.”

You start pouring contents into the bowl. She watches, but it’s not really about the pancakes. There’s a lull. Not awkward, just quiet—and when she speaks again, her tone’s softer. But still unmistakably Ellie.

“I’m just saying,” she murmurs, “I’ve never seen him sleep past dawn unless he was half-dead or actually happy.”

You stop whisking for a second, glance over. Her eyes are downcast, but not sad. More cautious and hope. Like she’s letting herself believe in something for once.

You offer a small smile. “Well… he’s still in bed, so either he’s dead, and I murdered him… or you’re stuck with me a little while longer.”

She doesn’t smile back right away, but her voice comes light:

“I guess I’ll deal.”

Behind you, you hear the floor creak — heavy, slow steps — and you know it’s Joel before you even turn. You don't look right away. You just pour the batter onto the skillet and ask over your shoulder:

“You want one pancake or two, old man?”

Joel stands in the doorway like he’s been there a minute, just listening. His hair’s a mess — that soft, grizzled kind of disheveled that only makes him look more like himself. The blue robe hangs open over a threadbare white T-shirt and those familiar flannel pants, one tie dragging against the floor. He scratches the back of his head like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

You turn to face him fully, spatula in one hand, the smell of browning batter filling the quiet between you.

“Or none at all,” you add, eyebrow raised, “since you think my cooking is sooo bad.”

His eyes flick between you and Ellie — who’s already pretending not to watch while sipping from her mug like it’s the most dramatic scene in a movie.

Joel exhales through his nose, like it’s taking every ounce of restraint not to be dragged into the teasing.

“You burn toast,” he says simply.

You gasp. “It was one time.”

Ellie raises a hand. “It was two. That I know of.”

Joel just walks to the table and sits down with a grunt, clearly satisfied with himself. “I’ll take two. Since you’re wearin’ my damn shirt, might as well feed me too.”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Cute."

Joel grumbles something under his breath, but there’s a warmth in his eyes when he looks at you. Tired, guarded, but not closed off like before. Not entirely.

Ellie leans back in her chair, hands behind her head, eyes gleaming.

“This is so weird,” she mutters. “But also… kinda nice.”

Joel gives her a side-eye. “You don’t like it, you can go live with Tommy.”

She snorts. “Please. Free food and emotional bonding? I’m thriving.”

You plate up the pancakes and slide a stack in front of each of them, sitting across from Joel, your knee brushing his under the table. For the first time, the room feels full. Not just lived in—but alive.

You sit quietly, trying to act like it’s nothing—just breakfast, just fuckin' pancakes—but your fingers twist together in your lap beneath the table. It’s stupid. How nervous you are. Not just for him to like it, but for her to like it. Like somehow their approval means this whole fragile, reckless thing has weight.

Joel eats like a man who doesn’t want to admit he’s enjoying it. No theatrics, no compliments—just steady bites and the occasional small nod, like his silence is the only permission he knows how to give.

Ellie? She’s less subtle. She drowns hers in syrup and makes dramatic noises of satisfaction with every bite, clearly enjoying the chance to be chaotic.

“Not bad, Flannel Thief,” she says through a mouthful. “A solid seven-point-five. Could be higher with chocolate chips.”

You chuckle lightly, the knot in your chest loosening by a thread. “Next time, then.”

Joel’s fork slows, just for a second.

You catch it. You always do.

Next time.

You glance up at him again, eyes following the shape of his arms, those worn-in muscles that always carry more than just weight. They carry history. Guilt. Survival. Safety. Everything you never thought you'd find again.

Then your gaze reaches his face, and he’s already watching you.

Those brown eyes—soft in the morning light, a little wary, a little tired—but still warm. Still him.

You try to hide how much you’re looking. How much you want this to be something real.

“Y’know,” you murmur, voice just for him, “you don’t have to eat it out of guilt. I can handle the truth.”

Joel snorts softly, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ain’t guilt. Just quiet. You oughta try it sometime… maybe next time.”

But there’s the smallest twitch at the edge of his mouth. The ghost of a smile, buried under years of practiced gruffness.

And for a moment, it feels like maybe. Just maybe. You're not the only one hoping this sticks.

masterlist

a/n2: this has been in my notes app ... ignore mistakes pls

[hahaifolded]

141 x POC!GN Intelligence Operative - Debrief 3 Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay. Life really was testing me, but hopefully, I'm back. This is short but I hope this suffices for now... Warnings: MDNI, Mild Angst

“So… what’s going on between you and the guys?” 

You choke on your soda. Damn Keegan’s bluntness. 

When you had accepted Nikto’s invite to a nearby bar, you didn’t know that Keegan and Horangi were joining until you got to the booth. While their presence caught you off guard, you were not disappointed. Not at all. You like hanging out with the trio. They remind you of the good old days before you messed up everything. 

Even now, as Keegan asked about said fuck up. 

After catching your breath, you ask him to clarify as you and the 141 are just co-workers. What could possibly be off between co-workers? You don’t miss how the three shoot each other a look. 

Awkward silence fills the table before Horangi starts up again, asking if you all had heard about the rookie that got sent to the ER after falling down the stairs… three times. The tension immediately dissipates as the banter starts up again. 

Hours go by and as you laugh with the guys, you can’t help but think about how nice it is to be part of something again. Even if it’s for a short while, it’s feels good having people have your back again. God, you’re really going to miss these three once this mission is over.

“What’s got you thinking so hard over there?” Horangi gently asks. He nudges into you and puts his face close to yours. The other two too lost in their own conversation don’t notice, allowing you and the Korean to slip into your own. His eyes crinkled in delight at the privacy which just makes you laugh at the flirt. 

Before you could answer, you feel your phone buzz on the table. Instinctively, you and everyone else look at your phones and see an email notification from Laswell. Intelligence Officer in the Field. That grabs your attention. 

“Look at that. It seems like our little spy is joining us,” announces Nikto. Despite wearing a face mask, it was apparent the big guy was happy as his eyes gleamed with joy. He wasn’t the only one as Keegan claps and Horangi lets you go calls the bartender for two rounds of shots. 

You haven’t felt this happy in a long time. For the first time in awhile, it felt like things were finally going your way. 

As a waitress leaves the “celebratory shots” on the table, your phone lights up once more. As the trio reaches for their glasses, you glance at your phone once more. Your stomach sinks as you read the first few lines available on your lock screen. 

The entire room disappears as Kyle “Gaz” Garrick’s email ran through your head. Not even Horangi’s furious typing could break you out of your thoughts. Your entire body burns in shame. Now Laswell and the trio will know how incompetent you are. You knew this was going to happen. It was only a matter a time before they realized that you don’t deserve to be here. You glance at the exit. Thankfully, you’re at the edge of the booth so a quick getaway is possib—

“Hey, none of that.” Horanji wraps his arm over your shoulder and pulls you towards him. His grip isn’t tight but the message is clear: stay here with them. “Tell us what’s happening. Why do they…“

“…treat you like shit?” deadpans Nikto. He stares at you with a harsh gaze. Weirdly enough, it didn’t feel like it was directed at you, but more like it was for you. 

You look at each and every one of them and find not a single ounce of judgement in their eyes. Instead, you see admiration, respect, and safety. Safety. After months of what felt like surviving, you finally feel safe. 

So you let everything out. You tell them how you used to be close to the 141. How you thought you found your people and were excited to become part of a team that so furiously defended their own. And how one night you just fucked it all up. You overdid it. You dropped the ball. You did… you did… something and lost it all. As soon as you started, you just couldn’t stop and honestly you didn’t care. It felt good to get it all out. It felt good to be listened. 

“… so these days I’m just trying to stay low to hopefully earn my ticket out of here” you finish solemnly. You avoid their gazes as you are scared to see their reactions. Silence fills the table before…

“You’re fucking kidding, right?” Keegan breaks out 

Two fingers gently pinch your chin. “Look at me.” You let Horangi’s fingers lift your head to meet his gaze. “Those guys have no fucking clue what they have in front of them. You have been nothing but kind and respectful to me and these dumbasses.” Keegan gasps in faux shock as Nikto just shakes his head. “There’s absolutely nothing you could have done to deserve that. Nothing.” 

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes. Keegan pulls you into a hug and whispers words of comfort against your head. Horangi rhythmically pats your back while Nikto excuses himself. You don’t miss the look the other two shoot him. Your blood runs cold, but not for long, as Horangi flicks your head.

“What the fuck?” You were not expecting that. 

“I saw what your little head was thinking and I want none of that. We want you,” he jests. Your body grows hot at that. Wow, it’s been awhile since your body has reacted like that. 

You three stay in the booth for a few more minutes before Keegan asks for the bill. After paying, y’all walk out and find Nikto right as he’s ending a phone call. He faces you three, clearly smiling, as the corner of his eyes crinkle in a way you’ve never seen before. Keegan and Horangi walk faster towards their Lieutenant, forcing you to hurry along. 

“So what he say?” sing-songs Keegan. Nikto just nods. Cheers break out between the two. You couldn’t help but smile. Their joy was contagious. 

“What’s going on?” you ask. Horangi and Keegan continue to cheer while Nikto turns towards you and extends a hand out. 

“How do you feel about joining Kor-tac?” 

Word Count: 1048

More Thoughts - Next Thought

[cheolieji]

Can u write a Seungcheol arranged marriage trope. Kinda enemies to lovers.pleasee😭been searching something like this for so longg

arranged love - choi seungcheol

wc: 3k~

pairing: wife!reader x husband!seungcheol

genre: e2l, a little angst, arranged marriage (obvi), suggestive (at the end but not rlly)

guide for requesting on my page [17] please read before requesting

proofread ✔️

A/N: it's barely enemies to lovers rlly, just two people who doesn't wanna be in an arranged marriage, but oh well it worked out In the end.

You hated him the moment he opened his mouth.

“I hope you don’t snore,” Seungcheol says, sliding into the seat beside you at your engagement dinner like it’s any other bland corporate meeting and not the night you’re being shackled to someone you barely tolerate.

You grip your champagne flute harder than necessary. “I hope you don’t breathe loudly. I’m a light sleeper.”

He glances at you, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth, and it grates on you more than it should. Everything about him grates. The way he takes up space. The way his tailored suit hugs his body like it was made just for him. The way he looks like he knows exactly what you’re thinking and enjoys watching you squirm in silence.

The whole room buzzes with congratulations and approval. Not for the love you’re about to begin, but the empire you’re about to merge. Your family. His. A perfect match on paper. The kind of marriage that brings investors to their feet and reporters to their keyboards.

You don’t love him. You don’t even like him. And yet, you’re expected to stand beside him, smile for the cameras, and wear the diamond on your hand like it’s anything but a shackle.

“You really don’t want this either, do you?” you murmur under your breath.

He sips his wine and leans in, his voice low enough to make your pulse stutter. “Does anyone ever want a deal like this? We play our parts. That’s what we do.”

You meet his eyes. There’s no warmth in them. Just recognition. You’re both pawns in the same game, and somehow, that makes you hate him more.

The wedding is a blur of white and gold. Flashbulbs. Applause. Vows that feel like theater.

He doesn’t kiss you on the lips. Just brushes a chaste kiss to your cheek, which earns a round of coos from the audience. In the photos, you look perfect. Elegant. United.

Behind the scenes, you avoid his gaze. He avoids your touch.

The wedding night is no different. The penthouse is silent when you arrive. You kick off your heels and march toward the bedroom without waiting for him. The ensuite bathroom becomes your temporary escape. You scrub off your makeup like it’s guilt, brush your hair with aggression, and when you open the door again, he’s lying on the bed shirtless, scrolling through his phone like he owns the world.

You pause.

“You could have waited.”

“I figured you'd want the couch,” he says without looking up.

“I figured you would take it.”

He sets his phone down and meets your gaze. “Trust me. I’m not trying to sleep next to you either. We can switch tomorrow.”

You say nothing. Just cross the room and climb into bed with as much space between you as the king-sized mattress allows.

You stare at the ceiling for hours, body tense, every inhale of his enough to keep you from sleep.

The first few weeks are cold.

You operate like coworkers who hate each other. You rotate nights on the couch. Argue over trivial things—whose turn it is to restock the fridge, where the spare keys should go, who forgot to RSVP to that charity auction. Seungcheol has this way of staying maddeningly calm while you burn.

He makes coffee exactly the way you like it and never says a word about it.

You fold his dress shirts when they’re in the dryer and tell yourself it’s because wrinkled clothes reflect badly on you, not him.

You start to notice the way he reads before bed, how he runs his fingers along the page edges. How he cracks his knuckles when he's thinking. How his voice drops when he’s on a late-night call in the living room, unaware that you’re listening from the hallway.

He’s irritatingly considerate. Not nice. Never sweet. Just… thoughtful in ways you didn’t expect.

You catch him watching you sometimes. At dinners. Across the room. When you laugh too hard at something someone else said. His eyes soften just slightly before he looks away.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. He���s just playing his part.

But one night, everything shifts.

You’ve had a long day. An even longer dinner event with more fake smiles and one too many invasive questions about your nonexistent honeymoon.

When you step into the penthouse, you kick off your heels and sigh loudly, expecting silence.

But Seungcheol’s there. In the kitchen. Two glasses of wine already poured. His tie is loose, sleeves rolled up. He looks at you like he’s been waiting.

“You okay?” he asks, voice gentle in a way that makes you pause.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

He hands you the wine without pushing.

You sit across from him at the counter, sipping in silence.

“I’m tired of this,” you say after a moment.

“This… marriage?” he asks.

You nod. “Not the marriage. The pretending. The cold war we’re fighting. I can’t keep being angry all the time.”

He looks at you for a long time. “Then stop.”

Your brow furrows. “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

You open your mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. Because what would you even say? That you don’t know how to trust him? That the way he looks at you now makes your heart pound? That you’ve hated him for so long it’s become part of your routine, and letting that go means risking something else entirely?

He sets his glass down and steps closer.

Too close.

“I’m not pretending when it’s just us,” he says quietly.

Your breath hitches.

“You’re the one who acts like you can’t stand being in the same room,” he adds, voice low, nearly a whisper. “But you’re always looking at me.”

“So are you,” you shoot back.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes dark. “I am.”

He lifts his hand slowly, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

His fingers brush your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His touch is warmer than you expect. Careful. Like he’s afraid to push too far.

Your voice is barely audible. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs. “But I think about you more than I should.”

That’s all it takes.

You surge forward first.

Your mouths crash together in a kiss that’s messy and hot and far too long overdue. His hands slip into your hair as your fingers tug at the collar of his shirt. It’s not soft. Not romantic. It’s months of tension and resentment and unspoken want, igniting like a match to dry kindling.

You gasp when he presses you against the counter, the edge digging into your hips. His lips move to your neck and you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as heat pools low in your stomach.

“I still hate you,” you breathe.

He chuckles against your throat. “You say that, but you’re pulling me closer.”

“I want to bite you.”

“Do it.”

You do.

He groans, and something about the sound makes you dizzy.

When he lifts you onto the counter, your legs wrap around his waist without thinking. His hands press into your thighs, mouth never leaving yours, and you wonder how you ever convinced yourself you didn’t want this.

You break the kiss only to breathe, foreheads pressed together, lips swollen, pulse racing.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you whisper.

His thumb brushes along your lower lip. “Doesn’t have to. We don’t have to label it.”

“So what are we?”

He pauses. Smiles faintly. “Married.”

You laugh, breathless. “God, I really do hate you.”

“No,” he says, voice like velvet. “You don’t.”

You pull him in again, and this time there’s no hesitation.

No pretending.

Only heat. Only hands. Only the taste of red wine and the quiet sound of your name on his lips like it’s something he’s been waiting to say in the dark.

And you let him.

Because maybe this marriage started as convenience.

But tonight, it feels like something else entirely.

The End.

(for now)

[pboogerswbb]

SO IT GOES - chapter 17

Paige Bueckers x oc Warnings: language, ANGST, badly proofread Wordcount: 3.4K A/C: short chapter to set everything up for the FINAL chapter of the Before London section! enjoy this :) i'm sorry...

-

Before London

three weeks later

“Hey baby, come in,” Lala steps aside to let me into her and Arike’s beautiful apartment. Despite how quickly I had grown close with the two of them, I hadn’t been here since that night early in the season. That night I chose wrong.

“You look gorgeous!” I smile, holding a bag of pastries and two iced matchas in my other hand.

“So do you Zari,” the older woman smiles as I make my way in. The AC brings relief quickly, August in Dallas not any cooler than July. “I love the shorts.”

I smooth over my white linen shorts, the matching button up left open with a black tube top underneath. I follow Lala to the couch, sitting down on the opposite corner, letting my hair down from a clip.

“Where’s Arike?” I ask, handing the other matcha to her.

“Practice,” Lala says. “I swear she doesn’t do anything but train now that it looks like they’re making it to the playoffs.”

I chuckle, sipping on my drink. Indeed the Dallas Wings had really turned it around since the early season, Arike and her had become a feared backcourt duo already. Things were looking positively bright for the team despite everything else.

“So, how are you doin’?” Lala asks.

“Oh, I’m good, lots of work but… Good. And you?”

Lala looks at me tilting her head and reaching out to stroke my arms comfortingly. “Zari, I mean how are you really?”

Gulping, I move my gaze from her intruding eyes to the matcha in my hands. I know what she wants to talk about. And I should talk about it to someone. But it was easier to just bury myself in work. 

It had been three weeks since me and Paige spoke. Of course there were forced conversations here and there, running into her at the apartment building, interviews and content we had to do together. But we got through those, we’re both professionals after all. Other than that there hadn’t been many words.

I need some space Paige. I’m sorry it has to be like this. I really care about you, but I have to think what’s right for me. It’s all too much too soon and I need to think about what I want. I’m sorry.

Izzie please could I just come over and talk abt this. Please.

I think it’s best we don’t talk for a little while Paige.

Those were the last texts between me and her. Radio silence after that. I guess exactly what I’d asked for, except it was killing me inside. I felt sick all the time, unable to eat or sleep. The nausea was overwhelming, leaving me to nibble on my food until I felt sick to my stomach. It showed, I could tell I looked tired, worn. 

“I’m… hanging in there, you know?” I finally answer.

Lala nods, stroking my arm caringly. “What’s going on with you and Paige?”

My heart stumbles. When I was little I had a habit of pressing bruises on my legs to make them hurt - hearing her name felt like that, echoing in my ear painfully. I bite down on my lower lip to stop the trembling. Stop Izzie. Stop.

“I just, I don’t think I’m ready for what she wants,” I mumble, ignoring the burn in my eyes or the scratchiness of my throat. “She told me she loved me.”

She nods knowingly. I guess Paige had told her all about it too. It hurts me to know I hurt her enough to have her coming to Lala and Arike for advice.

“And you don’t feel the same?” She asks, biting down on the pastry.

Without hesitation I shake my head. “No, it’s not that. It’s just… My past and I haven’t healed enough yet. I keep projecting my fears onto Paige and it’s not fair. It’s just gonna keep getting worse until… Until she realises I’m not a good person. Or a lovable person.”

“Zari, you know that’s not true,” Lala comforts me. But I don’t need comforting over it. I know it’s true. I’ve accepted it. I shrug, taking a sip of my matcha.

“So you love her,” Lala doesn’t ask but states as a fact. My heart sinks. I don’t know what I feel. Perhaps she’s right, perhaps I do. But everytime I dared to think it might be true, I remember what happens to me when I fall in love. What happened the last time, bound to happen again.

“I don’t know how I feel,” I admit, my voice shakier than I’d like. Inhaling deeply, I say the words that force me to face reality. “I think if it’s this hard already… It will never work out.”

“Respectfully, I disagree,” Lala says surprisingly. “You two are really good together, good for each other.”

“Then why is it so hard to make it work?” I ask, my eyes welling up. In a perfect world, I would just want her, and that would be enough. But in this one, nothing about this was easy. I had to live in reality, not in some fairytale I had created in my mind.

“Me and Rike had issues too at first,” she says. I furrow my brows. Her and Arike? But they were perfect.

Like reading my mind she chuckles. “I know, but trust me we did. It took a lot of work and resilience to get to this point. But we both knew it was worth it because in the end we were meant to be together, y’know.”

“How do you know it’s worth it?” I ask.

The woman smiles, taking my hand and squeezing it. “That’s for you to figure out, Zari.”

-

“I like your accent”

“I like your accent”

“I like your accent”

I look at the clip over and over, Gabby eyeing her up and down before walking off. Jealousy runs through my veins straight into my heart. I guess I didn’t have the right to be jealous, not anymore.

My mind could barely wrap around what had happened between us. I wanted to blame Trey, that her advances had freaked Izara out. I wanted to blame Gabby, that she got into Izara’s head and made her change her mind about me. But I knew it wasn’t true. It was just easier to blame someone else than to accept that the fault was mine.

I couldn’t believe how I had behaved that night. Izzie, who had been brave enough to be vulnerable about her past, had revealed parts of herself to me that she hadn’t to anyone else. And I had made a promise to protect her heart. And I had done the complete opposite.

A horrible dread loomed over me, preying on me behind every corner. The only time I could escape it was on the court, so most of my days were spent at our practicing facilities with Arike. She did her best to get me to talk about me and Izzie, but I had become skillful in the art of avoidance. Yet, when I climbed up the stairs of our building, past her door, my heart sank each time. The one place I couldn’t avoid her was home

I miss you

I write the text, finger hovering over the send button before deleting it. No. She needed space.

And if I loved her at all, I'd give it to her. Even if it killed me inside.

-

I yawn as I hold my coffee cup, inhaling the comforting smell. I hadn’t really been sleeping well in the past weeks, apparent by the layers of makeup I had to add to my undereyes that had darkened. 

“Are the girls ready soon?” The set director yells, peeking her head into the dressing room. 

“About to get dressed,” the stylist said, handing around grey, black and white boxers. Woxer - the women’s boxer brand had got some of the Wings to do a photoshoot, so now the players were lined up in chairs, getting their makeup and hair done in the early morning.

I’m trying my best to keep my eyes at the floor, but every now and then my gaze flickers to Paige, as she laughs lightheartedly with Lou, without a care in the world.

Trey’s on his phone beside me, texting quietly. 

“Hey Trey, could you take some pics from right here please?” I ask, whispering, watching the way the player’s impressions reflect on the mirror.

Trey, with a quiet huff, rolls his eyes but does as I asked wordlessly. Ever since that night he tried to kiss me, he had been cold and distant. It sucked, because I thought we were friends. But I was never a friend to him, I saw that now. Still, I felt guilty. Maybe I had led him on. Perhaps I’d been too harsh.

The girls change, all standing around in their boxers and sports bras. I can’t tear my eyes from Paige, her tan skin against the white cotton. The effort she had put in had done favors to her - her weight had gone up, shoulders broad and arms grown especially in her biceps, much like her thighs. Oh God. This couldn’t possibly get worse for me.

And then it does.

Two people walk in, holding a body oil and begin to lather the players up one by one. My body wants me to forget the past three weeks and rub the oil into Paige’s skin myself as I watch these strangers’ massage her body. Her muscles look more defined, smooth skin glowing as she looks at herself in the mirror and grins.

“Holy shit,” she chuckles and flexes in the mirror. “Goddamn I look sexy.”

My heart flutters, eyes burning suddenly like they did every time she spoke around me. It was so easy to imagine everything was okay between us. God, I wish they were. But I didn’t know anymore. Love shouldn’t be this hard. So it can’t be real love.

Mine and Paige’s gazes meet in the mirror momentarily, but I quickly look to the ground, walking with the crew to the set doing everything I can not to even look the blonde’s way.

“The girls are gonna love this,” Arike chuckles as they get positioned in front of the camera. I smile to myself. She wasn’t wrong. The Wings’ demographic had changed immensely, crowds full of girls ogling over each player - mostly over my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, I mean. I guess. We were still just on a break.

The girls go through the group photos, moving on to singular shots. They all look amazing, and I know this campaign was a good one to get for them. I sip on my coffee, posting teasers on social media when the set director taps my shoulder.

“Hey, could you be a doll and help out a bit,” she smiles. I glance around, everyone else is running around, helping the other girls.

“Of course, whatever you need,” I reply, putting my phone down. Only to see her hand me a bottle of baby oil, pointing to the set where Paige is standing, getting final touches for her hair. You have to be fucking joking. What did I do in my past life to deserve this.

Too nice to resist, or to ask for someone else to do it, I take a deep breath before walking over to the blonde. Her eyes widen momentarily as I approach her. Paige clears her throat, and bites down on her bottom lip.

“Hey,” I say quietly, showing her the bottle. 

“Sup,” she replies, looking everywhere but at me as I pour the oil onto my hands.

“Sorry, they needed help,” I murmur, bracing myself before walking behind her and beginning to oil up her newly carved out back - not that I should notice or care. But I do.

 I don’t miss the goosebumps forming on her skin as I rub her body, kneeling down to do her legs. My hands massage her calves, knees and finally her thighs. My body was betraying me, forcing me to take gulps of air as quietly as I could as my hands wander over Paige’s body. Every nerve inside me feels as if on fire. I do my best to ignore it, but a nagging feeling in my head tells me she feels it too.

Getting back up face to face with her, I begin to massage the oil into her hands. Those strong, long fingers, one by one. Her hand curls slightly in mine. Just enough to make me wonder if I imagined it.

Suddenly her voice cuts through the tension. “So, how you been?” There’s no malice, no anger. A genuine question. It catches me off guard.

“Um, good. I mean okay,” I murmur, my eyes glued on Paige’s arms so I didn’t have to look into her ocean blue eyes. “How about you?”

She nods slowly. “Okay too,” she says in a hoarse voice, her breath hitching when my long nails scratch against her abs before rubbing in the oil. We go quiet, the hussle of the set seems distant around us.

“All done,” I say, glancing up to let myself take a dip in her eyes just for a moment. I nearly drown, wanting to say more. But there was nothing to say.

Paige looks down at me, exhaling shakily.

“Thanks, Iz,” she hums. Hearing my name come out of her mouth again felt euphoric. In that moment I want to make it work more than anything.

-

“Gotta be kidding,” I mumble to myself after the second time I tried to wash my body clean of the oil. It didn’t help. I kept finding it everywhere. As I’m about to hop back into the shower, my phone rings. Dad.

“Sup Bobby,” I answer, putting on my best act of my normal self. Though I was just slightly elated from feeling Izzie’s hands on me earlier. It was enough to keep me going for the rest of the day. However, it reminded me of how badly I missed her. And I did. Every damn day.

“I’m not loving that nickname,” my dad jokes. “Was just asking if you’re still flying in next week?”

Fuck. I had completely forgotten I had promised to show up to surprise my little brother who had been missing me badly according to my dad. Next week was the only time I could, before the playoffs would consume my life.

“Yeah, ‘course,” I mumble, sitting on the corner of my bed in my robe.

“Drew’s gonna be so damn happy,” he says happily into the phone. I chuckle dryly in response. I would die for my brother, but it was the worst timing with everything going on. “You bringing your girl too? Would be nice to see Zari!”

I nearly hiss at the sound of her name. Clenching my fist I shake my head as if my dad could see it.

“Nah,” is all I can muster up.

“Uh oh,” he says into the phone. “Trouble in paradise?”

I exhale, trying to think of a way to lie myself out of this one. Except I don’t have the strength to. So I tell him everything, the I love you, the bar fights, the secrecy, every little detail that had gone right and put me and Izzie on a path we weren’t supposed to be on. This couldn’t be God’s way.

“Shit,” he says bluntly. I chuckle bitterly, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye.

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

My dad stays on the line, quiet for a while before speaking. “You know, sometimes love doesn’t happen at the speed you wish it did.”

I listen. He’s right. Much like Izzie made schedules of her entire life, I created a schedule in my head of our relationship. One I was disappointed she wasn’t following. Despite being very aware of her past.

“It don’t mean she doesn’t love you, or care about you just as much as you do about her. But people bring different baggage into their relationships and it just… Changes how they view love y’know? I met that girl. She spent the entire time laughing at my stupid jokes and talking with your old man. She loves you. But maybe to say it outloud for her means something else than it does for you.”

I hate that he’s right. My mind jumps back to Izzie telling me about Jasper, the way she was trembling and hyperventilating when I accidentally snapped at her - all because of one man that had really messed her up. She was always hard to read. I knew everything she told me about her engagement was likely just the tip of the iceberg. How could I be so impatient and careless with her. 

“I mean maybe you just gotta be patient - Not easy for you I know but... Give her some time. She’ll come around Paige. Just do something small to show her that you’ll be there when she’s ready.”

His words really hit me. I knew exactly what to do. Telling my dad I’ll call him later I get dressed in a rush, checking the clock. She’d be home in about five minutes. I knew this because of course I had memorised her schedule.

I don’t care how long it takes. I’m not going anywhere. - P

Hurrying downstairs, I leave in front of her apartment door the note on top of the real Cadbury’s chocolate bar I ordered from England - the exact one Izzie had told me she missed on our first date. 

-

5, 6, 7… I count the reps in my head as I do shoulder press, sweat trickling down my back. The burn in my muscles makes me shut my eyes, Drake blasting from my earbuds. I let out a deep sigh of relief when I finally place the weights down onto the ground. The weight room was the only place I found my mind going quiet - the only place I didn’t worry about me and Izzie. 

“Paige,” Arike jogs to the room, out of breath. “Bro.”

I turn, expecting to see her usual, smiley self. Instead I’m faced with serious, furrowed brows, frowning Arike. Something’s wrong. Very wrong.

“Yeah?” I ask, taking off my earbud. She walks to me, shoving her phone onto my hand.

-

I run the hallways of College Park, my sneakers squeaking against the floor echoing up and down the halls. Where the hell is she? This can’t be happening. No fucking way this is happening.

My heart feels like it might burst. Like it’s trying to race out of my chest as I look for the familiar dark waves, the sharp green eyes, the confident posture of the woman I loved. Where the fuck is Izara?

My stomach churns. I feel sick, not just for me. But for Izzie. Almost mindlessly I check behind every unlocked door, every corner. But I can’t find her.

“Trey!” I yell, running after the man walking ahead of me. He turns, clearly still angry from what happened at the bar. I don’t care. It’s the least of my worries right now. “You seen Izzie?”

He rolls his eyes but shakes his head. “Not since this morning.”

“Fuck,” I mumble and jog off the other direction. Never had I cursed College Park for being such a maze before. The fluorescent lights were making my eyes dry and my head spinned. Finally I decide to stop. 

Closing my eyes I listen. I hear it. The clacking of her heels.

It’s faint. But it’s her.

Walking toward the sound behind a corner I find her, like some miracle. But seeing her only makes me feel more sick to my stomach.

“Izzie,” I pant out, my lower lip trembling but I bite down on it to make it stop.

“P- Paige? What’s wrong?” She asks, immediately taken back by my expression.

Without a word, I hand her my phone. On the screen it’s playing a video with over 500k views. From three weeks ago, Izzie and I, hugging and dancing against each other in the dim, purple hue of the club lights.  And finally, facing each other and clearly, without a doubt, kissing each other passionately carelessly. The entire moment just for us, now shared with everyone online.

-

taglist: @wbbgetsmewetter @thaatdigitaldiary @pb524830 @bueckersfive @lupinqs @sierrale8ne @d3arapril @lovegalor333 @avvwritesstufff @rosemariiaa @bueckers22 @taylynbueckers44 @unadulteratedcyclepaper @rizzlerbuckets @wosolipa @bridgetloveswomen @paiges-1vur @slut4uconnwbb @xxloveralways14 @bueckersbitch @janaelalfysblunt @omg-imtumbling @angryflowerwitch @enchantingesme @ohmybueckers @potatobears-world @st4yyyy @wnbawag @maryjanewatsons @naeswrrldd @she-is-my-unrequited-love34 @paige05bby @gayflygirl @saverdelrey @xoxosierralane @katemartinsfuturewife @nicebellee @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @cowboybueckers

[melwnst]

────── ⋆⋅☆SECOND HUNDREDTH CHANCES, D.W

summary. Dean breaks your heart, again. When he comes back to apologize, you know you’ll run right back to him.

warnings. angst, tiny bit of smut. Dean’s a toxic cunt in this. make up sex.

⭑.ᐟ two smut plots in one day… who am I?????? Please interact/follow and send requests if u have any! <3

word count. 1,2k

supernatural masterlist/full masterlist

──────────୨ৎ──────────

You wake up to the feeling that something is about to happen. Your heart is heavy, it’s tight in your chest, it’s pounding. You’re sweaty, your palms almost sticking to each other. And soon enough you hear it. You hear the buzzing, the sound of heartbreak, of uncertainty. You don’t have to think about who it is- you know it’s him. It feels like hours pass before it comes to a stop. It’s only a minute later that it happens again.

And again.

And again.

Until you have no choice but to turn your phone off- but not before seeing that he’s left 6 voicemails. Voicemails you don’t want to listen to because nothing he can say will make it better. It won’t ease the ache, the hurt, the sadness you feel or the feeling of missing him so much you feel like you can’t breathe and you’re running out of air every time you allow yourself to even think about him.

Dean knows. He knows why you won’t answer, he knows you probably won’t listen to the messages he leaves you, and he’s almost glad because he’s embarrassed. He hates how vulnerable he is. How he can be- when he pours his heart out to you. Except he has to- because he wants you to know that he’s sorry. That he doesn’t mean to push people away, it’s just what he does even if it’s not fair to anyone around him.

You force yourself to go back to sleep. You know it won’t do any good because you have absolutely zero chances of falling asleep tonight, not really- not with him running in your mind like he belongs there.

He doesn’t. Not anymore.

If you could reach inside and pull him out yourself, you would.

You can’t help but wonder how he’s doing, though. Because heartbreak isn’t going to help falling out of love with him. It’s still Dean. It’s still the guy who hates flowers but gets you some every week because he knows you love them. Still the same man who would rather sacrifice his sleep to watch you, to make sure that you’re safe and sound even when you’re sound asleep next to him.

So, it doesn’t help. He’s still there like a stain you can’t get off. And you don’t think he’s going away anytime soon.

You do manage to fall asleep though. It feels like 5 minutes before a knock on your door wakes you up. Your eyes open in one swift motion, and you know exactly what’s waiting for you behind that door.

Rather, who’s waiting.

It’s heartbreak, love, anger, sadness, grief, all mixed up together. It’s Dean. You don’t have to see him to know- you feel his presence. He could be thousands of miles away, and you still would.

You pull yourself out of bed, but you don’t open the door. You don’t want to. Because you know that the moment he apologizes, you’ll run right back to him. And maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing- but you’re just so used to it, it’s exhausting.

For what feels like the millionth- another knock collides with your door.

And then a voice.

‘Please open the door, I know you’re in there.’ His voice is hoarse, like he’s been crying.

‘I need to talk to you, please. Please stop ignoring me.’ He’s desperate. He’s like a completely different person.

You hear him mumble, you’re pretty sure you can decipher a small ‘fine, I’ll just talk through the door then.’

‘Okay. Hear me out, alright?’ He takes a small pause, and you take a small step forward.

You wince when the wooded floor cracks under your steps.

‘I didn’t know what to do. I suck at this, clearly. Please just open the door, I want to see you.’

Silence. It cuts deep, it breaks his heart, he closes his eyes, bangs his head on the door.

‘I love you, okay? I’m begging you, talk to me.’

Dean doesn’t beg. He’s not one to crawl towards someone, or get on his knees til they bleed to make someone understand something, a point. But he would for you. He’d do anything.

Dean gives up. He figures, maybe you need more time, more space from him because he’s agonizing.

You hear him sigh, and soon enough he walks away.

You step forward hesitantly, before you swing the door open.

Dean turns back in an instant, he’s not that far. Maybe he’s too close,even. Because you can feel him, you can smell his cologne, you can see that he just shaved because his skin is smooth, and you can tell he cried because his eyes tell you that he did.

You regret opening the door the second you do, though. Because you see him, and it’s Dean. It’s your Dean. It’s the man that you love- and that’s when you know you’re fucked. Because you want to run into his arms, kiss him, pull him in, feel him everywhere, all across, from all over.

Dean’s even closer now, you can feel his breath, hear his heart beat fast for you.

The tension is thick, and he knows you’re about to give in. He sees the hunger in your eyes, he sees the anger too. And he plays with it. Not because he’s a bad person, but because he genuinely wants to be better for you, he just doesn’t know how to.

‘I hate you.’ You tell him, he can barely hear it, but he does.

‘I know.’

You want to punch him. You want to scream, lash out.

But you don’t.

Instead you pull his shirt, and crash your lips into his. There’s flames all around, it’s burning, it’s hot, because the anger’s too strong. It’s so strong that you step back, still attached to his lips, into your apartment.

Dean closes the door with his foot, while his hands travel. They explore as if they’ve never been there before.

‘I love you.’ You mumble against his lips, his flannel already on the floor, his shirt halfway taken off.

‘I know.’ He answers, pulling your sweatshirt over your head, and collapsing on the bed with you.

His mouth isn’t on yours anymore. It’s on your jaw, your neck, your ears, it travels down to your breast, your belly. Your core heats up, your thighs tighten together because it just can’t wait.

Dean looks at you as to ask. You give him permission, and soon enough your shorts are off.

You see stars, your voice goes hoarse because of the cries of pleasure. You pull at his hair, and you swear it feels like best make up sex you’ve ever had.

He’s not even inside you yet, and you already know it’s going to be.

Later, when you’re both sweaty and out of breath, your back turned to him, Dean stares at the ceiling.

‘I’m sorry.’ He looks at your bare back, and he hears you sigh. He knows it too well because it’s a sigh you let out every time he lets you down and builds you right back up again.

‘I know.’

You close your eyes, and even though you feel Dean’s chest touch yours, you don’t turn around, you don’t say anything else, because you know it’ll happen again, again and again.

But you wouldn’t dream of stopping it.

Because he’s still your Dean.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

taglist: @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis (comment to be added!🤍)

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Miles Between, Heartbeats Close


Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader


Warnings: Long-distance relationship, angst, smut (kinda? I guess?), emotional intimacy, soft domestic moments, implied PTSD/nightmares, tender vulnerability, language


Author’s Note: IM BACK BABY!! Sorry I was visiting family and friends so here we are! Enjoy this!!


Summary: Loving a soldier means learning how to live in pieces—and how to put them back together when they come home.

Masterlist


MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

——

One Week Before Deployment

He didn't wear the mask around you. Not in bed, not at home, not when he was cooking you eggs at midnight in just a pair of sweats and his dog tags.

You were wrapped in one of his shirts, leaning on the counter with a mug of tea, watching him cook. He felt your eyes on him.

“What?” he said, glancing over his shoulder, spatula in hand.

“Just thinking,” you murmured.

“Dangerous,” he replied, smirking.

You walked up behind him and hugged his waist, pressing your cheek to the scarred expanse of his back. “I’m going to miss you.”

He stilled, just for a second.

“I’ll miss you more.” His hand came down to cover yours, squeezing gently. “Keep my shirt on. Sleep in it. That way, I’m there even when I’m not.”

You kissed his spine. “I love you.”

He turned, leaned down, and kissed you slow, with the kind of ache that meant he’d already started missing you too.

——

02:14 AM (Present Time)

The clock blinked 02:14 AM again. You hadn’t realized it had been an hour since you last looked. You were curled up on Simon’s side of the bed, his hoodie drowning your frame, your phone clutched tightly in your palm.

You wanted to hear his voice more than anything, but war didn’t cater to desire.

Still safe?

It wasn’t much, but it was honest. The response came five minutes later.

Simon:

Still safe. Tired. Thinking about you.
Want to be home. With you. In our bed.

You bit your lip and blinked away the sting in your eyes.

You:

I miss how you hold me like I’m the last warm thing in the world.
Come home, Simon.

Simon:

Trying.
Want to kiss you breathless.
Need to feel you under me. Soon.

Your breath hitched.

You remembered the way his voice sounded right against your ear, gravel and smoke when he let the mask slip — only for you.

——

Three Weeks Before Deployment

You were in the kitchen, standing on your tiptoes to reach a jar on the top shelf, when Simon came up behind you. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other snagged the jar easily before setting it down beside you.

“Too short for your own good,” he murmured into your hair, lips brushing your temple.

You rolled your eyes. “You love that I’m fun-sized.”

“Fun, yeah,” he said, spinning you around and lifting you onto the counter with ease. His hands spread over your thighs, thumbs brushing soft circles against bare skin beneath your shorts. “Size? Perfect.”

His forehead pressed to yours. That quiet moment burned itself into your soul — his gentle hands, the way his lips brushed yours like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Tell me to stay,” he whispered. “I will.”

You shook your head then, cupping his cheek. “You’ll come back to me. You always do.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he breathed. “But I’m yours anyway.”

——

Present

Your fingers ghosted over the screen again, heart thudding.

You:

Remember when we fell asleep on the couch watching that terrible horror movie?
You kept waking me up because I was drooling on your shirt.

Simon:

That’s when I knew.
You, half-asleep, hogging the blanket.
Felt like peace.
Like home.

You pulled his pillow closer to your chest and inhaled. Faint traces of his scent still clung there: cedarwood, gun oil, and warmth.

You typed, slow and honest.

You:

I want you to kiss me like that again.
Like you mean it. Like you need it.
Like you did before you left.

A pause.

Simon:

When I get back, I’m not stopping at kissing.
I’m going to make you forget the time I was gone.
Going to have you under me until you’re shaking.

You shivered, eyes fluttering shut, thighs pressing together at the raw truth of his words.

——

The Reunion

You opened the door before he could knock.

Simon stood there, duffel bag on the ground, hair longer, scruffier than when he left. His eyes — those endlessly haunted eyes — locked onto yours like a man dying of thirst who’d finally found water.

You barely got his name out before his arms were around you, pulling you in, lifting you clean off the ground.

Your lips met fast and desperate, teeth and breath and the softest of whimpers escaping you. You tasted sand and sweat and Simon, and your whole body shook with it.

He kicked the door shut with one foot, walked you backward until your spine hit the wall, and kissed you again like he couldn’t breathe without you.

“I missed you,” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Say it again,” he breathed into your neck.

“I missed you.”

His voice cracked. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Simon. I’ve always been yours.”

He crushed his mouth to yours and picked you up, carrying you to the bedroom. You barely made it to the bed — he didn’t want slow, not yet. Not until he'd burned off the desperation, the need to prove he was still real, still alive, still yours.

Clothes hit the floor in a trail. His hands were rough with calluses, but they moved over you like reverence. He whispered your name like a prayer. Apologies mixed with low moans, every thrust a wordless plea: I'm here. I'm home. I'm yours. Please don’t forget me.

And when you finally gasped his name like it was salvation, when you clawed at his back and pulled him tighter, he let go — not just of control, but of fear. Of the war. Of everything.

——

A little while later, you lay tangled in the sheets, his arm over your waist. His breath warm against your neck. He kissed your shoulder, soft and unhurried.

“Still with me?” he murmured.

You turned to face him. “Always.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Never leaving again unless I have to.”

“You’ll always come back.”

He kissed your temple. “Every time.”

——

Morning After

You woke tangled in each other — your legs wrapped around his waist, your cheek on his chest, your fingers laced over his heart.

He was already awake, watching you.

“You stayed,” you whispered, voice still husky from sleep — and the night before.

“I always will,” he murmured, brushing your hair back.

You kissed the underside of his jaw, smiled against his skin. “You’re warm. Heavy.”

“Don’t move,” he said. “Just stay like this. Let the world wait.”

And you did.

——

Later That Day

The day passed slow. Coffee in bed. Showers that turned into giggles and soft touches. He cooked breakfast shirtless, and you wore one of his old t-shirts with nothing else. He kissed syrup from your mouth and lifted you onto the counter to have another taste.

No war. No uniforms. No mask.

Just Simon. And you.

He didn’t need to say much. His hands said it all — the way he touched you like you were sacred. The way he reached for you even in silence.

And that night, when he laid you down again, it was slow. Worshipful. Not like he’d just come home — but like he finally was home.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜