#i hadn’t worn it in over a year though :((

[housecow]

i’ve put on some weight since then..

(april 2023 —> april 2025, 100lb gain almost exactly)

[wild-jackalope]

First time having sex is awkward!

pairing :: Virgin!Megumi x Virgin!Reader

warning :: college/university AU, awkward sex, safe sex (finally), lingerie stuff, fingering, slight overstim, very soft, would you hate me if I said this wasn’t rly proof read, need this out of my drafts asap

note :: very inspired by @sonotpattismith fic Hold Me And Explore Me, here’s the link!

For the years you’ve been friends with Megumi you’ve never ever known him to discuss a single intimate topic. For the five months you’ve been in a relationship with him, that fact never changed.

Megumi was a prude, basically.

It wasn’t as though you were one to spill secrets about your personal moments either. Occasionally you’d let the odd story slip when drunk (mainly letting loose some poor experiences being felt up during your younger years of dating), but other than that, you kept your mouth shut.

So when Maki asked you a completely out of pocket question, both you and your boyfriend turned to ice.

“Have the two of you even fucked yet?”

No. Of course you haven’t. You hadn’t even come close! Despite the air being thickened by everyone’s collective drunkenness, you felt a small part of you would resent Maki for the rest of your life after putting you in this situation.

Your jaw slacked open and you took in a breath. The truth lilting on the tip of your tongue.

“Don’t ask personal questions like that.” Megumi cut, to everyone’s collective disappointment, they groaned. Somewhat tipsy himself, Megumi still had the clarity to get the others off your scent and thankfully his harsh words had sent them on another chatting spree devoid of your sex life.

Maki, keen gaze still locked on both you and Megumi, muttered a swift. “Guess you haven’t put that set to use, huh.” Before taking a sip of her vodka mix.

You flushed immediately, embarrassment mixing with the warm alcohol in your bloodstream, coating your cheeks a deep plum colour. Mortification filling your wide eyes, you glanced at Megumi who held an unbothered expression, one of boredom and calm.

But for a split second, his dark blues swiped over you and you caught the slightest hint of curiosity in his narrow gaze. What set?

You snapped your head forward, neck aching from the whiplash.

The ‘set’ Maki was referring to, was bought during a shopping trip Nobara invited both of you to. She needed a refill on her skincare items, Maki needed a new set of sports bras and you needed an excuse to leave your dorm room.

Maki’s chosen store was the closest, so the three of you headed there first. Inside, your eyes caught on the walls covered with expensive underwear made of lace and silk hanging on thin mannequins.

“I should get a new bra, too, my favourites are getting worn out.” Nobara mumbled, looking at the odd racks assembled by colour and size.

A particularly captivating bodysuit grabbed your attention; a smooth ivory piece decorated with straps and shining gemstones, having tuffs of silk peak out of the sides like a skirt and wings. The shiny fabric called to rest comfortably against your skin. It was the most expensive, being shown off at the front of the store to lure young women who wanted to wrap their pretty bodies and show off to their boyfriends. Just like you.

“That one’s too cutesy.” Nobara uttered, following your tranced gaze. “Lingerie is a scam anyway, truth is men don’t even care. They just take it off.”

That was right, Nobara had had sex. Unlike you.

“Would you… help me pick something nice out?” You asked, a gentle and shy invitation.

Despite her previous slander of lingerie, her cheeks glowed in excitement. “Sure. For you and Fushiguro, right?”

“I guess so.” You kindly but nervously replied. Nobara lead you deeper into the store, coming to a back wall with more designs, all notably darker with plenty more lace.

She gazed over the options. “What do you usually like to wear?” She asked.

“I don’t know— nothing?” You responded, awkward hand lifting to fiddle with a purple bralet.

Nobara side eyed you, giving a suspicious look before she asked— much too casually. “First time?”

“Yes.” You nodded, the fabric of the bralet suddenly becoming very interesting!

“First time with Fushiguro, or?” Her trail lilted delicately, hopefully displaying herself as a safe person to spill your secrets to.

“First, first time.” You uttered quietly.

In a quick swish, Nobara grabbed your shoulders and pulled you to her. “Seriously?” She asked.

“Yes, seriously. Is it hard to believe?” You frowned, too mortified for her questioning.

She nodded. “Yes! You’re a total catch.”

“Well, it’s not like I’ve never done anything.” You added, hands defensively rising to your chest. “I’ve been in relationships before, I’ve—” you lowered your voice. “I’ve fooled around.”

“Oh I bet you have.” She added, grin replacing her surprised gape.

“Stop it, you’re so embarrassing.” You pushed against her shoulder, freeing yourself from her death grip.

“Okay, first set, first set.” Mind now back to the mission, she returned to the racks of bras and thongs. “You should have something simple, but sexy. Black, too.”

“Why black?” Plenty of other colours filled the store.

“Fushiguro likes dark things, so he’ll like black on you.” The sensible explanation left her with a shrug.

Would that really be the case? Would Megumi look at your body being cupped by expensive black fabric and yearn for you? You could hardly imagine it. Megumi was never eager for anything, he was the type of guy to react to things with tame calmness. Would he blush? Reach to touch you? Kiss you?

Nobara handed you a neat, black matching bra and thong. “Go try this on.” She instructed, offering you an encouraging smile.

Face to face with your lewdly dressed body and flushed expression in the dressing room only made your anxiousness grow. Nobara had picked a beautiful set, a nicely patterned lace bra broken up by thick black straps pushed up your boobs, coined by a gemstone hanging off the middle. Small ripples of black sheer peaked from the supportive boning, similarly decorating the thin black straps curving around your hips holding up the lacy thong which too, had a gemstone hanging off the centre.

Fuck, Nobara had good taste.

But despite the fact you bought the matching underwear a month ago, nothing came of it. You’d worn it every single time you saw Megumi; a casual date at the park, an afternoon out at the movies, a night in lounging around. Just in case, you had thought, just in case something happens.

And because you wore them everytime you saw Megumi, they clung to your body now, at the very party Maki judged you for not having shown them off yet.

You sipped at your bitter alcohol mix, avoiding both the stares of your boyfriend and your friend. Nobara’s chanting became a welcome distraction, telling Yuji to ‘drink drink drink!’ Down his can of rum. Everyone cheered at his final gulp, including you.

Megumi, however, remained silent.

When the night came to a tired end (at about two in the morning), Megumi and yourself walked to your dorm in a sobering stumbled.

Arms around his neck, you brought Megumi into the plush bed with you, planting messy kisses along his hairline and laughing about the mischief of the night. “Itadori is going to be so hungover.” You muttered.

“Hm.” He thoughtlessly replied, craning his head so your lips made contact with his instead. He leaned over you, slowly letting his body sink into yours and sandwiching you between the bed and him.

In these moments of privacy you felt closest to Megumi. He’d unabashedly pull you in, kiss you and hold you tight.

You hummed against his lips, bringing your hands up to rake your nails through his hair, a trick you knew would immediately cause him to go soft against you, and he did, waist falling between your legs and hands twitching against your sides. He groaned softly and you wished you could record the sound and add it to a private playlist.

Chasing the mild heat in your abdomen, you furthered the kisses shared, moving into making out instead of peppery pecks. He followed you, daring to nip at your bottom lip (a habit he’d picked up from the one time you did it to him).

Your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling his warmth in closer. That shift was what made both your clothed sexes connect. Jolted by the feeling, Megumi slipped from your lips to your ear, whispering a breathy command.

“Show me your set.”

He wasn’t even quite sure what he was asking, but he had an idea, a lewd idea. He knew he needed to know what Maki was talking about, what she knew about his girlfriend that he didn’t.

You gulped, an audible squeak catching in your throat. “You really want to see?” You asked.

He nodded silently, watching your every move as you hesitantly lifted your shirt up and over your head. His narrow eyes grew wide at the sight of your tits cupped by the stunning black garment. You hid in the pillow behind you, digging half your face into the plush at his bewildered expression.

Megumi’s hand had already began moving without him thinking. In what seemed like slow motion, his large palm came to fit around your boob. His thumb rubbed over the soft lace and because of its thin fabric, you gasped as it tickled your sensitive middle.

The noise sobered Megumi from his drunk, tranced state and he pulled his hand away like it had acted on its own free will. He sat up, eyes concentrated on your flushed, messy figure. Fuck, he was so in love with you it hurt.

“I should go.” He uttered softly, pressing a curt kiss to your head.

“What? But—” You babbled something, voice cracking.

“This isn’t a good time, it’s late, you’re drunk.” He reassured your rejection with another kiss.

“You won’t stay?” You asked, leaving you as more of a plea.

“Not tonight.” He finished. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You were then left empty and cold, and despite wrapping yourself in layers of blankets, you felt as naked as ever. The question what was wrong with you? Pulling you into a drunkenly tear filled sleep.

The next morning, the barking of your third alarm pulled you from your slumber. You smacked at the screen of your phone, lifting your now throbbing head from the sweet embrace of your pillow.

Almost immediately Megumi’s rejection of you last night reminded you why your eyes were so crusty with dried tears. However, you didn’t have much time to linger on it, already being late for your morning lecture.

Lunch was when you saw Megumi next. You were reading over your papers in the yard with a furrowed brow, your phone to your ear.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” You asked.

“I mean I don’t know! You’ve know Fushiguro pretty much the same amount of time I have, why don’t you know if he’s had sex?” Nobara snapped back, voice slightly fuzzy through your phone. “Oh, let’s not forget the fact you’re also his girlfriend!”

“I know, I just— ugh. Why is this so complicated?” You huffed.

“It really isn’t, girl. You’re just making it complicated.” She added back, unfiltered judgment in her tone.

“I know, I know.” You were weak before her unwavering moral superiority.

“Talk to him. Neither of you did anything wrong, he was probably still drunk and didn’t want to show you he had whisky dick or maybe he is a virgin and was just too nervous to fuck you.” You wondered for a brief moment who Nobara was around that could hear her talk about your (lack of) sex life.

“I doubt it.” You murmured. Finally your eyes caught the tall shadow that was Megumi and you fiddle to catch your phone as it dropped from your hand. “I gotta go, he’s here. Bye!”

One hand deep in his pocket and the other carrying a bag bloated with book, Megumi walked to you, standing tall over your sitting self.

“Nobara?” He asked, head jutting towards your phone.

“Yup, she uh— just won’t stop calling me.” You breathily laughed, stupidly covering the fact you had been the one calling her nonstop.

His careful eyes surveyed you, immediately grabbing something was amiss. “Hungover?”

Lord knew you weren’t going to bring up last night if he didn’t. You’d rather let it die in the past. “I was this morning, but I’m alright now.” You offered a kind, but forced smile. “You okay?” You returned, gazing up at him.

With the baggy top you’d hurriedly put on this morning, Megumi could see past the collar, eyes catching the familiar black bra. You were so rushed this morning, you didn’t have time to change it. His heart squeezed painfully, hand twitching as it recalled the feeling of the fabric. The same hand that fucked his dick until he came thinking of you once he was alone. Fuck, he was pathetic. “I’m fine.” He gritted. Even through the drunk haze of the prior night, that memory of you below him was as clear as day in his mind.

“You’ve got baseball this afternoon, right? Do you want to come over afterwards?” You asked.

“I can, why?” So you could show him more of your gorgeous body?

“Just to hangout, n’ chat.” You added, as casually as possible. Technically you weren’t lying.

“I’ll come.” He assured. His hands lifted to touch you, but Megumi decided better, shoving it back into his pocket. “Will I see you at practice?”

“I’ll be there.” You smiled.

You’d watched Megumi play baseball since he was young, having been one of his biggest supporters (besides Gojo, of course) since you two became friends. You’d love to watch him play, sitting on a nearby bench with a book to read or your computer to finish an assignment.

Megumi had never admitted it out loud, but before each swing of his bat, he’d gaze out into the empty audience chairs to catch a glimpse of you. You were always there, always looking at him.

It never failed to make his heart swell, even after the two of you began dating, seeing you sit there just for him was the kind of loyalty that made Megumi obsessed with you.

Today, though, it seemed Megumi had more on his mind than he usually did. It was so obvious in the way he played. He was distracted.

On the walk back to your dorm, you could tell he was clearly unimpressed by himself.

Once inside, you excused yourself to the bathroom just to freshen up.

Reflecting from your mirror like a ghost haunting you, hung your cleanly washed thong. Now dry and ready to be worn. Maybe, just maybe, finally ready to be seen. The old habit still clawed you, just in case, you thought, just in case something happens.

You slipped out of the bathroom, a sudden nervousness taking you. “Hey, can we talk?” You asked, finding a seat next to Megumi on your bed.

His furrowed expression disappeared the moment he heard your tone and his eyes lifted to you expectantly. You inhaled.

“I’ve got to tell you something.” You stated, voice wavering despite your desire to sound sure.

“Yeah?”

“I’m a virgin.” You finally uttered.

“Oh, okay.” You could hear in his voice, the slightest hint of bewilderment. Mostly at the suddenness.

“I’ve never had a dick in me, okay? So I’m nervous.” You let the words out like Megumi had you tied up, forcing a confession out of you. A tight pause filled the air as you let the weight of your secret fill the room.

“Why are you so embarrassed? It’s not like I’ve had sex, either.” Megumi’s narrow eyes squinted at his furrowed brow. His cheeks tinted pink, clearly out of his comfort zone to admit this.

“You haven’t?” You felt free of an imaginary weight that lifted from your chest.

“Yes? You’ve been my only girlfriend, I assumed you would’ve just guessed.”

“So nothing? No hookups or anything?”

“Not my thing.”

Your chest bubbled with a freeing excitement. You’d have to thank Nobara later and let her know she’s the goddess of advice. “Thank God, I was so worried.” You exhaled.

“Worried?” His hand came to grasp your arm. Had he seriously done something to make you worry?

“When you left last night, I thought I did something wrong or—”

Fuck. Of course. “No, you didn’t.” He squeezed your arm. He was just an idiot, a drunk, horny idiot. “It was the alcohol, I didn’t think it was a good idea. You didn’t do anything. You were perfect.” His eyes avoided you, cheeks growing darker.

Was he embarrassed? You kissed his jaw, eagerly planting a peck free of doubt.

The kiss seemed to break him from his mumbling as he adjusted your aim, pulling your chin up and kissing your lips. He kissed you again, and you could feel it in his affection too, an excitement to explore you, be the first to learn your body.

To reach his lips better, you moved to straddle Megumi, planting yourself on his lap and letting yourself be enveloped by his affection.

He pulled you down with him as his back fell into the mattress and as you rocked on his lap, you felt the line of his dick through his pants.

Then reality hit you. You two were going to do it. You sat up, blinking at the boy beneath you.

“…Hey.” You peeped, a stupid joking tone wrapping your words.

“Hey.” Megumi replied, his own words threaded with dull awkwardness.

“Do you.. come here often?” You continued, hands fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

He exhaled sharply, amused. “I do.”

“Same.” You nodded slowly. Another flustered moment of silence passed over you.

Megumi’s mind seemed clouded and unbothered by the pause, eyes becoming focused on your shirt. You could guess what he was thinking about.

“I’m wearing it again.” You muttered. His eyes flickered to you, holding an intense gaze you’d only seen him have in serious situations of concentration. “Do you want to see?”

His jaw clenched, and he nodded once. “Yes.”

You offered your shirt to him, prompting him to be the one to take it off you. His thick hands took the fabric, slowly pulling it up and over your head. His eyes caught on the black set again. Now, his gaze weakened, still tense but clouded by a soft desire.

Finally letting in to what he really wanted to do to you the previous night, Megumi sat up, cradling your abdomen to keep you stilled on top of him as he pressed a kiss to the skin that spilled out of your bra. He lightly sucked, no doubt hoping to leave a red mark.

“Megumi.” You softly murmured. The sound pricked his ears like a melody. He continued, more driven kissing and sucking up until he reached your collar bone and cheek.

Face just below your own, Megumi gazed up at you with his usually bored eyes, but currently they were anything but, holding a softness for you that could only be explained away by love. Riddle in the blue of his irises held the deep specks of lust. You wanted more, wanted to see his eyes flutter from pleasure.

Megumi’s thoughts similarly danced along the same trail as your own but despite his somewhat tame expression they were nasty compared to your own. Mostly, they lingered south. His fingers hooked the sides of your pants.

“I want to see the bottom pair.” He murmured, fierce eyes pinning you to his command.

“O-Okay.” You shyly huffed, moving back so Megumi could undress you with more ease. His eyes lingered on your own as he slid off your bottoms, like a boy closing his eyes as he opened his birthday gift so he could be more surprised by the reveal of it fully unwrapped in front of him. As much as you wanted to shy from his gaze, you couldn’t.

Finally your pants were off, tossed off the bed with your shirt. You watched his gaze flicker to your thong, and you shivered at the exposure. He leaned in, hands resting on your knees in an attempt to let you know he wanted them open, you didn’t comply, far too embarrassed. “Pretty.” He muttered. The swarm of butterflies in your stomach fluttered uncontrollably.

One of his hands snaked down your thigh, coming to grasp the gemstone hanging from the front strap. He twisted it between his thumb and index finger, and you badly wished it he’d play with your clit like that.

Then, his hand dragged over the lace fabric, so dangerously close to your bundle of nerves that your legs creaked opened on pure instinct. Megumi huffed at your bodies desire to be touched, taking the moment of weakness to slip himself between your legs.

Lower now, his fingers dared to slide over your clit. You gasped and his hand stunted.

“Feel okay?” He breathed, lust kissed eyes glowering at you. Don’t make him stop, not yet. Not when he was finally able to feel you.

“Feels good.” You murmured. Megumi’s jaw slacked and he panted a suppressed grunt at your pathetic words. Almost immediately he continued the motion, familiarising himself with what spots of your cunt would made you hiccup and your tummy twitch. “M-Megumi.” You whined with no real purpose behind your plea.

Hot, it was becoming too hot. He left your pussy for a second, pulling off his shirt and tossing it like he had your pants. Your cheeks blazed at his thin but muscled body. You’d only ever caught sight of his abs on a windy day, never had you seen his bare chest before. His skin was so smooth and light, your fingers begged to memories each curve and bump.

He closed the space between you, coming to press messy pecks on your lips whilst his hand returned to your cunt. Your hands rested against his thudding chest, letting yourself fall into the bedding.

“I can feel your heart beat.” You huffed, somewhat excited by the rapid pace. “Nervous?” You asked, a teasing prod.

“Eager.” He corrected, collecting your lips in another kiss.

His ring and index calmly slid up and down, the tips of his fingers daring over the patch of wet forming around your sex. You wanted to do the same, wanted so desperately to feel more of his body, but your nails stilled, dug into his chest waiting for some kind of permission you couldn’t even ask for.

And Megumi, the utter mind reader, took your wrist with his free hand and led you on a trail down his abdomen. He must’ve felt your hesitancy and made the move for you, that, or he was desperate to feel your hands wander over his body.

And your featherlight fingers curved over the dips of his abs. In reaction to your sweet touch, you felt his rubbing become messy and he pressed hard against your clit. You gasped into his mouth, nails scraping against his tight stomach and his jaw clenched tight, swallowing a grunt.

“More, Megs, please.” You blurted, hole dripping and utterly prepped for whatever Megumi wanted to stuff inside you.

He remained somewhat levelheaded, thinking that if he fucked you now, he’d cum too quick and this would be all over. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you unsatisfied. So despite his aching cock, his fingers dipped under your thong and circled your weeping cunt. He was going to savour every single second.

Slowly, he pushed past the rings of your wet chasm. And fuck. His fingers and dick must’ve been connected, because he could’ve sworn he felt the ghost of your inside around him just like they were around his fingers.

His cock twitched, leaking a fat blob of precum. “Shit.” The way your pussy jumped at his curse didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“Oh God— Megumi, hng.” Your legs weakened, turning to jelly at the feeling of his warm fingers pressing against your tight, sensitive walls. Megumi’s two digits were thicker and rugged from gripping a bat all his life, the perfect size and texture against your trembling insides and otherworldly compared to your own.

“Good?” He asked.

“Yea— mhm.” Your eyes fluttered shut, hands hesitating over Megumi’s torso until they gripped his tensed arms.

His mouth hung open, too distracted by massaging your insides to dedicate his lips to you. Hot pants filled your mouth as you desperately kissed him, each breath of his slowly filling with grunts to the symphony of your whines. Each moan from you battered his dick, making it pulse painfully for you.

His fingers chased your twitching hips, pushing in deeper each time you squirmed from the sensation. Until the tips of his fingers slid against the spongey sweet spot inside of you that was hidden in the curve of your chasm.

“Right there!” You squealed, the hight of your voice surprising both of you. “Curl your fingers— Mh! just like that.”

He did so, pushing his digits against the sweet spot, lightly pressing and smoothing over the area. You trembled beneath him, clinging to his body like he was your life support.

Megumi loved every second of it, watching your body contort from just his fingers. He just wanted to watch you like this, utterly drunk on pleasure, for forever.

He wanted to make cum so badly it was driving him mad.

“Ohh, please don’t stop.” How could he? Your pussy had just begun clenching around him so gorgeously, tightening like the building orgasm inside you.

Megumi had only realised you’d cum after you yelped his name and your walls sucked on his fingers, trying to milk them of cum. He wanted so badly to feel the sensation around his cock.

“Hng— thank you, thank you.” You babbled embarrassingly, kissing along Megumi’s throat.

He couldn’t stand it anymore, the lack of you around his dick, uncomfortably he palmed his boxers, trying to adjusted his blood filled cock.

The trance of afterglow seemed to subside as you gazed over Megumi’s frustration. Although you were undone, you still craved more of him inside your fuzzy chasm. “More?” You asked, an invitation.

Megumi nodded, thanking the heavens you weren’t done with him. His hand dug into the wallet in his pant pocket, digging out a condom. He pulled it out, half pruned fingers covered in your slick attempting to tear it open.

It was like you’d been slapped in the face with the curt realisation that he had prepared for this. Just as you went to buy lingerie, Megumi had gone and bought condoms. He must’ve thought it could’ve happened at any moment to keep one in his wallet.

He brought the wrapper to his teeth, being frustrated with his inability to open it and tore it open with his clenched teeth. You sucked in a breath at his flimsy eagerness.

The bashfulness that came with revealing himself seemed to skip Megumi’s mind, as he pulled down his baggy pants to let his leaking cock free of the fabric.

Your eyes shot up to the ceiling, needing to look elsewhere as you heard him slide on the plastic birth control. From the glimpse you did catch you could tell he was thin and long. Your attention dived back down once you left a gentle hand rest on your hip, his thumb rubbing over the bone.

His eyes, once you met them, held a simple question; are you ready?

You nodded, closing your eyelids and bracing for his length. However the feeling never came, only his lips as they trailed from your tummy, over your bra and up to your lips.

Your hands cradled his head, nails dragging across his scalp and he grunted. This felt familiar, the feeling of his body softening against yours as you pressed simple kisses onto one another’s lips. Through the intimacy, you felt Megumi readjust, pulling your underwear to the side and lining his tip against your sopping sex.

Closer now, you hugged him through the stress. He slowly sunk into you, the plastic of the condom feeling cool against your hot insides. “Fuck.” He hissed, nipping at your bottom lip.

You sobbed, letting the sensation of being filled by your boyfriend feed your mouth with curses.

He entered slowly, just as much for you as it was for him. His face, flushed red and eyes fluttering in pleasure. You not far from the same, mouth agape with lewd noises spewing out.

He bottomed out when your hips met, taking a brief minute to calm your collective gasps. You gazed down, drowsily taking in the enrapturing sight of you two being connected. Megumi moaned weakly at your smitten stare, feeling himself fall apart from inside you.

“S’okay?” He asked.

“Y-Yes, you can move.” You permitted desperately.

He drawled his hips out carefully, rolling inwards again. Your insides still buzzed from his fingers, raw and sensitive to his filling cock. He could feel you spasm around him, forcing friction when he desperately needed you to be still so he didn’t cum prematurely.

Another breathless curse left him as his length dived back into you. “Oh fuck— I love you.” You gaped at the words, wondering suddenly was that the first time he’s ever said that?

He rolled his hips again, breaking up your quick declaration. “Love— mh— you.”

He cradled you, pulling your body in with his unlikely strength as he fucked you gently. You’d never felt so close to another person before, having him so deep within you, filling your body with pleasure.

Megumi had lost most of his composure, becoming a vocal mess as he humped into your heavenly insides.

“So tight.” He uttered into your skin. “S’perfect.” He kissed your skin, sucking hard hickies into your chest and neck.

“Mnh— love you, hng.” You repeated, too cock drunk to babble anything else.

Messier now, his hip rolls became somewhat frantic, chasing the building mountain of his orgasm. “S-Shit— I’m gonna cum.” The statement rolled off his tongue in a pathetic whine, another crack from his usual composure.

“Don’t s-stop! Please, Gumi ahh.” You were already being worked to your second orgasm, you couldn’t bare to be emptied of him before you reached your high. Your legs wrapped around him, keeping Megumi in.

“Ngh— fffuck.” He plowed harder now, his cock tip perfectly fucking against your sweet spot. Suddenly his tame thrusts became a stuttering mess as he muffled your name into your shoulder.

You could feel him orgasm, feel his cock jerk, feel his cum bloat the tip of the condom inside you.

Noticing him slow, you rolled your hips, desperately fucking yourself onto his mid-orgasm dick.

His hands smack at your sides, attempting you to pull you off his overstimulated dick.

“Almost almost almost—” You pleaded.

With what he had left in him, Megumi took your hips and helped you grind yourself on his cock. He bit your shoulder, muffling the pained moans leaving him.

“Fuck!” You squeaked, his dick slid over your g-spot again, finally bringing you to your spine tingling orgasm. Your insides spasmed around Megumi’s dick, and he whined at the feeling, growing painfully hard again.

Your body went limp, as did the tight hold you had on Megumi. Both your bodies sat panting, utterly fucked out and glistening with sweat.

Raising from you, Megumi looked over your flushed, messy state, his cock still warm fitted inside you. He savoured the sight, thinking that if he could take a photo of this, he’d keep it in his wallet.

“We should shower.” He murmured, painting kisses along your shoulder.

“Mhm, okay.” You nodded.

Fuzzy insides retracting as Megumi slipped from you, you sighed longingly, whilst he grunted, disappointed he couldn’t live inside you.

You groggily sat up, kissing him before attempting to move off the bed but Megumi kept you back, hooking a finger around the strap of your bra.

“How much was the set?” He asked.

“Uhm, not much, Nobara helped me pay for it so—”

“I’ll buy you another one.”

The heat that had just left your cheeks suddenly returned.

[urmum-lovesme]

Bunny (P13)

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

summary: Struggling to keep her and JJ’s home afloat, Y/N turns to the only option that guarantees fast cash- stripping at a club on the Cut. But when Rafe Cameron catches her in the act, he sees the perfect opportunity to tighten his grip around her life.

a/n: Sorry for the cliff hanger guys- but here's the next bit and besides its not like I would leave it on a cliff hanger again- or would I..... ? heh

warnings: angst angst angst, violent behaviour, emotional distress, mentions of past trauma, alcohol, sad!rafe and sad!bunny, luke (he deserves a warning)

(P1) (P2) (P3) (P4) (P5) (P6) (P7) (P8) (P9) (P10) (P11) (P12) (P13)

The house was quiet and peaceful in a way that felt rare lately. Steam still curled faintly from the cracked bathroom door as Y/N padded barefoot through the hallway, the cotton hem of her oversized t-shirt brushing the tops of her thighs. It clung slightly to the damp warmth of her skin, fresh from the shower, the scent of vanilla soap still lingering on her. The shirt, one of her oldest and most worn-in, read 'There’s no place like the OBX!' in faded, peeling letters. The image of a cartoon sunset beneath the text was barely visible now, rubbed off from years of wear, but it was still her comfort shirt.

The evening had been calm. A rare exhale. She knew it was the right choice, not going to the party, instead choosing to stay at home. No JJ, no Rafe, no tension. Just her alone in the stillness of the house. She yawned softly as she made her way into the kitchen, the tiles cool under her feet. Her hand reached for the cabinet, grabbing a glass, then filled it halfway from the tap, the sound of water the only thing cutting through the silence.

Buzz. Buzz.

Her phone, face-down on the counter buzzed again. She frowned a little, setting the glass down with a small clink and reaching for it. When she turned it over, the lock screen was full, message after message.

Rafe

Rafe : Y/N m s sorry

Rafe : It was a mistake I didn mean iit

Rafe : Im sosorry forgive me

Rafe : Please it was ana ccident

Rafe : drunk an angry it just slipedout

She just stood there, blinking, bare feet rooted to the floor. What? Her thumb hovered over the screen as she scrolled back through the weird messages littering her screen, heart creeping higher into her throat. He hadn’t replied to her at all yesterday left her on read after she asked him the question which had been hanging over both of them for a while now. He'd ignored every message she sent and now this? What the hell was he talking about, it made no sense. Her brows knit as she stared at the screen, glass forgotten on the counter as she held the phone in two hands her thumbs typing out; What are you talk-

BANG

The sound of the front door slamming open ricocheted through the house like a shotgun blast. The walls trembled and the floor vibrated slightly beneath her bare feet. Her whole body jolted—glass on the counter rattling dangerously. Her blood ran cold. She'd not seen her dad in a few days and the possibility of his presence was in her mind, whispered in fear, a lifetime of instinct kicking in. But before panic could really settle, the door slammed shut again, the echo bouncing off every wall like a threat. She turned sharply, heart hammering in her chest and then there he was-

JJ?

Standing in the doorway, chest heaving, shoulders tense and strung tight like he could burst. His face was a mess- nose bloodied, dried and smeared to one side, his lip split, a red flush blooming across his cheek. His blond hair was sticking up in every direction under his crooked cap, disheveled like he’d just been through a war. His clothes hung raggedly on his body almost as though his t-shirt had been stretched out, and he was breathing heavy like he ran the whole way here. His eyes locked onto hers furious, hurt.

Betrayed

He stood there, breath ragged in his chest, eyes locked on her like he didn’t recognise the girl in front of him. Y/N stared back at him, frozen for a moment in the quiet hum of the kitchen. Her phone, still glowing with Rafe’s frantic texts, slipped from her fingers and landed back onto the counter with a soft thud. The sound felt loud in the silence. This was JJ, her kid brother who used to cry when he scraped his knees and she'd bandage them up pressing soft kisses over the bandaids. The boy she taught how to sneak out of the house quietly, her best friend since they were in diapers. Now he looked like someone she didn’t know- bloodied, breathless, and storm-eyed. She took a step around the kitchen island, slow and cautious, like she was approaching a wounded animal. She asked gently, her voice threading with worry, hand outstretched, ready to go to him,

“Are you okay- ”

“-were you pregnant?”

But JJ’s voice sliced through the air before she could take another step and she stopped dead in her tracks. Silence crashed between them. Her hand, still halfway out, dropped to her side like a weight and her stomach churned at the words passing his lips.

“What?”

Her voice was almost inaudible. Caught between panic and confusion, her breath hitched. JJ’s face twisted, all disbelief and frustration, and he took a harsh step forward, his voice louder now.

"Did you fucking get pregnant?"

Y/N blinked, wide-eyed, her lips parting like the words might come—but nothing did. Her body language screamed shock, but inside she was cracking open. Splitting down the middle. Her heart was racing now, mouth suddenly dry. “N-no,” she stammered, voice too quick and certainly too fragile.

“What-? No!”

But JJ wasn’t buying it. He whipped his cap off his head as he raked a hand through his hair, exhaling hard as he turned in a quick, agitated circle, the movement jerky with disbelief. His fingers clenched in his hair before he let them drop and he barked out—

“Don’t LIE to me!”

The words exploded out of JJ like a gunshot, and with it, his hand came down hard crack against the edge of the kitchen table. The slap of skin on wood echoed through the house like a warning sound. Y/N jumped, her breath catching violently in her chest. Her whole body flinched, jerking backward instinctively. Eyes wide, pupils blown and her shoulders curled in slightly, like she'd just taken a hit without being touched. Her heart was pounding so loud in her ears it almost drowned everything else out. She felt cold suddenly, like the warmth of her post-shower calm had been ripped from her body in an instant. The oversized shirt clung to her damp skin, sticking uncomfortably as her breathing turned sharp and uneven “Pregnant?” she echoed, voice airy and brittle. It sounded wrong in the space between them. Like the word didn’t belong to her. Like she was trying to believe she didn’t understand- trying to sell a lie even she couldn’t swallow.

“Who told you this?”

And JJ- he looked like he could rip the whole room apart with his bare hands. She already knew the answer he was going to give her. But she needed to hear it. Needed to pray and cling onto the hope for some other name, any name not—

“Rafe Cameron”

JJ said, voice full of venom. His jaw was clenched so tight it trembled, eyes burning into hers. And then she froze, like a statue carved from ice. Her chest stilled and her hands hung at her sides. There wasn’t a flicker of movement. Rafe? She couldn’t even blink, couldn’t breathe at the sound his name.

He promised

Her fingers curled slightly in toward her palms and she felt like someone had just reached into her chest and squeezed.JJ saw it happen- the way her entire body stiffened, how her lips parted but no sound came. The way her eyes went glassy for just a second.He saw it all and it broke something within him. His voice cracked, a bitter sound ripping from his throat, full of raw betrayal and heartbreak as he whispered,

“Oh my fucking god-”

“-no! No I didn’t get pregnant”

Y/N gasped out, voice cracking like thin glass. She shook her head rapidly, hands lifting uselessly in the air like she could physically push the truth away. But her voice was too high, too shaky. Her eyes were darting everywhere but his, and JJ saw right through her.

“I didn’t—JJ. I-"

“-why are you LYING to me!”

He shouted cutting her off, his voice thundering off the walls as his hands flew into the air in exasperation, then slammed back down at his sides. His eyes were wild, glassy with a cocktail of rage and betrayal.

“Why the are you lying to me?!”

“Jay, please just—”

She rushed, taking a few tentative steps toward him, palms out like she could soothe him with touch alone. Her voice wavered, desperate and pleading. But JJ backed up- away from her. “You didn’t even tell me,” he said bitterly, as if the words physically hurt to say. He let out a strangled scoff, pacing now, stumbling back a step.

“And I’m your brother. I’m your fucking brother Y/N.”

Her eyes welled. Her lips trembled because it was happening. Exactly what she’d feared- her worst nightmare made real in their own kitchen, beneath the harsh light, peeling tiles and abandoned glass of water. “Please,” she whispered again, voice breaking down completely now.

“JJ please—”

But he was already unraveling- crashing out. He paced along the kitchen, dragging a hand down his face, his cap was long abandoned on the kitchen island as he dug his fingers into his hair and tugging like he needed to physically hold himself together. His mouth was hidden behind his hand now, muffling a harsh, trembling breath. He was doing everything he could not to lose it. But then, his hand lashed out and swept everything off the corner of the kitchen island. Bills, letters, receipts, all of it went crashing to the floor in a loud flurry of paper and crumpled envelopes.

“You went to Rafe?”

He yelled, voice splintered and feral as he rounded on her again, pointing now— accusingly. His entire face contorted with disbelief, “You went to Rafe Cameron for help?! The same piece of shit who’s tormented us for years- who’s ruined our lives- what the fuck is wrong with you?!”

His finger stabbed the air in her direction, jaw clenched so tight his teeth could’ve cracked. His breathing was loud, heavy. He looked like he was barely staying inside his own skin and Y/N snapped suddenly,

“Don’t raise your voice at me”

She bit out, her voice cutting sharp and fast, almost instinctive. Her chest was heaving now, flushed with fury and panic. Her hands were curled into fists at her sides as her eyes locked with his, finally locked with his. “You have no fucking idea what I’ve been going through JJ. None of it,” she seethed, her voice shaking just beneath the surface, laced with pain that was months in the making.

“You don’t know how hard it’s been trying to make a decision I never asked for in the first place!”

And just like that, the kitchen went still. The broken silence crackled in the air between them like electricity after a lightning strike- both of them breathing hard, standing in the wreckage of papers, secrets, and everything they haven't said to each other in the past months. JJ’s voice cracked on the question,

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

It wasn’t loud anymore. It wasn’t angry. It just… broke. Like something inside him had split clean down the middle. His arms, once tensed at his sides, dropped uselessly as his shoulders sagged. Like all the fight had drained out of him in one breath. Y/N stood stiff on the other the island opposite him, the space between them feeling wider than the whole room. Her breath hitched as her eyes dropped to the floor, shoulders curling inward like she was bracing for impact.

“JJ, I don’t know, I just—”

“Do you not trust me?”

He asked, suddenly, voice low but guarded. She looked up fast, her eyes wide, lashes still wet. Her lips parted like she was about to speak but forgot how. Like she’d been caught somewhere between guilt and fear. She said, voice tight, chest rising with a shaky inhale,

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Yes. Yes, it is what this is about—”

“I DO trust you!”

She burst out, loud and raw, like she couldn’t hold it in anymore. Her hands shot out as if reaching for something she couldn’t quite grasp. She was breathing fast now, visibly trembling, like the admission had cost her something. JJ stepped forward a half-step, hands curling into frustrated fists at his sides. His jaw clenched hard, eyes narrowed, flickering with that familiar mix of hurt and fury.

“Well you don’t act like it”

He said, bitter, almost defeated. He threw his hands up like he was done trying to understand. “Jesus…” he breathed, taking two slow steps back. Y/N rubbed her face roughly, wiping away a tear with the heel of her palm, her fingers shaky. Her mouth opened- then shut again, her brows drawing together in a helpless knot. JJ let out a breath so heavy it sounded like it hurt. Then his hand dragged through his hair, gripping the back of his neck like he needed to ground himself. He looked her dead in the eye,

“Was it his?”

The question struck her like a slap. She went completely still. “...What?” she whispered, barely audible. The word trembled in her throat, her head jerking slightly like she couldn’t believe he’d actually said it. JJ’s eyes burned, his mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a sneer.

“Was it his, Y/N? Was it Rafe’s?”

Her mouth opened again, but no sound came out. Her legs carried her one step back, like the sheer weight of the question shoved her there. Her arms folded across her chest without her realising it, protective. Defensive.

“How can you even ask me that—”

“What else do you want me to think, huh?” JJ’s voice climbed again, every word sharper than the last, “You won’t fucking tell me anything! You kept this whole thing a secret from me like I’m just some... some nobody—”

“JJ—”

“Was it his?”

He snapped again, louder, like saying it might finally make the pain in his chest make sense. His chest rose and fell, his breathing heavy and erratic. He looked like he was burning up from the inside.

“Was it his, and that’s why you ran to him, why you told him before you told me?”

“Stop-stop it— how dare you even think that—”

“Well you’re sure as hell not giving me a lot of reasons not to!”

The shout ripped from him like a gut punch. He slammed the heel of his palm down on the counter once more as the last word left his mouth, she flinched hard at the sound, instinctively taking a step back like it could steady her pulse.

BANG

The front door slammed against the wall with a hard thud, rattling the frame in its hinges as Luke stumbled inside, the scent of cheap bourbon clinging to him like a second skin. Both their heads whipped toward the entrance to the house, eyes wide. The air in the kitchen turned thick with silence, frozen with tension as JJ's chest heaved and Y/N didn’t move. He blinked blearily at the two of them from the hallway, swaying just slightly, his jaw working unevenly as he tried to focus.

“What’s all this fuckin’ yelling?”

His voice was slurred, low and accusatory, slicing through the thick silence like a rusted blade. Y/N’s body stiffened immediately. She stood there, frozen for half a second, then straightened up like someone had yanked her upright by a string. “Nothing,” she said quickly, her jaw clenched so tight it ached. JJ didn’t say a word. His arms were rigid at his sides, chest still heaving, that same fury boiling behind his eyes.

“Nothing is going on”

Y/N repeated, sharper this time. She wasn’t even fully looking at Luke anymore- her gaze was fixed on JJ, like her words were meant for him just as much, like she was pleading with him. Her voice dropped slightly, nearly trembling:

“Right, JJ? Nothing’s happening here.”

There was a long pause. JJ looked at her- really looked at her- and her eyes silently begged, he knew exactly what she was saying in her mind. Don’t say it- don’t let him find out. JJ’s nostrils flared, his whole body rigid, but his face hardened into stone. Then, slowly, almost in disbelief, he shook his head. His hand dragged over his mouth once more as he took a step back.

He didn’t say a single word.

He just turned, snatching his cap of the kitchen counter and walked toward the door and left- slamming it shut behind him with a bang that made the windows shudder in their frames. Y/N flinched. Her chest caved as she dropped down into one of the wooden kitchen chairs like all the strength had just drained out of her. Her elbows hit the edge of the table, head falling into her hands, shoulders hunched. Behind her, Luke mumbled something unintelligible and stumbled down the hallway. The second he was gone, the dam broke, silent tears dripped through her fingers, landing in dark, wet splotches on the old wooden table beneath her.

bzzz bzzz bzzz

Her phone vibrated on the counter, loud in the quiet house. She turned around slowly, reaching for it her hand trembling as the screen lit up.

Rafe

She stared at it, heartbeat thudding in her throat. Her chest rose and fell unevenly. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a long moment and then a soft, broken sound left her lips. She placed the phone face down on the table, letting it buzz until the sound faded.

Until the silence was all that was left in the four walls of the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The soft clatter of cutlery was the only sound in the back of the restaurant. Y/N stood at the long metal counter, back hunched slightly as she polished a fork with slow, repetitive movements. Her shoulders were pulled up tight- and the faded name tag on her polo was barely clinging on by its safety pin. The white cloth in her hand dragged in steady circles, silver catching the dim light overhead. By the doorway, Sofia leaned one shoulder against the frame. She didn’t say anything at first- just watched her best friend, lips pressed into a thin, uncertain line. Y/N looked like she hadn’t slept a wink. There were shadows under her eyes and a drained stillness in her face. Sofia quietly stepped into the room, picked up another cloth from the drawer, and reached for a fork. Y/N didn’t look up, didn’t say anything, just kept working, kept silent like she had for the past few days. Sofia offered gently,

“Hey”

“Hey”

Y/N murmured back, voice soft but distant, her eyes locked on the fork in her hand like it was the only thing tethering her. Sofia hesitated, cloth in one hand fork in the other, debating how to say what she needed to. Her fingers tightened slightly on the metal.

“I um heard what happened to JJ”

Y/N’s hand paused, just for a second. Just long enough for the silence to crack a little but then she kept polishing.

“Mmhmm”

It was a quiet hum, the kind that meant I heard you, but please don’t ask me to talk about it. Sofia exhaled slowly. She put her fork down, the soft clink echoing in the small room. “Y/N… I haven't seen you for days,” she said, voice quieter now.

“Please talk to me.”

The cloth slipped from Y/N’s fingers. She gently set the fork down beside it, like even letting go of that was too much. Her hand lifted, trembling as she brushed it across her brow- trying to collect herself, to stay composed.

“I don’t know what to do Sof...”

She said, voice breaking mid-sentence. The words hit the air like a wound. Her eyes welled up instantly, lashes soaked before she could even blink. Sofia was already there, wrapping her arms around her in a heartbeat, tugging her in close. Y/N’s chin dropped to her shoulder, her breath hitching in her chest as she pressed her face against Sofia’s polo shirt.

“It’s okay,” Sofia whispered, “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

But it wasn’t okay.

It wasn’t okay.

Because Y/N felt like she was standing at the centre of a storm, everything torn apart. JJ wouldn’t even look at her. Wouldn’t speak to her. Her baby brother- her heart- had walked out and she hasn't seen him since then. And Rafe? Rafe had broken the one promise he swore to keep. He’d hurt her in a way she didn’t know how to come back from.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Sofia’s arms stayed tight around her for a long moment, like she could shield her from the weight of it all- from the ache, from the choices, from the fear. Then, gently, she pulled back and brushed a tear from Y/N’s cheek with the bottom of her polo which she'd tugged up. She said softly, tugging at her friend’s hand,

“Come here”

Y/N let herself be led, her limbs sluggish and almost reluctant. Sofia guided her to a small wooden stool tucked beneath one of the prep counters in the back room. She sat her down with careful hands, like setting a glass sculpture onto stone. Then she crouched in front of her, folding herself down so they were eye to eye. Her expression was open, gentle, patient. Sofia asked her voice low and kind,

“Can you tell me what’s going on... ?”

Y/N’s teeth sank into her bottom lip. Her eyes dropped to her lap where her hands were clenched into fists on top of her apron. For a moment, the silence between them stretched. Then Y/N gave a slow, exhaled surrender- and she told her.

Everything

She told Sofia about the second job — how she’d been dancing at the strip club for months just to make ends meet. How the money had been good, but the shame had clung to her skin like an old perfume. She told her about Rafe, about the way he’d taunted her, messed with her head, haunted her space like a ghost that never left her alone. And then how that twisted thing between them had shifted after what happened to her in the parking lot. About the parking lot. How she’d gotten pregnant, how she hadn’t meant to involve him but had nowhere else to go. And how, when it counted, Rafe had helped her and it had turned into more. Secret late nights, quiet promises in dark corners, a fragile, forbidden thing which they nurtured in silence. And as a result it had all blown up. JJ had found out, the one person she'd always protected now looked at her like she was someone he didn’t recognise. But even through the storm the rift between her and JJ had brought, all she could think about was Rafe.

Rafe, who said he wouldn’t tell anyone.

Rafe, who would hold her in his car on late nights and whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

Rafe, who promised.

And he broke it.

Sofia didn’t interrupt once. She stayed crouched there, one arm resting on her bent knee, nodding gently as each piece fell from Y/N like shattered glass. Her face remained steady and calm, but her eyes were soft with understanding. With heartbreak for her friend. When the story was done, Y/N swallowed thickly and glanced up at her with wet eyes.

“Please don’t judge me”

She whispered, barely audible. Sofia’s reaction was immediate — a sharp shake of the head. She said, gently but firmly.

“Why would I judge you?”

“I don’t know, I just…” Y/N’s voice cracked. She looked away again, blinking hard. Sofia leaned in a little closer, her brows furrowing with affection.

“Why didn’t you say something, mi corazón?”

“I was just… embarrassed.”

Y/N’s lips wobbled as she gave the smallest shrug and whispered. Without a word, Sofia reached out and laid a steadying hand on Y/N’s knee, grounding her. She spoke her voice laced with quiet conviction.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of”

Y/N’s throat tightened instantly. Her chin dipped, tears slipping down once again. But when Sofia leaned forward and wrapped her into another hug, she folded into it without hesitation- burying her face in her friend’s shoulder, arms clutching around her tightly like she might disappear. “We’ll figure it out, okay?” Sofia whispered against her hair.

“We’ll figure it out together.”

“I love you Sof”

Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut. Her body sagged in relief at the promise — not that anything was fixed, but that she wasn’t alone. Sofia just hugged her tighter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N threw back the swinging door to the main bar with her hip, a full tray of used glasses balanced effortlessly in her hand. The low hum of muffled chatter greeted her like a familiar blanket, warm and a little suffocating. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the bar's lights as she stepped back behind the counter, dumping the tray beside the industrial sink with a heavy exhale. She hadn’t realised how much she needed that talk with Sofia until now. Something about finally saying it out loud- all of it- had loosened the tightness in her chest. The weight of silence had been unbearable, and now, while the ache still lingered, she could breathe again. Just a little. But there wasn’t time to dwell in her thoughts anyways, not tonight.

The bar was packed, voices raised, chairs scraping against floorboards, orders being placed and the occasional whistle. She adjusted the apron which was tied snug around her waist, as a guy asked from the far end of the bar, adding on the name of his tab.

“Two shots of tequila, lime and salt on the side”

“Of course”

She replied without missing a beat, already grabbing the bottle and reaching for shot glasses. Her hands moved fast- pouring, shaking, stirring. She restocked bottles of liquor without thinking, cracked open a fresh case of beer, wiped condensation from the metal counter and replaced a handful of clean napkins. Someone ordered a mojito and she went to work muddling the mint, crushing ice with a practiced rhythm. It was muscle memory by now- she didn’t have to think, which was exactly what she needed.

No room for thoughts, no room for Rafe, or JJ, or anything else eating her alive from the inside out.

The more she moved, the more she disappeared into the chaos. Her skin gleamed under the bar lights, sweat beading along the back of her neck as she reached overhead to tuck fresh tumblers onto the glass shelf. She barely heard the quiet jazz music anymore, just the beat of urgency thudding in her chest.

“Another whiskey sour”

Someone asked and she reached for the shaker, wipe, pour, shake, serve, repeat, but then something made her glance up and her hand stilled on the bottle. Across the bar, nestled deep into the shadows of the corner lounge area, sat Rafe. Not drinking, not talking.

Just watching her.

He was slouched back in a leather chair like he owned that corner of the room, legs spread comfortably, one arm draped over the armrest. The light barely caught his face, but she didn’t need clarity to know the exact look he was wearing- that familiar unreadable expression, cold eyes fixed solely on her like she was something distant he couldn’t quite reach. Her jaw clenched tight.

The nerve

The audacity?

Y/N quickly looked away, her lips thinning as she focused on the drink in her hands, finishing the sour and passing it across the bar without a second glance. She moved faster now, snatching empty glasses off tables as she passed, ducking into the back cooler for a new bottle of gin, keeping her head down. But every time she looked up- every time- he was still there, still watching. Like a storm cloud on the edge of the horizon, just waiting to roll in, god it made her blood boil.

Her shoulders tensed as she scrubbed a sticky ring off the bar top with more force than necessary. She refused to give him the satisfaction of looking back, refused to let him drag her under again, not tonight. Not while she was trying to hold it together with thin threads and old tape. She poured a round of rum and cokes for a rowdy group at table four, barely registering the guy who tried to flirt with her as she served them. All she could feel was the burn of Rafe’s stare pressing into the side of her face like a brand. The bar area was still pulsing around her, dim lights flickering like fireflies in the low haze, glasses clinking, a muffled jazz beat vibrating through the floorboards but Y/N had started to move on autopilot. Hands quick and precise, wiping down the counters, collecting empty tumblers, taking orders and mixing drinks. She’d just handed off a margarita, salted rim, top-shelf tequila, extra lime, 'the usual', to a woman with long red nails and a tipsy grin when something in her peripheral made her pause.

She looked over and there he was.

Standing just to her left now, not lounging anymore, but leaning forward against the bar- both arms resting casually on the glossy wooden top, the sleeves of his shirt pushed back to his elbows. His expression wasn’t smug, wasn’t cocky like usual. There was no lazy smirk or self-satisfied gleam in his eye. He looked tired, and she could see a faint bruise on his cheekbone. His voice was quieter than normal when he spoke — missing that usual confident drawl.

“Can I get a whiskey on ice?”

Y/N didn’t respond. Not with words anyway, she turned, wordless, and reached for the bottle behind her. Her movements were mechanical and efficient. She pulled out a glass, dropped in the ice, and started pouring slow and steady, never once letting herself really look at him. But she couldn't help it and her eyes flickered up once. Just once. He was already watching her. His gaze was steady, fixed on her with a weight that made her skin prickle. Like he was searching for something in her face, something he couldn’t quite reach, something he knew he might not be allowed to see anymore. Still, she didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask why he was here. Didn’t ask what the hell he thought he was doing. Because truthfully? She didn’t know what she wanted to say to him. There was too much in her mind and it was too loud- much too messy.

Her hand moved on instinct, finishing the pour, and he slid the glass across the bar on a coaster her fingers brushing the condensation as she pushed it toward him. Rafe took it, fingers curling around the glass, but he didn’t drink. He just looked at her, lips pressing into a thin line like he was forcing himself not to say something he might regret. Finally, his voice broke the beat of the music again, soft but edged with something uncertain.

“…are you mad at me?”

Y/N didn’t blink, is he fucking dumb? She didn’t lift her eyes as she answered, her voice flat. Cold. Soaked in disappointment that ran deeper than fury.

“Mad doesn’t even cover it.”

And then she turned, already moving toward the next customer, leaving Rafe standing there, his untouched drink in hand. He didn’t leave, not after that first drink, not after her next round of orders rolled in. Rafe stayed perched on a stool by the bar, watching her every move.

All night.

Eventually he returned to the same leather chair tucked into the farthest corner of the lounge, a space covered just enough in shadow that most people wouldn’t notice him if they were looking. But Y/N did. Every time she turned around, every time she restocked the vodka, every time she handed someone a beer, she felt his eyes.

Waiting.

For what?—she wasn’t sure. A chance to speak to her? Forgiveness? Maybe just a single glance from her in his direction. She didn’t give him that- not once. Not even when her arms began to ache from shaking drinks. Not even when her lower back pinched from bending to stock crates under the bar. She kept moving, kept working, pushing through the ache in her chest and the hot buzz behind her eyes because looking at him, acknowledging him, might just undo her right there behind the bar.

He didn’t make it easy, he stayed there, that untouched whiskey glass still in front of him like he didn’t even have the stomach to drink it. His elbows rested on the armrests of the chair, posture not lazy like usual was but tense. Stiff. Even Sofia noticed. The first time she passed by his corner delivering a round of beers, she glanced his way—and didn’t hide the icy look she shot him. Her brows furrowed in sharp judgment, eyes narrowing as she walked by without breaking her stride. The second time, she muttered something under her breath in Spanish that sounded suspiciously like a curse. The third time, Rafe shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable now. He rubbed the back of his neck, avoided looking at her directly. His fingers tapped restlessly against the side of his glass, but he didn’t leave.

Y/N clocked it all from across the room.

How he didn’t even try to defend himself under Sofia’s glare. How he just sat there, letting himself stew in whatever guilt had driven him here in the first place. Despite every ounce of anger boiling in her chest, some part of her- a stupid, bruised part- still wondered why. Why he was there. Why he hadn’t left. Why he did what he did in the first place.

But she didn’t ask, she couldn't.

She just kept pretending she didn’t feel his stare burning a hole through her ribs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N shoved her apron deep into her bag, the fabric still damp from the shift. Her locker door clanged shut harder than necessary, echoing through the quiet staff room. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled the worn bag closed. Sofia leaned against the frame of the doorway, arms crossed, watching her closely.

“You sure you don’t want me to walk you to your car?” her voice soft, gentle, hesitant, "why don't you just come and stay with me for the night? You know my parents really won’t mi—”

“I’m fine”

Y/N cut her off with a half-hearted smile, already slinging her bag over her shoulder,

“Really- I'll be ok”

Sofia didn’t push. She just nodded, a quiet understanding behind her brown eyes, and reached out to give her friend’s arm a warm rub, reassuring and grounding.

“Text me when you get home”

She spoke out with a soft smile, and then turned returning back to serving, leaving Y/N alone with the dim hum of the locker room lights. Y/N let out a breath as the door swung shut behind her, then turned on her heel and started out, walking the familiar halls of the country club in silence. The floors echoed under her shoes, the once-buzzing energy now dulled down to a few scattered patrons still nursing their drinks at the bar. Her path was straight and certain; out the lobby, across the lot, into her car, and then home to her bedroom where she could finally fall apart all over again but that plan cracked the moment she heard his voice,

“I can’t stand not talking to you”

It stopped her mid-step. She turned, eyes narrowing as her gaze landed on him, standing just a few feet away near the archway that separated the main area from the corridor. His posture was rigid, jaw tight, eyes desperately locked on her like the sight of her physically hurt him.

“Cornering me at work Rafe?” Her voice was sharp, cutting.

“Seriously?”

“Please,” he said quickly, “it was a mistake”

Her laugh was dry and humourless as she took a step back, putting more space between them as she spoke out to him,

“Well I don’t want to fucking see you. Okay?”

She turned sharply on her heel, her shoes hitting against the polished floor as she headed for the door to get as far away as she possibly could from him. He took a step after her calling out her name,

“Y/N—”

“I said I’m done”

She snapped without looking back as her hand moved forward to press against the cool glass of the door but that’s when his hand caught her wrist. Not hard- not even rough. Just a desperate, instinctual reach to stop her from walking away from him but it didn’t matter.

She flinched- visibly.

Her body jolted back, her breath catching in her throat like someone had shoved her against a wall, and she harshly snatched her hand away from him. His hand was off her in an instant, eyes wide with horror.

“Shit- I'm sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

His voice was genuinely shaken, like he'd just realised something too late... it didn't take a genius for him to figure out why she'd reacted that way. They stood there, the air heavy and still. Her chest rising and falling in quiet breaths. Him, frozen in place like if he moved too fast he’d shatter the last piece of her that was still standing in front of him. Y/N finally looked up at him, her voice cracked,

“I trusted you.”

Rafe’s lips parted like he wanted to speak, but the words never came. Just the ache of guilt, swelling like a lump in his throat preventing him from speaking out to her. “Out of everyone on this island,” she said, each syllable slow, deliberate, trembling,

“I trusted you.”

And God, that look in her eyes when she looked away- betrayal, hurt- it gutted him. Because no one had ever trusted him like that before- and he’d thrown it away in a moment of reckless anger which was worthless to him now. She didn’t need to see the look on his face to know it would upset her, but when she looked up to him again it almost stopped her in her tracks. Rafe was still standing there, just a few steps behind where she left him, eyes damp with unshed tears, his lower lip trembling like he was fighting it- like he was barely holding himself together. For a moment, she felt like she couldn’t breathe- but she didn’t have the space to carry his pain on top of hers. So she shook her head, a tiny, bitter movement- more to herself than to him- and turned away. She didn’t wait to see if he’d call out again, she didn’t want to hear anything else come out of his mouth. Y/N pushed through the exit doors into the still, quiet night.

The staff parking lot was nearly empty now. Sofia’s little beat-up car was a few spots over from her own, the manager’s black SUV on the far side but that was it. Empty asphalt, dim overhead lights, and the sound of her own footsteps echoing with every step toward her car. She half-expected him to follow, but he didn’t. Good, she thought to herself he didn’t deserve to. As she approached her car, something caught her eye- a small, white rectangle tucked neatly beneath the wiper blade of her windshield. Her stomach twisted. She glanced around the lot on instinct, but saw no one. Carefully, she plucked the paper from under the wiper. It was a folded-up note card. And when she opened it, two crisp hundred-dollar bills fluttered to the pavement at her feet.

Her heart dropped as her eyes scanned the message.

" Sorry baby x "

She scoffed out loud, bitter and disbelieving, the sound catching in her throat like a laugh soaked in gasoline. She bent down slowly, picked up the bills, her fingers trembling. Was this a joke? Was this what he thought would make things better? Footsteps echoed behind her and she didn’t even need to turn because she knew it was him. Hot rage snapped through her chest like a rubber band and before she could think twice, she whirled around and stormed back toward him, shoes slamming against the pavement. Her fist clutched the note and the cash tightly, nails biting into her palm. He was just a few yards away, hands stuffed in his pockets, walking slowly like he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing- but when she closed the distance between them, he stopped dead in his tracks. Without hesitation, she shoved the paper and bills into his chest shoving him back, her voice shaking from fury.

“I don’t want your fucking money Rafe!”

The bills nearly slipped from his hands as he reached up, fumbling to catch them. His brows furrowed, panicked and hurt.

“I’m just trying to help you—”

“I’m not a FUCKING CHARITY CASE!”

She snapped yelling out at him, voice rising, eyes glinting under the parking lot lights. The words hung between them like a slap and he stared at her like she’d just knocked the wind out of him. She could see it now- the way his mouth opened, then shut again, how he couldn’t look her in the eye, how the words on his tongue died before they ever reached his lips. Because he knew. Deep down, he knew this wasn’t something a couple hundred bucks and a sorry would fix. But still… he reached for her. Not to touch, but to speak- his voice cracked, low.

“Y/N…”

She stepped back.

"Don’t."

Her breath hitched, and she swallowed it down with every ounce of strength she had left. She looked at him, really looked at him- messy hair, tired eyes meeting that wounded expression on his face like he was the one who got hurt- and it made her sick. "You don't get to be upset," she whispered, voice trembling but sharp as glass.

"This is your fault."

She spoke out through gritted teeth and he just shook his head in response and he sighed out, his hand coming out and running over his hair before he could say another word to her, she turned and walked away she refused to listen to hi-

“I love you”

His voice cuts through the space between them- soft and low, but it stopped her in her tracks like a bullet. Y/N froze, completely, her back still to him. Her hand comes up over her face, trembling as she tries to breathe through it, tries to swallow down everything rising in her throat. She feels like her knees are about to give out underneath her, chest heaving with the kind of pressure that builds until it becomes unbearable, the kind that threatens to spill out in hot, angry tears. What the fuck was he doing? Her hand drops slowly to her side, fingers twitching, keys clinking in her grip. She turns, slow and tired and sharp all at once, and lifts her chin just enough to meet his gaze. Her voice is tight, quiet, venom-laced and barely hanging on.

“Don’t say shit like that.”

She takes a step back like his presence burns. He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing in confusion.

“Why not?”

“Because—” she starts, then bites the word off, jaw clenching as she shakes her head, like she can just shake him out of her mind.

“Just don’t.”

But Rafe- he stays rooted to the pavement, watching her like she’s sand slipping through his fingers and he's desperate enough to fall to the floor and start picking up each grain individually. “Please,” he says, voice rough with a pleading edge she’s never heard from him.

“Just listen to what I have to say”

She shakes her head again, more frantic this time, her thumb jabbing the car key until she hears a beep, the headlights flashing like a warning. She storms toward the door, her breath hitching in her throat. “Well then talk to me,” Rafe tries again, following her now, steps echoing hers. Desperation claws into his voice.

“Please Y/N- talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you, okay?”

She whirls around so fast he almost walks right into her, and with a sharpness that nearly cuts the air and she snaps, voice cracking in the middle, hand shaking around the keys.

“I don’t want to talk to you- my whole life is crumbling around me, and funnily enough, you seem to be the core of my problems.”

“No, I’m not—”

“Yes you are!”

Y/N yells as she raises her hands in defeat, voice ringing out across the empty parking lot, echoing off metal and asphalt and silence. She’s standing there, chest rising and falling so hard it looks like she might collapse under the weight of it all. Her lip trembles as she stares at him- like he’s the storm and she’s the goddamn wreckage.

“I seem to only be thinking about you!”

She chokes out, the words ragged. Real. They're out of her mouth before she can stop them and when they land, when the truth hangs heavy and cruel between them, her entire expression shifts. Like the world’s been ripped from beneath her feet and she’s the one who did it. Her lips press together, her shoulders sag, and her eyes flicker down like she’s already trying to take it back.

But it’s too late.

Rafe just stares at her, a flicker of pain surging behind his eyes. No smirk, no cocky retort, no smug line like always. Just... stunned- like he’s been punched in the chest. She exhales shakily and reaches for the car door handle, gripping it so tight her knuckles go white. She tries to anchor herself to the cold metal but then his voice cuts through the silence, earnest.

“...I think about you too.”

She squeezes her eyes shut as though to block his voice out.

“All the time I'm thinking about yo-”

“No.” 

Her voice is barely a whisper now fractured and frightened.

“Stop.”

“Why?” Rafe asks, his tone is softer this time.

“What are you so afraid of?”

Her fingers tremble where they rest against the door, and she swallows hard, the lump in her throat too big to ignore now. “I can’t-” she croaks, shaking her head like it physically hurts her to speak.

“I can’t do this with you, Rafe. I just can’t.”

“Why?”

His voice is gentle- almost pleading- just a thread of sound in the night air. He steps closer, careful not to touch her, but close enough that she can feel the heat of him lingering like a ghost, like he’s haunting her just like everything else she’s tried to bury. “Y/N,” he says, his tone catching at the edges,

“you know you want to. So why are you running away?”

She doesn’t answer. She just stands there, shaking her head slowly, lips pressed tight like she’s trying to hold herself together with sheer will alone. Because how is she supposed to explain it? How does she say out loud that love feels like a noose around her throat- that she's only ever known the kind that hurts. She hates it- hates that he’s asking the very question she keeps asking herself.

Why is she running?

The answer lodges in her chest, sharp and bitter: because she’s scared. Scared of how much this means, scared of what it could take from her, scared of how much it already has. She’s never really been loved. Not the way people are supposed to be. Not by her father, who only ever saw her as a mirror of everything he hated. Not even- if she’s being honest- by JJ, because JJ has the Pogues he has John B and the others and she… she’s always felt like second place- like an afterthought, even when they swore they were all each other had. So yeah- she’s scared. Because this? What she feels when Rafe looks at her, what stirs deep in her gut when he says her name like a prayer he’s never gonna stop saying, it’s terrifying.

Because she loves him.

She loves him.

More than she even knew she could and that’s what terrifies her the most. Rafe sees the shift. The tear rolling down her cheek and his hands twitch at his sides- because he wants to reach out. Wants to tell her it's okay to be scared. That he’s scared too. But his voice breaks around the weight of it.

“Y/N I lov-”

“Please”

She whispers, eyes glossy as the salt water drips down the skin of her face, her voice raw and strained.

“Just let me go home.”

His jaw tenses hard enough it clicks, the muscle there jumping. His mind screams at him to keep her here, to talk it out until she's in his arm again but instead, he nods, jaw locked tight like he’s holding back something that might rip him in half if he lets it loose. He steps back and she can't meet his eyes. She just slips into her car like she’s done a thousand times, hands shaking as she fumbles with the key, breath stuttering through her chest. The door shuts with a quiet thud that sounds final.

And then- she’s gone. Taillights disappear down the dark road, red glow vanishing into the night. Rafe stands there for a second, not moving, just staring at where her car used to be. His chest rises and falls like he’s been running, but he hasn’t moved at all. His hands lift to his hair, a groan tearing from his throat, guttural and helpless. He paces once, twice in rage and heartbreak and desperation tangling all over each other until he doesn’t even know what to feel anymore.

Because fuck.

He knows that she loves him but he’s scared he’s already lost her anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The drive home is silent, except for the low hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel beneath her tires. Her hands are loose on the wheel now, posture slumped like all the weight of the night has finally caught up to her. The headlights sweep over the front of her house as she pulls in, illuminating the weather-worn porch, the chipped paint on the steps.

She parks and cuts the engine.

For a moment, she doesn’t move. Just rests her forehead gently against the steering wheel and closes her eyes quiet sniffles filling the car. She lets herself sink into the kind of stillness that feels like sinking into water- quiet, numbing, heavy. She sits there and thinks for a moment, she thinks how she wishes she could just start over. Somewhere far away, somewhere no one knows her name and no one knows what she’s done. Somewhere she could exist without always feeling like she's on the edge of ruin. Like she's constantly holding everything together with nothing but her fingertips and good intentions. Her chest tightens as she breathes out a shaky sigh finally reaching for the door handle.

She steps out into the cool night, her shoes landing softly on the dried grass. The sky is thick and clouded, swallowing the stars whole, no moonlight shining through. As she approaches the porch, she notices just a faint flicker of light through the drawn shutter blinds. Her steps quiet as she doesn’t want to make a sound. Y/N slides her keys into the lock carefully, twisting them with a gentle hand.

Click

The door eases open and she slips inside and shuts it behind her—softly, gently, like maybe if she moves quiet enough, nothing will break but as she turns around and stops cold. Dead in her tracks. Her breath catches in her throat, and her eyes lock onto the living room just a few feet ahead.

Her father is sitting on the couch.

Half his face lit by the dim glow of the table lamp beside him. The other half shrouded in darkness. His shoulders are hunched forward, one hand dangling off his knee, a glass of something clutched loose in his fingers. Whiskey maybe, or vodka, or whatever was cheapest this week. His eyes are open and staring straight at her. It’s like the air’s been sucked out of the house. His expression unreadable beneath the haze of alcohol—and maybe something stronger. She’s still frozen there, heart pounding so loud she can feel it in her throat, her ears, her ribs. Like it’s trying to crawl out of her. But it’s not him that makes her stomach twist into knots and her lungs forget how to breathe. It’s what’s sitting on the table in front of him, laid out neatly on the small coffee table like some sort of offering.

A pair of her stripper heels.

taglist: @xoxosblogsblog @moonywhisp3rs @i-love-gvf @my-name-is-baby@ltristessedureratoujours @stoned-writer @mariamadison6-blog@rafesgurl@rafecameronswhoore @lovelytoomusic @mysticbby2009 @vanessa-rafesgirl@silkenthusiasts @partygirl14 @amterasuu @xoxo-ada @icaqttt@ivysprophecy @mauvesmax @larema121 @ggraycelynn @emeloyy @pluviophilis@slut-4-gojo @willowpains @wtfisastiles @rafecqmeronslove @pleasstory@lolasangelz @beau-dabomb @psychocitylights @constantsadness @rhianthebest@emmiesummers @sfotiegiuls @ggraycelynn @larema121 @emeloyy @pluviophilis@urgoldens @insominagirlss @urfavoritebrunette007 @mauvesmax @miniiminie@kythefangirl25 @niyalovests @scream4mami @aizawawify @prettybabyyyy@barbiefan14 @keennerdslover @rafeysslut @rafeysworldim19@jennieonline@hannieskzzz@sugak00kie03@gabrielaperez11@simonejacpbsen @bambigirl10 @prettycoochieee

[manariee]

TEENAGE DIRTBAG

﹙混蛋﹚───── is riki really that irritated by you or perhaps is it your boyfriend ?

니시무라 리키 & fem!reader wc: 4693 cw: toxic relationships, rude riki, cheating (not reader), mention of inuries, mentions of smoking, light skinship, kissing

𝓜 anas notes: finally !! some of these were in my drafts for so long until i got a request from @woniefication MWAH THANK YOU

It was another day in Mr. Choi's history class, and you could already tell it was going to be a long one. The room was filled with the usual chatter of your classmates - the popular kids laughing obnoxiously at the back, the nerds trying to keep to themselves, and you, somewhere in the middle, just trying to get through another class.

You barely registered Mr. Choi’s lecture, too caught up in the swirling mess of your own thoughts. You were used to it now, the constant tension between you and your boyfriend, Jae. He was always in and out of your life, making empty promises that he never kept. He was the classic jerk - popular, arrogant. He had a way of making you feel like you were just another girl in his collection. You knew you should've ended it a long time ago, but his persistence, maybe even something else, however toxic it was - had worn you down.

But today, you weren’t thinking about Jae. Your thoughts were, as usual, drifting to the one person who was always present — Riki.

He was a few rows ahead of you, lounging in his seat in his usual cocky way. His black leather jacket was draped over the back of his chair, and his headphones rested around his neck. Riki was everything Jake wasn't - mysterious, musing, and undeniably attractive in a way that made you want to get closer, even though he was the last person you'd ever admit you were drawn to.

As Mr. Choi continued on, you noticed Riki glance toward you. His eyes lingered just a second longer than they should have, and for the briefest moment, you thought you saw something in his gaze. But then, as always, he quickly looked away. It was like he had this quiet fascination with you, but he was too proud to show it.

And that’s what pissed you off about him. He was just like Jae in the sense that he never gave a care about anyone, always too cool for school, playing the part of the ''bad boy.''

"Y/N," Mr. Choi's voice broke through your thoughts, pulling you back into the moment. "Care to tell the class the answer?"

You blinked, suddenly aware that everyone’s eyes were on you.

You hadn’t heard a word of the lesson.

Riki chuckled quietly from the front, the sound low and almost mocking. "I guess she's not paying attention. Typical."

You rolled your eyes, ignoring him as best as you could. "Sorry, Mr. Choi. Can you repeat the question?"

He sighed, clearly annoyed. "I said, what year did the Civil War end?"

"1865," you replied, without missing a beat.

"Correct," Mr. Choi muttered, before turning back to his lecture.

As class continued, Riki's eyes were on you again, just out of your line of vision. You hated how his attention made your heart race, even though you’d never admit it out loud. Riki was trouble. The kind of trouble you didn’t need in your life. You already had enough with Jae

But that didn't stop you from noticing him every chance you got. You couldn’t help but wonder - if he’d ever stop pretending to be so mean, what would he be like? Was he really the jerk everyone said he was, or was it just a act?

The bell rang, snapping you out of your thoughts. You grabbed your things and hurried out of the classroom, avoiding eye contact with Riki as best as you could.

The bell rang, signaling the end of another class. You shuffled through your papers, gathering your stuff, hoping for a peaceful exit. The tension from the gaze of Riki from yesterday still lingered, but you figured it was just another day. Another day of dealing with the mind games that seemed to follow you everywhere.

You were on your way out of class when you heard the sound of shoes shuffling on the floor behind you.

Of course, you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. But you kept walking, pretending you didn’t notice him following you down the hallway.

"Where’s your boyfriend?" Riki’s voice cut through the silence, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Did he finally get tired of you?"

You kept your eyes straight ahead, the words stinging more than they should. He had a way of pushing buttons that made you want to snap, but you kept your cool.

"He’s busy," you muttered, not bothering to explain further.

Riki snorted. "Yeah, I bet he’s busy with some other girl. He’s a real prize, huh?" His voice was laced with mockery, but there was something almost... too pointed about it.

You clenched your jaw, trying to keep your composure. "What do you care?" you shot back, glancing at him.

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something — was it amusement? Frustration? It was hard to tell. He leaned against the locker, crossing his arms. "Just curious," he said, shrugging. "Wouldn’t want you to get too attached to a loser like him. He’s not even worth the breath you waste on him."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "You’re a real piece of work, you know that?"

Riki raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. "What’s the matter, huh? Can’t handle a little truth?" His words were like a jab to your chest. The way he looked at you, like you were some kind of puzzle he was trying to solve, made your stomach twist with confusion.

You felt a wave of frustration hit you. "You don’t know anything about me," you snapped, your patience wearing thin.

"Do I not?" Riki’s voice dropped to a low, almost dangerous tone. He was standing right in front of you now. His eyes glinted with something unreadable. "I know enough."

Before you could respond, Riki pushed himself off the locker and turned, as if the conversation was over. "You’re just another girl caught up in a bad relationship. No different from all the others."

"Yeah, well, maybe I’ll get tired of it," you muttered under your breath. "Maybe I’ll just walk away."

Riki’s smirk deepened as he glanced back over his shoulder. "Wouldn’t surprise me. You don’t seem the type to stick around when things get real."

You gritted your teeth, fists clenched. He was right about one thing — you were done with Jae, and maybe... maybe you were done with Riki’s games too.

"You think you know me?" you said, your voice cold. "You don’t. So keep your opinion to yourself."

Riki only glanced with a intense gaze, before walking off, leaving you there, heart racing with frustration.

But even as you were mad, you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe — just maybe — he wasn’t wrong.

The circle of friends was loud — someone passed around a bag of chips, someone else was retelling a story that probably wasn’t as funny as everyone made it. Laughter echoed through the group, but your smile was forced. You sat close to Jae, his arm casually slung over your shoulder like it was some kind of ownership tag.

You tried not to roll your eyes at his touch, but it felt heavier than usual. He leaned in, whispered something into your ear — probably a bad joke or some half-assed compliment — and laughed like he was so charming.

Across the group, you caught Riki watching.

He sat slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, rings glinting under the string lights. His expression was unreadable — the perfect mask of disinterest — but his eyes told another story.

You could feel the way they trailed over Jake’s arm around your shoulders, the way they narrowed ever so slightly when Jake brushed a thumb along your collarbone. Riki wasn’t saying a word, but he didn’t have to.

His stare said everything.

You tried not to look at him too long, but it was magnetic. You glanced back, just for a second, and met his eyes.

Big mistake.

His gaze locked onto yours, sharp. His jaw clenched, his tongue poked the inside of his cheek in that cocky, irritated way he always did when he was holding something back. A smirk ghosted across his face — bitter, amused.

Jae didn’t notice a thing. He just leaned closer, voice louder now, trying to dominate the conversation. '' You cold, babe?'' he asked, loud enough for the others to hear. '' You’re kinda tense.''

You laughed lightly, brushing him off. '' I’m fine.''

But Riki was still watching.

His fingers drummed against his knee, his eyes not moving once from the two of you. Then he spoke — finally.

'' You're pretty good at pretending'' he said, low and smooth, like a threat carefully prepared.

Everyone paused. The conversation hiccupped. A few heads turned. Someone chuckled awkwardly, thinking he was just being edgy. But you knew better.

Your eyes snapped to him.

''What’s that supposed to mean?'' you asked, tone sharper than you meant it to be.

He just raised a brow and tilted his head. '' Nothing. Just an observation. Didn’t mean to ruin the moment.''

Jae scoffed. ''You good, bro? Sounding a little bitter.''

Riki grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ''Nah, just bored.''

And with that, he leaned back and looked away — but not before shooting you one last glance. The kind that made your stomach twist. The kind that said: You know I’m right.

You looked down at Jae's hand still on you and suddenly, it felt even heavier.

The metro was packed, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, heat and noise filling every inch of space — except the one between you and Riki.

He stood inches from you, one hand gripping the rail above your head, eyes locked on yours like the chaos around you didn’t exist. No smirk this time. No teasing.

Just that look.

Heavy. Quiet. Intense.

Your breath caught as the train jolted, bringing you even closer. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just kept watching like he was trying to read your thoughts — or bury his own.

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering in your throat.

Neither of you said a word.

Didn’t need to. His eyes were loud enough.

And when the train screeched into the next stop, he still didn’t look away — not until the doors opened, and you both pretended nothing happened.

But it did.

God, it did.

The school rooftop was your only escape.

Hardly anyone ever came here, afterall, it was a old forgotten place. You’d started sneaking up there between classes just to breathe.

The rooftop was your escape - until today.

You pushed open the heavy door and froze.

Riki was already there, leaned against the low concrete wall, cigarette dangling from his fingers, smoke curling lazily in the breeze. His eyes flicked up at the sound of the door creaking, and for once, he didn’t have that stupid smirk on his pretty face.

''Seriously?'' you muttered. ''You’ve got the whole damn school to haunt. Why here?''

He shrugged, taking a slow drag. ''Didn’t realize you had it reserved.''

You walked to the far side, trying to ignore his stare — the way it always dug under your skin. But today, you snapped.

''You've got some nerve, you know that?'' you said sharply, turning on him. ''You follow me around like some smug parasite, making those cryptic comments, for what? To make me miserable?

He blinked slowly. ''If I’m making your life worse, you’re doing a pretty damn good job of sticking around for it.''

Your fists clenched. ''You’re unbelievable.''

He scoffed, flicking the cigarette. ''Why? Because I don’t lie to you? Because I don’t play sweet like your golden boy boyfriend?''

You stepped toward him, fury bubbling up from your chest. ''Don’t talk about Jae.''

''I’ll talk about whoever the hell I want,” Riki shot back. “Especially the guy who treats you like garbage and gets away with it because you’re too scared to leave.''

That hit hard. Too hard.

''You don’t know anything about me,'' you hissed, your voice shaking.

''I know enough,'' he said, stepping forward. ''I know you act like none of this bothers you. I know you date losers because it’s easier than admitting you don’t know what you want. And I know you look at me like you hate me — but you haven’t stopped looking away, have you?''

Your breath caught.

''You’re such an self absorbed asshole','' you whispered. ''You say all this crap like you know me, like you’re better than him. But you’re not. You’re just meaner. Colder. At least he pretends to care.''

That did something. His jaw tightened.

He stepped even closer, now barely inches away, his voice low and sharp. ''You think I don’t care?'' he spat. ''You think this is easy for me? Watching you run back to him every time he screws up? Watching you let him walk all over you when-''

''When what, Riki?'' you challenged, heart pounding. ''What, you’d treat me better? Between all your insults and dirty looks, where exactly was the part where I was supposed to feel wanted?''

Silence.

The wind whipped around you, tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Then he muttered, almost too quietly, ''I never wanted to want you.''

Silence. Your heart dropped. This wasn't a joke?

''I push you away,'' he said quietly, ''because if I didn’t, I’d be too close.''

You swallowed, hard. For a second, neither of you spoke. And then—

''Don’t,'' you said, voice barely above a whisper. ''Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.''

Riki stepped back like the moment had burned him, but he didn’t take it back.

He looked at you like he did.

And for once, didn’t hide it.

Your phone buzzed twice, then again. The third time, you finally checked it.

Jae. Another girl. His hands all over her, lips tangled, right there in the corner of some dim party room.

Reactions flooded in - shock, laughing emojis, ''omg''s, and ''yo wtf''s - but you just stared at the screen, thumb frozen over your phone. Your stomach twisted, but not out of surprise.

You were used to this part. The disappointment. The quiet, dull ache that never really left.

No message from him. No explanation. Not that you were expecting one. You’d been waiting - waiting for him to end it, to at least have the decency to say it to your face. But maybe this was it.

You sighed, slow and tired, and threw your phone across the room.

Grabbing your jacket, you pulled it over your shoulders. It hung heavy. Your legs were bare under your skirt, and the cold air bit at your skin the second you stepped outside. You didn’t care. The numbness was louder than the wind.

The sky was dark, thick with clouds. A silence hung in the empty streets, broken only by the crunch of gravel under your shoes.

Then you heard it — a low, familiar rumble cutting through the stillness. A motorcycle.

You paused, looking up just as it came closer, headlights flashing briefly in your direction. The bike slowed, coming to a stop a few feet away. The rider pulled off his helmet, and there he was.

Riki.

Hair messy from the helmet, brows pulled together in something dangerously close to concern.

His eyes scanned you — the jacket thrown hastily over your outfit, the bare legs, the way you weren’t even pretending to be okay.

''You shouldn’t be out here like this,'' he said, voice low but cutting through the quiet.

You didn’t respond right away. Just tucked your arms tighter around yourself, eyes fixed on some point over his shoulder.

''Guess Jae finally did me a favor,'' you muttered.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t need to. Whatever had happened, he’d clearly already heard.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stood there, one hand still on the bike, the other flexing by his side like he didn’t know what to do with it.

Then, softer, ''You want a ride?''

You looked at him.

The part of you that would usually roll your eyes or spit something defensive was quiet now. You were too tired to fight. Too cold to pretend.

So you nodded.

And for the first time that night, you felt a little less alone.

Jae hadn’t even read your text.

We’re over. Sent at 11:42 p.m. last night

And yet there he was again the next day, strutting down the corridor as if you had done something wrong, gaze intense, jaw tight and fists clenched.

You’d been laughing at something one of your friends said, just a passing joke — harmless, light. But Jae didn’t see that. Or didn’t want to.

''What the hell is this?'' he snapped, voice sharp and too loud, drawing a few glances from nearby students.

You turned slowly, spine straightening. ''What are you talking about?''

''You’re out here, all over other guys, are you cheating on me?'' he accused.

You wanted to laugh, bitter and sad. But you didn’t.

''Cheating?'' you repeated, raising an eyebrow. ''Jae, you cheated on me. I saw the picture. The picture that got sent around.''

His face went pale for a moment before turning bright red with rage.

''That’s not the same thing,'' he hissed, fists clenching. ''You think I care about some stupid—''

''You care about it now, don’t you?'' you shot back, voice rising. ''You don’t even know how to break up with someone, so you just-'

Your words were cut short as he shoved your arm aside, stepping into your space, furious. His hand was raised, the tension in the air thick and crackling with something dark.

Before you could even react, someone moved fast from the side. Riki.

He appeared in a swift motion, stepping between you and Jae with a sharpness that cut through the tension.

He stood there, tall and confident, his posture straight, his eyes dark but calm, locking with Jae’s. ''You better lower your hand,''

Jae blinked, caught off guard, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to step in. ''What are you doing, Riki?'' he snarled.

Riki didn’t flinch. ''What the hell do you think you’re doing?'' he replied, voice low but heavy with something dangerous. ''Because this? This is crossing a line.''

You thought it was over.

Jae had stormed off after Riki stepped in, and you’d figured that’d be the end of it.

But oh boy were you wrong.

A few days later, you found yourself sitting in the school nurse's office, frowning down at Riki’s face.

''Seriously, Riki?'' you said, irritation rising as you grabbed a cotton ball and dabbed it into disinfectant. ''You couldn’t just walk away, could you?''

He winced when you dabbed the cotton over the cut lip. "I'm fine," he growled, trying to be cool like it was nothing, but you caught the way his jaw tightened, the minute tension on his shoulders giving him away.

''No, you’re not fine,'' you shot back, carefully applying bandages. ''You got yourself hurt because you couldn’t let him walk away with it. What were you trying to prove?''

Riki just smiled weakly, but it never quite made it to his eyes. "Maybe I was proving something to you.".

''You’re lucky I’m not slapping you,'' you grumbled, trying to hold back the anger that kept creeping in. ''You’re an idiot. Why didn’t you just walk away from Jae?''

He didn’t answer at first, his eyes locked on your hands as you worked. Then, quietly, he said, ''Because you’re worth it.''

You stood there, frozen, the words cutting you harder than they had any right to. You glared at him, but he didn't look at you. Instead, his eyes were fixed over your shoulder, face expressionless.

"Why do you always do that?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper now. "Why do you say things like that if you don't mean them?''

"I never said I didn't mean them," he replied, his eyes locking on you then, his eyes darkening from earlier. There was something there, something unspoken between the two of you.

You didn’t know what to say. The moment hung thick in the air, the tension palpable.

''Alright, you’re done,'' you muttered, pulling away. You grabbed a bandage and wrapped it around his arm, trying to keep your hands steady. ''Don’t get yourself into more trouble.''

Riki just nodded, his expression unreadable, but there was a slight curve to his lips that almost looked like a smile. ''You always say that, but I think you’re the one who’s gonna get into trouble if you keep hanging around me.''

You didn’t answer. Instead, you finished bandaging him up and turned to leave, but then you stopped and glanced over your shoulder.

''You still owe me an explanation,'' you said, voice quieter now.

He raised an eyebrow, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. ''Maybe. But some things are better left unsaid.''

With that, he stood up, and for the first time in days, you weren’t sure where either of you stood.

The silence between you was thick, but it didn’t feel as awkward as it should. Maybe it never had.

It was late.

Most of the school was dark, except for the faint buzz of lights in the empty classroom — the one you found him in.

Riki sat on the windowsill, notebook balanced on his knee. His hood was down for once, hair messy, head tilted like he didn’t hear you come in.

You hesitated at the doorway.

“You break in?” you asked softly, lips twitching.

He didn’t look up. “Didn’t need to. Left the window open last time.”

You stepped inside, slow and quiet, watching the way his pencil moved across the page — steady, focused, way more careful than anyone would guess. “What are you even writing?”

Riki finally looked over, gaze catching yours, lingering a second too long. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You rolled your eyes and crossed the room until you were beside him, peeking at the notebook. “Let me see.”

He shifted it just slightly away from your view. “Nope.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Afraid I’ll see all the little hearts with my name in them?”

That actually got a small laugh out of him. “You wish.”

The silence that followed was warm, comfortable in a way it hadn’t always been. You leaned against the window next to him, arms crossed, your shoulder brushing his. Neither of you moved.

After a minute, you said, quieter, “You know... prom’s coming.”

Riki glanced at you. “So I’ve heard.”

“You thinking of going?”

He paused, then shrugged. “Only if there’s a reason to.”

You bit your lip, heart fluttering with something you didn’t want to name yet. “What if there was?”

He looked at you again, eyes darker now — focused. “Are you trying to ask me something, or just over the edge?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “...Maybe both.”

He smiled — just barely — and looked away, back out the window like he needed a second to cool off whatever just passed between you.

You didn’t say anything else. Neither did he. You just stayed there, shoulder to shoulder, both pretending you weren’t waiting for the other to make a move.

And you didn’t know it then, but that was the moment you’d end up thinking about when you finally gave him those tickets.

The moment when almost was already everything.

Prom was coming up.

Every hallway was plastered with glittery posters and cheesy hashtags. People were buzzing with dates and dresses and afterparty plans. You’d told yourself you didn’t care — that it was overrated, dramatic, not your thing.

But then there was Riki.

And the fact that despite all the tension, all the biting comments and late-night moments that felt way too close, he hadn’t asked anyone. He hadn’t even mentioned it.

So when you saw him leaning against his usual spot by the back stairwell, headphones around his neck, hood half-up like he was trying not to exist — you decided.

You walked up, heart thudding stupidly hard, something clutched behind your back.

He looked up at you with that lazy gaze, one brow quirking. “What?”

You cleared your throat. “I, um… I got something.”

Riki blinked, a little amused already. “For me?”

You pulled your hand around and held it out — two folded pieces of paper. “Concert tickets.”

He looked down at them, then back at you, waiting.

“They’re for a night before prom,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I figured, it'd be weird to not have dates, so we could use these as an opportunity to get closer and not be so awkward togehter at prom - because like mabye we could go as a pair?”

Something flickered in his expression — surprise, interest, maybe even something softer.

You hurried to add, “I mean, unless you were planning to not go. Or already have a date. Or—”

“Are you asking me out?” he interrupted, eyes narrowing with a half-smile.

You faltered. “I—what? No. I mean yes. Kinda. Not like that, just—”

He stepped closer, just a bit, enough that you could see the amusement tugging at his lips. “You could’ve just said you wanted to go with me. You didn’t have to bribe me with front-row tickets.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m trying to be nice here, you absolute jerk.”

Riki laughed — a real one, low and warm. Then he took the tickets from your hand, carefully, like they were something rare.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

You blinked. “Just like that?”

He shrugged. “You’ve been making moves on me for weeks. I was wondering how long it’d take you to admit it.”

Your jaw dropped. “I have not—”

“You literally patched me up in the nurse’s office like a rom-com lead,” he teased, tucking the tickets into his back pocket. “It was very touching.”

You shoved his shoulder, cheeks burning. “I hate you.”

He grinned. “No, you don’t.”

And as he turned to walk beside you, hands in his pockets, you kind of hated that he was right.

It happened weeks after prom.

You were both sitting on the bench after yet another date. Heart lighter than it'd had been in weeks. The streetlamps cast a soft glow on Riki’s face as he leaned back on his palms, gaze tilted up toward the sky.

It was quiet. Calm. The kind of peace that usually didn’t last long with him.

Then he spoke.

“So,” he said, almost too casually. “Are you gonna keep pretending this isn’t a thing? Or are you finally gonna let me call you my girl?”

You turned to look at him, heartbeat stumbling in that annoying way it did whenever he got serious. “You’re asking me out?”

“I’m saying,” he drawled, “officially, that I want this. You. No games, no half-truths. Just us. If you want it, too.”

You stared at him, trying not to smile too hard, trying not to let him see how much that meant — how much he meant.

“Okay,” you said softly. “On one condition.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Condition?”

You nodded. “You stop smoking.”

That actually made him pause.

Then he laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You know,” he said, “that day on the rooftop? The cigarette?” He glanced over at you, smirking a little. “It was fake.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Dead serious. I wasn’t even smoking. It wasn’t lit. I just... thought it looked cool.” He shrugged, clearly a little embarrassed now. “I was trying to seem badass. Impress you or something.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “You’re kidding.”

He held up a hand. “Swear on my life. It was literally just for show. Didn’t even inhale. I nearly choked.”

You burst out laughing, the image too perfect — Riki, fake-smoking to get your attention, acting like he didn’t care when he clearly did.

“Alright,” you said, still smiling. “Then yeah. I’ll be your girl.”

He leaned in, face close, grin tugging at his lips. “Finally pretty.”

And when he kissed you — soft, careful, like he was making a promise — you believed him.

Because

Riki had proved he wasn't like Jae or any other guy.

He was willing to change. To let go of that stupid image.

For you, his Y/N.

lovliezᡣ𐭩: @chrrific @saemisic @heeaara @ltfirecracker @woniefication @lezleeferguson-120 @fleurhoons

[catchastarorten]

—One more game.

Pairing: the salesman (gong yoo) x winner!fem!reader

Summary: a year after winning your games, an unexpected guest shows up at your door, offering to play one more game of ddakji with you, just for the fun of it, and because you're his favorite winner.

Warnings: mentions of trauma, mentions of blood and gore, violence (basically just you smacking him a lot lol), masochism (<- on him, if you squint really hard?), English isn’t my first language, mistakes should be present, sorry!

Word count: ~ 1k

You almost didn’t answer the door.

It was late—the kind of late where the silence pressed in too close and left you too alone for your thoughts. The rain tapped against the windows felt louder than it should. You hadn’t been expecting anyone. Not anymore, anyways.

Your thoughts drifted to that moment. When you stood on that playground that reflected a childish innocence, yet your hands were trembling, blood drying beneath your nails and painted across your teal uniform, the sound of the final breath and the plea that the other player let out before you swung down the knife with a cold precision that pierced him right through the head. It was over. You won. But it never felt like you were the winner.

The knock had been deliberate, sharp. Three steady raps, not the kind delivered by accident or from someone who might go away if ignored, it broke you out of your haze.

You told yourself you weren’t afraid as you approached, but your heartbeat felt too loud in your ears. Your fingers curled around the lock, hesitating for just a second. Then, you opened it.

And there he was.

The salesman.

You hadn’t seen him since the same rainy day where he found you in the subway station, drenched and cold, in debt—out of money, when he offered to play a simple game of ddakji with you. Not since he handed you a card with a number on the back and disappeared without a trace.

Yet here he stood, wearing the same tailored suit, sharp as ever. His face was unchanged—calm, composed, as if this was just another evening, another game. But it wasn’t.

You could tell by the way his eyes softened the moment they met yours.

He didn’t speak right away. His gaze swept over your face, tracing every detail, as if cataloging how you’d changed. Or maybe searching for the cracks left behind.

Then, his hand lifted.

The red and blue ddakji were already there, pinched between his fingers as though they’d never left. Worn slightly at the edges, but still bold in color. Waiting.

“Care for another game?” His voice was smooth, calm. Too calm.

Your stomach twisted.

The paper. The slap. The start of everything that seemed to haunt you.

It all came back too easily—how the game had started with that simple challenge, the humiliating sting of his palm every time you lost. Until you hadn’t. Until you’d proven you could be a winner, until he handed you that card as a congratulations.

“No.” Your voice came out flat. You started to close the door.

His foot shifted forward, not blocking but close enough that the message was clear: not yet.

“You don’t seem so sure.” His gaze lingered, voice quieter now. More dangerous in its softness. “You’ve played before.”

You swallowed, hating how he made it sound like a compliment. Like something to be proud of.

“I don’t play anymore,” you said, sharper this time.

His lips parted like he might argue, but then—he smiled. It wasn’t smug. Not mocking. Something else entirely. You hated how it made your skin prickle.

His head tilted slightly, fingers flexing around the ddakji. “You won, though. You survived. Out of all of them… you were quite ruthless.”

You shouldn’t have let him say that. But it was too late. Something inside you cracked.

Your hand shot out before you fully registered the movement. A sharp, stinging crack as your palm met his cheek, the impact louder than you expected in the quiet.

He barely moved.

He just stood there, lips parted slightly in surprise. And then—he smiled again, slower this time, his head tipping back, exposing the faint pink blooming across his cheekbone in the dim lights.

It felt less satisfying that he just let the pain settle there.

“There’s that fire,” he said, his voice taunting. “The same fire that got you through the games, that made you kill all those people, hm? I always knew you had it.”

Another slap, harder this time. His head jerked slightly with the force of it, his cheek flushing a deeper red. He exhaled softly, just a breath, but it sounded too much like a gasp, like something he’d been holding back.

And when his eyes met yours again— no smile. Not this time. Just a flicker of something you couldn't understand.

His hand shifted between you, lifting the ddakji slightly as if to remind you why he was here.

“You’ll have to win first,” he said, voice hoarse but playful. “Before you keep doing that.”

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife, the air too still.

You snatched the red ddakji from his hand, the paper crinkling slightly as your fingers curled around it.

The game began like it had before. The slap of paper against the floor. The silence between rounds, broken only by breath and the occasional hiss when a piece landed just wrong.

But it wasn’t like before, not really.

Because you felt his presence too closely now—the way he watched you, not just your hands but your face, your mouth, your eyes. As if he was searching for cracks in your mask.

So you played harder. Sharper.

And then you won.

The blue ddakji flipped with a sharp slap, the smooth side landing face up, and you felt the victory surge in your chest—not just from the game, but because of him.

Your eyes met his, he didn’t speak, didn’t flinch when your palm connected with his face a third time, but this time—his breath hitched. A subtle, almost imperceptible sound, but it was there.

And his gaze? It was the same as before. The same as that first night when he watched you fight for your life with nothing but paper and desperation.

He took a step back, finally breaking the moment. Rain whispered against the window, the only sound in the room now.

He bent down and picked up the red and blue ddakji, stuffing them into his pockets as his smile returned, and you could've sworn you saw a hint of pride in his eyes.

“Still a fighter,” he hummed.

[pandapetals]

sunlight & sawdust

chapter one: marigolds & measuring tapes

| next chapter

summary: For two years, Joel Miller has done nothing but scowl at you from across the room, barely tolerating your warmth, your kindness, and your ever-present sunshine. And for two years, you’ve told yourself his gruffness doesn’t bother you—that his clipped words and cold stares don’t matter. But then, out of nowhere, he offers to fix the damaged floor in your flower shop. For free. Suddenly, the man who could barely stand to look at you is showing up every day, fixing things that don’t need fixing, sharing quiet lunches, and—most shocking of all—getting along with Ellie, your daughter, who has never warmed up to anyone as quickly as she has to him.

pairing: joel miller x fem!single mom reader - no outbreak/au

content warnings: slight reader description, no y/n used, grumpy joel, grumpy x sunshine trope, ellie is reader's daughter, reader is a single mom, tommy being a meddler, reader is friends with tommy, au setting in Austin, joel is a carpenter, reader owns a flower shop, fluff, angst and eventual smut, joel is bad at feelings, sarah mentioned

a/n: divider by @saradika-graphics.

Joel pushed open the glass door to the run-down diner, the bell above it jingling in protest. His eyes immediately found Tommy, already settled in one of the front booths, grinning like he had no place better to be. Tommy had insisted they get lunch—something about "brother time." Whatever the hell that meant, Joel wasn’t sure—it sounded like an excuse for Tommy to talk his ear off.

Still, Joel trudged over, sliding onto the worn leather seat across from him. He barely had a second to get comfortable before his stomach twisted—because, of course, you were here.

Standing at the counter, you leaned forward slightly as you spoke to the waitress, your voice too soft for Joel to hear over the hum of the diner. But he didn’t need to. He knew how you sounded—warm, patient, like everything that made his skin itch.

Tommy was your friend, though Joel never understood why. You doted on him like he was some kind of damn prince, always checking in, always making sure he was taken care of. It was ridiculous. You weren’t his wife. Hell, you weren’t even his girlfriend, but you looked at him like he hung the damn moon. And the worst part? Tommy let you.

Joel hated it.

He hated how you laughed at Tommy’s stupid jokes, the way your hand would rest on his arm absentmindedly. Hated how you never showed that same effortless affection toward him. No, with Joel, it was different. More careful. More…guarded.

A shadow passed over the table as you approached, carrying a plate and two steaming mugs.

"Got you some coffee and pancakes," you said, setting them down in front of Tommy with a smile that could warm an entire room. Your touch lingered for a second, fingers grazing the edge of the plate like you cared whether he ate enough. Then, your eyes flickered to Joel—briefly, uncertain—before darting away like you hadn’t looked at all.

"Coffee, just how you like it," you added, softer this time. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, "Mind if I sit?"

Tommy beamed, already scooting over to make space. "Course you can. Joel and I were just catching up—having some brother time."

Joel grunted, his gaze locked on you. You knew, didn’t you? Knew damn well that he didn’t like you, didn’t want you here. And yet, you smiled anyway, sliding into the booth beside Tommy like it didn’t bother you in the slightest. Like he didn’t bother you.

"That’s good," you said, reaching for your coffee. You didn’t look at Joel or acknowledge him when you spoke.

It shouldn’t have annoyed him.

Tommy threw an arm around your shoulders, grinning. "So, how’s business?"

Joel clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around his coffee cup. The heat bled through the ceramic, grounding him, but it wasn’t enough to stop the irritation from creeping in.

It was one thing to tolerate you. One thing to see you in passing, to nod stiffly when social politeness forced him to.

But sitting here, watching you smile at Tommy and lean into him like he was the only person in the world worth your warmth—that was something else entirely.

"It’s been good, actually." You traced the rim of your coffee mug, voice light but edged with something quieter. "Didn’t think the flower shop would ever take off."

Your eyes flickered to Tommy, soft with appreciation—but there was hesitation there, too, like you weren’t entirely sure you believed in your own success.

Tommy, ever the optimist, gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "C’mon now, you do a real good job running that place. ‘Course it was gonna be successful."

Joel curled his fingers into a fist under the table, nails pressing into his palm. The whole exchange—it was too much. Too easy. Too natural. How Tommy touched you like it was second nature, the way you let him. The way you looked at him.

His irritation boiled over before he could stop it. "Do you two always gotta be so goddamn buddy-buddy?" The words came out sharper than he intended, a growl low in his throat.

Your head snapped up, a faint scowl replacing the warmth on your face. "Tommy’s a good friend to me."

Joel huffed, eyes narrowing. "Oh, really?" His voice dripped with doubt, the kind that crawled under his skin and stuck.

You frowned, glancing at Tommy as if he might have an answer for Joel’s problem. "We’ve been friends for… two years now?"

Tommy nodded. "Something like that."

Joel leaned back against the booth, arms crossed over his chest, his stare heavy on you. "Y’all hang out a lot?"

There was something in his tone, something pointed—but you couldn’t tell what. Suspicion? Judgment? Something else entirely?

"Whenever we can." You lifted your coffee to your lips, pausing before adding, "Usually, we grab lunch or go to a bar..." Your voice trailed off, confusion creeping in.

Why did it feel like an interrogation? Why did Joel always act like you were the problem? And despite the sharp edge in his voice, why did it seem like he was daring you to push back?

Joel scoffed, shifting in his seat like he was settling in for a fight. "Oh, I see." His arms folded tightly across his chest, muscles taut beneath the worn fabric of his flannel. "You two are just best of friends, then." The words dripped with something bitter, something he barely bothered to mask.

You exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around your coffee mug. Without thinking, your eyes flicked to Tommy, silently pleading for him to smooth over whatever this was.

Tommy sighed, setting his fork down with a clatter. He’d known Joel all his life—stubbornness was in his damn blood—but this? This thing he had against you? It never made sense.

"Joel," Tommy said, voice edged with exasperation. "Stop bein’ so damn rude to her. She’s my friend."

Joel’s jaw ticked.

You stayed quiet, watching the tension stretch across the table like a rope about to snap. Tommy was trying to keep things light, to brush past Joel’s temper like it could be ignored. But you weren’t stupid—you could see how Tommy’s shoulders squared, and Joel’s fingers drummed against the table like he was holding something back.

Joel wasn’t just being difficult. He was being deliberate.

His gaze flickered between you and Tommy, unreadable. "Why should I?" he shot back, low and cutting. His knuckles pressed against the table, a restless energy rolling off him in waves. "I’m not obligated to play nice, y’know."

Joel couldn’t understand what made you so damn special. Why Tommy liked you so much?

What did he even see in you?

You were a pain in Joel’s ass, all sunshine and softness in a way that rubbed him the wrong way—too warm, too open, too damn much. Why couldn’t Tommy see that?

But before Joel could snap out something sharp, you spoke first.

"Joel’s right."

The words came easy, calm. No bite, no sarcasm—just simple, matter-of-fact acceptance.

It caught all three of you off guard.

Tommy’s brows shot up. Joel blinked once, slow, like he hadn’t heard you right.

"He doesn’t have to play nice just for my sake," you added, lifting your coffee to your lips like his attitude didn’t touch you at all.

The silence at the table stretched thick and unmoving.

You exhaled softly, carefully setting your mug down before turning to Tommy. "I should go anyway."

Joel expected sarcasm, a little sting in your tone—hell, a glare at the very least. But instead, you smiled at Tommy, warm and genuine, like this wasn’t anything new. Like you weren’t the least bit bothered.

And that somehow irritated him more than anything you could’ve said.

"No, stay," Tommy insisted, cutting in before Joel could protest.

Joel’s jaw flexed, something unspoken brewing behind his eyes. His patience was already thin, but now his damn eye was twitching as he scrambled for a response—anything to regain some kind of ground. But for once, he had nothing.

You stood anyway, smoothing out the wrinkles in your sweater. "It’s okay," you assured Tommy, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "I gotta get to the flower shop."

Then, just to twist the knife a little deeper, you reached down and patted Tommy’s cheek, all affectionate and casual, like it was something you’d done a hundred times before.

Joel’s stomach tightened—with what, he refused to name.

"Enjoy the pancakes," you said, flashing Tommy one last smile before turning on your heel and heading for the door.

Joel watched you go, watched the way the early afternoon light spilled through the diner windows as you stepped outside.

The door shut behind you, the bell chiming softly.

Tommy shook his head with a low chuckle, reaching for his coffee. "Y’know, for someone who claims to hate her, you sure as hell stare a lot."

Joel gritted his teeth, reaching for his coffee like it might wash away the irritation—or whatever the hell else was creeping in.

"Shut up, Tommy."

Joel’s eyes stayed locked on the door, his fingers absently tightening around his coffee cup. He told himself he was just zoning out—but his damn gaze lingered like he was waiting.

Waiting for you to walk back in.

Waiting for another glance, another soft word, something he wouldn’t name.

Tommy watched him, unimpressed. "Stop pulling my leg," he said flatly, his stare pressing into Joel like a weight.

Joel grunted in response, ripping his gaze away from the door and taking a slow sip of coffee. He avoided Tommy’s glare but could feel it—heavy, expectant like Tommy was waiting, too.

"What the hell’s your problem with her, anyway?" Tommy finally asked voice edged with irritation. "Why do you even care if she’s my friend?"

Joel scowled, his grip tightening around the ceramic mug. "I don’t care."

His voice was too sharp, too quick. Even he could hear the lie in it.

Tommy snorted, shaking his head. "Bullshit."

Joel exhaled sharply, pushing Tommy’s plate away as the pancakes had personally offended him. "She’s your friend, not mine," he shot back, the words coming out harder than he had meant them to.

Tommy leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes narrowed. "She is my friend. That’s why I care. You’re bein’ a goddamn asshole to her for no reason."

Joel scoffed, rolling his shoulders like he could shake off the conversation. "I don’t have to play nice with her just ‘cause you do, Tommy." His voice was low and tight, but something else was creeping in—something defensive.

Tommy let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Jesus, Joel."

Joel ignored him. "She’s annoying and stubborn, and I—" He stopped himself, jaw clenching before forcing the words out. "I don’t like her."

They felt wrong the second they left his mouth, as if he was trying to convince himself more than Tommy.

Tommy stared at him, unimpressed. His expression slowly morphed from frustration to something closer to realization.

"You are so full of shit."

Joel bristled. "I’m full of shit?"

Tommy huffed out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "You do like her. You just don’t know what the hell to do with it."

Joel shot Tommy a warning glare, but his brother wasn’t backing down. If anything, he looked more pissed off by the second.

"She ain’t stubborn or annoying," Tommy said, voice edged with frustration. "She’s the most kind-hearted person I’ve ever met."

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers curling into a fist beneath the table. Of course, Tommy would say that. Of course, he’d defend you like you were the damn saint of this town. It only made Joel’s irritation settle deeper, hot and restless in his chest.

He scoffed. "Sure she is," he muttered, rolling his eyes. The words were dry, dismissive—meant to push Tommy off his back.

But even as he said them, something about them didn’t sit right.

Tommy shook his head, muttering as he cut into what was left of his pancakes. Joel tried to ignore how his brother glared at him like he was some lost cause.

The diner felt too warm, too small.

Joel shifted in his seat, fingers drumming against the table, trying to shake the uncomfortable feeling gnawing at him. It didn’t make sense—none of it did.

Because, sure, you were annoying. Always so damn nice, always doting on Tommy like he was something special. And that smile of yours? That soft, warm, inviting smile? It pissed him off for reasons he couldn’t explain.

His scowl deepened. You were just some irritating… too-kind… beautiful—

Joel cut the thought off before it could go any further, clearing his throat like it might scrub the idea from his brain.

He didn’t like you.

He didn’t.

But then why did it feel like every conversation with you left him stuck in this goddamn cycle—him pushing, you barely reacting, just meeting him with that quiet, knowing patience that somehow made him more irritated?

Why, even now, long after you’d left, was he still thinking about you?

[reidmarieprentiss]

Depollute Me

Summary: You join the BAU and Spencer is a smitten kitten.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU fem!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: mentions of morgue details from a case, mentions of struggle from a case, alcohol consumptions

Word count: 7.2k

a/n: lol so this has been sitting in my drafts for MONTHS i have not read it since then but i feel so bad for never posting anymore so please accept this while i get my life together !!!

Spencer walked into the bullpen on what seemed to be a very typical Monday morning. The hum of chatter and the rhythmic clicking of keyboards filled the air, as it usually did. Without much thought, he placed his well-worn satchel down on his desk, the familiar weight leaving his shoulder as he began his habitual routine. His focus was singular: getting to the breakroom for his morning coffee. The scent of freshly brewed coffee guided him, and within moments, he returned to his desk, ready to dive into the day's work.

As he settled into his chair, Spencer reached for a stack of files when a voice interrupted his concentration. "Reid, did you not notice the new girl?" Morgan's tone was laced with curiosity and a hint of amusement, causing Spencer to pause mid-motion.

“Huh?” Spencer finally looked up, his mind still partially entangled in the tasks he was about to undertake. His routine had been so ingrained that he hadn’t even glanced around the room.

Morgan smirked, nodding towards the far side of the bullpen. "Over by JJ’s office."

Spencer's gaze followed the direction Morgan indicated, and for the first time, he noticed you. A young woman, probably in her mid twenties, was standing near JJ's office, dressed in a sharp, well-tailored pantsuit that hugged her figure in a way that was both professional and undeniably flattering. Your presence was commanding, yet you seemed approachable with an air of confidence.

“Who is that?” Spencer asked, his curiosity piqued as he observed the new arrival with a mixture of intrigue and surprise.

Before Morgan could answer, Hotch, who happened to be walking by at that moment, interjected in his usual calm, authoritative manner. “Agent Y/N Y/L/N,” he informed them, his tone as steady as ever. “She’s from the Sex Crimes Unit, a promising young agent.”

Morgan, ever the one to tease, leaned back in his chair with a playful grin. “Looks like you’re not the baby anymore, pretty boy.”

Spencer, though still focused on the new agent, managed to respond with a slight shrug. “I’m okay with that.” His voice was soft, but there was a hint of relief in his words. Perhaps the idea of no longer being the youngest on the team was a comforting thought.

Hotch, who was moving on to another task, paused briefly to add one more detail, as if to settle any lingering questions. “She’s older than you, Reid. Actually.”

Morgan, not missing a beat, raised an eyebrow. “How old? She looks good,” he remarked, his eyes still on you, appreciating your composed demeanor and striking appearance.

Hotch, always the voice of reason and decorum, shot Morgan a warning look. “Morgan,” he cautioned, before continuing, “she’s 28.”

“I’m almost 28…” Spencer mumbled, more to himself than anyone else, as if to rationalize his place on the team.

“Okay, baby,” Morgan teased, chuckling as he reached over to playfully ruffle Spencer’s hair. The affectionate gesture was a typical part of their dynamic, one that Spencer had grown accustomed to over the years.

Spencer gave a small smile, shaking his head slightly at Morgan's teasing, but his mind was already drifting back to the new agent. There was something about you that intrigued him, and he found himself wondering what it would be like to work alongside you. The idea of no longer being the youngest wasn’t as unsettling as it once might have been.

“Agents, round table, five minutes,” Hotch’s voice cut through the usual hum of activity in the bullpen. The announcement was direct, as always, leaving no room for delay or distraction. Spencer, along with the rest of the team, immediately began to gather their things, each of them accustomed to the rhythm of their work.

As the team filed into the conference room and took their usual seats around the round table, there was an undercurrent of curiosity in the air. Eyes subtly darted towards the new face at the table, though the attempts at being inconspicuous were, in truth, anything but. It was clear that everyone was eager to learn more about the person who would be joining their tight-knit group.

Hotch, standing at the head of the table, wasted no time in addressing the elephant in the room. “As you have all noticed, we have a new member joining the team,” he began, his voice steady as he motioned towards you. “This is Agent Y/N Y/L/N. She’s joining us from Sex Crimes.”

A chorus of greetings filled the room, each team member offering their version of “hello” or “welcome.” Despite the collective effort to make you feel at ease, Spencer couldn’t tear his gaze away from you. His usual reserved nature gave way to an inexplicable fascination with your confident yet soft demeanor. The way you met each person’s eyes with a small, genuine smile only deepened his curiosity.

As Hotch briefed the team, Spencer’s thoughts kept drifting back to you. He noticed how attentively you listened, your calm focus suggesting you were already a step ahead. His mind wandered, wondering about your experiences, your approach, and who you were beyond the BAU walls.

When your eyes briefly met his, Spencer felt a jolt of something unfamiliar. The room seemed to fade as he quickly looked down, warmth creeping up his neck. It was unusual for him to be so distracted during a briefing, but there was something about you that he couldn’t quite place.

As the team dispersed, Spencer hesitated, glancing at you again. He wondered if you had noticed his lapse in concentration, but your calm, professional expression gave nothing away. Now, he couldn’t help but feel both eager and off balance, curious about how you would fit into the team—and what that might mean for him.

—

It was your first away case with the team, and as you boarded the jet, the weight of newness settled on your shoulders. The BAU team moved with the ease of seasoned travelers, each member instinctively knowing their place and routine. You, on the other hand, hesitated, unsure of where to sit, not wanting to take anyone's usual spot and disrupt the unspoken order.

As you stood there, trying to decide, Emily caught your eye and offered you a warm, reassuring smile. "Hey, why don't you sit next to me?" she suggested kindly, patting the seat beside her.

Grateful for her understanding, you nodded and made your way over, sliding into the seat she had saved for you. The small gesture of kindness made the moment feel a little less daunting, easing the nervousness that had been creeping in since you’d learned about the case. 

As the team engaged in a lively discussion about the case, you tried to focus on the file in front of you, but a strange sensation crept over you—a shiver that ran down your spine, leaving a trail of unease in its wake. It felt as though someone was watching you, and the thought was impossible to ignore.

Lifting your eyes from the file, you glanced toward the couch on the jet. There he was, Doctor Spencer Reid, as you'd been introduced to him earlier. His gaze was unmistakably fixed on you, a quiet intensity in his eyes that you could feel even from across the cabin. The moment your eyes met, his gaze snapped away, almost too quickly, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

It was curious, to say the least. 

—

The team had just settled into the bustling Milwaukee precinct, the air thick with the tension of a new case and the quiet hum of police activity around them. Hotch stood at the center of the room, efficiently handing out assignments with his usual calm authority. 

“Reid, Y/L/N, you go to the morgue,” Hotch instructed, his voice steady as he looked between the two of you. 

Spencer felt a jolt of nervousness shoot through him at the assignment. The idea of spending time alone with you set his mind racing. His thoughts spiraled through a thousand different scenarios—what he would say, how he would act, whether you would notice his awkwardness. He tried to hide his unease, but the tightening in his chest betrayed how out of sorts he felt.

You, on the other hand, felt a surge of excitement at the prospect. The morgue wasn’t exactly a thrilling destination, but the chance to spend time with Spencer, the quiet and enigmatic doctor, piqued your interest. You’d been curious about him since you joined the team, drawn to the way his mind seemed to work in layers, each one more complex than the last. This was an opportunity to maybe get to know him better, to see beyond the brilliant profiler and into the person behind those thoughtful eyes.

As the two of you gathered your things and prepared to head out, Spencer gave you a small, tentative smile, his nerves still bubbling just beneath the surface. You returned the smile with genuine warmth, hoping to ease the tension you sensed in him. 

“Ready to go?” you asked, your tone light and encouraging.

Spencer nodded, his voice just a little tight as he replied, “Yeah, let’s do this.”

As you both made your way out of the precinct, the silence between you was comfortable, filled with the potential of what this small assignment could reveal. For Spencer, it was a chance to navigate the unfamiliar territory of getting to know someone new; for you, it was an exciting step toward understanding the mystery that was Doctor Spencer Reid.

“Do you, um, do you mind driving?” Spencer asked, his voice carrying a slight edge of hesitation as the two of you stood by the car.

You smiled, already finding his nervousness endearing. “No, not at all. Do you not like to drive?” you asked as you unlocked the car.

“I find it helps me focus more on the case if I don’t also have to focus on the road,” he explained, his words coming out in a rush as if he was worried about how you might take it.

You couldn’t resist teasing him a little. “Oh, so I don’t need to focus as much as you?” you joked, throwing him a playful glance as you slid into the driver’s seat.

But Spencer, usually taking things quite literally, didn’t catch on to your teasing. His eyes widened slightly as he quickly tried to clarify. “No, no, not at all. I only meant that my mind is so busy all the time, and I—I just, I need to think a lot and—” His words tumbled out, his voice growing a bit more frantic as he tried to explain.

You immediately felt a pang of guilt for having flustered him. “Doctor Reid, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stress you out,” you said softly, cutting off his rambling. “I was only joking.”

There was a moment of silence, then Spencer took a small breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Spencer,” he corrected gently, his tone more composed now. “You can call me Spencer.”

You smiled, nodding as you started the car. “Alright, Spencer,” you agreed, feeling the ice between you start to melt just a little as you pulled out of the parking lot.

—

The sterile, cold air of the morgue enveloped you both as you walked through the doors, the metallic scent of antiseptic mingling with the faint, almost imperceptible odor of decay. The medical examiner, a middle-aged man with weary eyes, greeted you with a curt nod before leading you to the body you were there to examine.

As the examiner began to explain the preliminary findings, you focused intently on the details, your eyes scanning the body and the evidence laid out on the stainless steel table. Spencer stood beside you, his attention divided between listening to the examiner and observing your reactions. 

As the examiner pointed out a series of bruises on the victim’s torso, you leaned in slightly, narrowing your eyes at the pattern. Something about it struck you as odd, but familiar. “These bruises,” you started, gesturing to them, “they’re not random. They look like they could be the result of a struggle, but not just any struggle—these marks here,” you pointed to a specific set, “they’re consistent with someone trying to defend themselves against a chokehold. The position and depth suggest they were made by the victim’s own hands, trying to pry off an attacker.”

The examiner paused, blinking in surprise. “I hadn’t considered that,” he admitted, clearly impressed by your quick assessment.

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, his curiosity piqued by your insight. He leaned in closer to examine the bruises, following the line of your observation. “You’re right,” he said, his voice filled with a mix of admiration and intrigue. “That makes sense, given the angle and the force. It would explain the bruising pattern on the victim’s neck as well.”

He looked up at you, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “That was a good catch,” he said, his tone genuinely appreciative. It wasn’t often that someone impressed him with such a sharp, on-the-spot observation, especially in an area where his own expertise usually dominated.

You smiled back, feeling a warm flush of pride at his acknowledgment. “Thanks, Spencer,” you replied, the use of his first name feeling more natural now, as if that small barrier had already begun to dissolve. 

—

As you and Spencer drove back to the precinct, the earlier tension from the morgue had dissipated, leaving behind a more relaxed atmosphere. 

“So, Spencer,” you began, glancing over at him with a playful smile, “I have to ask, how did you get so good at noticing the smallest details? I mean, do you practice in your free time? Like, do you just walk around analyzing random people for fun?”

Spencer chuckled softly, clearly amused by the question. “Not exactly,” he replied, his tone light. “It’s more of a habit at this point. I’ve always been observant, even when I was a kid. I guess it just… developed naturally over time.”

You tilted your head, pretending to be impressed. “Naturally, huh? So, it’s like a superpower then? I bet you can tell all kinds of things about a person just by looking at them.” 

Spencer smiled, his gaze flickering between you and the road. “It’s not quite that dramatic,” he said, modest as ever. “But, yeah, I can usually pick up on a lot of details that others might miss.”

You decided to push the playful banter a little further. “So, what about me, then? What details have you picked up?” you teased, leaning in slightly, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

Spencer blinked, taken aback by the question. He clearly hadn’t expected you to turn the tables on him like that. “Um, well,” he stammered, his mind racing to formulate a response that wouldn’t sound too personal or invasive. “I’ve noticed that you’re very passionate about your work, that you’re observant, and that you care a lot about doing the right thing.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his answer, even though it was far more earnest than you’d intended. “That’s sweet, Spencer,” you said softly. “But I was thinking more along the lines of what color my eyes are, or how you noticed I always play with my jewelry when I’m thinking.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly as he processed your words, clearly not catching on to the flirtatious undertone. “Oh, well, your eyes are a very nice shade of y/e/c,” he said earnestly. “And I did notice that you play with your jewelry sometimes when you’re concentrating. It’s a subconscious gesture, probably something you do without realizing it.”

You bit back a laugh, charmed by his obliviousness. “You really are good, Doctor Reid,” you teased lightly. “But I was just messing with you. I didn’t expect you to take me so seriously.”

Spencer looked over at you, a bit of confusion in his expression, though it quickly gave way to a small, sheepish smile. “Oh… I guess I missed that,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck in that endearing way he did when he was flustered.

You grinned, feeling a strange sense of affection for his sincerity. “It’s okay, Spencer. It just means you’re genuine—and I like that.”

As the car pulled into the precinct parking lot, the playful exchange left both of you feeling a little lighter. Spencer might have missed the flirtation, but in the process, you’d managed to break down some of the walls between you, leaving the door open for more conversations, more connections, and maybe, just maybe, something more down the line.

—

Penelope had extended one of her famously warm invitations to the entire team, promising a night of lively conversation, good food, and the kind of camaraderie that only the BAU could understand. Her apartment, as always, was a bright and eclectic haven, filled with quirky decorations, cozy seating areas, and the unmistakable aroma of something delicious wafting from the kitchen.

As the evening wore on, the sound of laughter and animated chatter filled the room. Drinks were poured, stories were shared, and the general atmosphere was one of relaxation and enjoyment. Penelope, ever the gracious host, moved through the crowd like a butterfly, making sure everyone was comfortable and having a good time.

You found yourself in the middle of a conversation with JJ and Emily, the three of you discussing everything from recent cases to more lighthearted topics. Spencer, meanwhile, was across the room, engaged in a deep discussion with Hotch and Rossi. Yet, despite the separate conversations, you couldn’t help but notice how often your gaze drifted toward him—and how, more than once, you caught him glancing back at you.

It seemed you weren’t the only one who noticed. As the evening continued, you began to pick up on a subtle undercurrent among the team, a shared look or knowing smile exchanged between your colleagues whenever you and Spencer were in close proximity. It was as if everyone had collectively decided that tonight was the night to push the two of you a little closer together.

“Hey, Y/N,” Emily said, her voice carrying a hint of mischief as she casually steered you toward the couch where Spencer had just sat down. “Why don’t you grab a seat? Looks like there’s plenty of room.”

You shot her a playful glare, fully aware of what she was doing, but you didn’t resist. With a small smile, you took the spot next to Spencer, who glanced up at you with a shy, yet pleased expression.

“Hi, Spencer,” you greeted him, settling into the seat and feeling the warmth of his presence beside you.

“Hi,” he replied, his voice soft but with a touch of warmth that made you feel at ease. The two of you exchanged a small smile, and for a moment, the noise of the party faded into the background.

Before you could say anything more, Morgan appeared out of nowhere, a wide grin on his face as he handed both you and Spencer a drink. “There you go, pretty boy, Y/N. You two look like you could use a refill,” he said, his tone far too innocent to be sincere.

You accepted the drink with a raised eyebrow. “Thanks, Morgan,” you replied, your tone matching his in playful suspicion. You knew exactly what he was up to, but you decided to play along, taking a sip of your drink as you glanced at Spencer.

Spencer, for his part, seemed slightly oblivious to the team’s not-so-subtle matchmaking attempts, though there was a faint blush on his cheeks as he took his drink from Morgan. “Thanks, Derek,” he mumbled, clearly trying to avoid the knowing look in Morgan’s eyes.

The team's subtle matchmaking efforts became more apparent, each of them playing their part with a touch of mischief. Rossi, always one for a good story, managed to draw you into a conversation about a particularly tricky case the team had solved a few years back.

“So, Y/N,” Rossi began, a twinkle in his eye, “have you ever encountered a case where the suspect used historical ciphers to communicate with their victims?”

You tilted your head, intrigued but knowing exactly where this was going. “No, I have not. Why do you ask?”

Rossi leaned back, gesturing towards Spencer with a grin. “Because our very own Dr. Reid is an expert in ciphers, and I’d bet he could tell you all about the time he cracked one in record time.”

Spencer, who had been quietly listening, perked up at the mention of his expertise. “Oh, well, it wasn’t exactly record time,” he said modestly, but Rossi’s encouragement had already drawn him in. “But it was a fascinating case. The unsub used a modified version of the Zodiac cipher, which was particularly challenging because—”

As Spencer launched into a detailed explanation, you couldn’t help but smile at how effortlessly Rossi had managed to pull you both into the conversation. The discussion flowed naturally from there, and you found yourself genuinely interested in Spencer’s insights, occasionally offering your own thoughts, which Spencer seemed to appreciate.

Not long after, Penelope gathered everyone together for a game she had prepared. “Alright, everyone, time for a little fun! We’re playing ‘Celebrity!’” she announced, holding up a bowl filled with slips of paper. “And wouldn’t you know it, Y/N, you and Spencer are on the same team!”

You caught Penelope’s wink as she handed you the bowl, and you couldn’t help but laugh. “What are the odds?” you joked, taking your seat next to Spencer.

Spencer looked a little surprised but quickly smiled, clearly pleased by the arrangement. “I guess we’ll have to work together,” he said, his tone light.

Throughout the game, the team’s delight in pairing the two of you together was obvious, with Emily and Morgan offering exaggerated praise whenever you and Spencer managed to score points. “Great teamwork, you two!” Emily called out with a grin. “It’s like you can read each other’s minds!”

Spencer flushed slightly at the comment, but he seemed to enjoy the playful camaraderie, even if he wasn’t entirely sure why everyone was making such a big deal out of it.

Later, even Hotch joined in on the subtle matchmaking, calling both you and Spencer into the kitchen to help with an entirely unnecessary task. “I need a hand in here,” Hotch said, waving you both over. “This cake isn’t going to cut itself.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the already-cut cake sitting on the counter, but you went along with it, smiling as you grabbed a knife. “Looks like we’ve been drafted,” you quipped.

Spencer smiled awkwardly but followed your lead, picking up a plate. “Yeah, it’s… good to be useful,” he said, his tone a little unsure but genuine.

The two of you worked side by side, the conversation light and easy. You couldn’t help but notice how comfortable it felt to be around him, even in the most mundane tasks. And as you laughed together over something trivial, you caught Hotch’s subtle nod of approval from the corner of your eye.

As the party began to wind down and people started to gather their things to leave, you and Spencer found yourselves standing near the door, alone for the first time that evening. The energy of the night had brought you closer, and the playful encouragement from the team had only served to make that connection feel more natural.

“I had a really good time tonight,” you said, your voice soft as you turned to Spencer.

He looked at you with a gentle smile, his nervousness from earlier in the night long gone. “I did too,” he replied, his tone sincere. “It was nice… spending time with you.”

You couldn’t help but feel a warmth in your chest at his words. “I think we make a pretty good team, don’t you?” you teased lightly, echoing Emily’s earlier comment.

Spencer’s smile widened just a little, though he still seemed a bit oblivious to the underlying meaning. “Yeah, I think we do,” he agreed, his eyes meeting yours in a way that felt significant.

There was a brief moment of silence between you, comfortable and filled with possibility. The evening had left you with a sense of warmth, the connection between you and Spencer deepening in ways that felt both unexpected and natural. “Goodnight, Spencer,” you said softly, your voice lingering with a hint of something more, your eyes meeting his in a way that made the simple farewell feel like it carried more weight.

Spencer hesitated for a second, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes before he spoke. “Can I, um, can I drive you home?” he asked, his tone a little shy but hopeful, as if he wasn’t quite sure if it was okay to ask.

You blinked in surprise, then remembered that you had seen him with a drink earlier in the evening. “You were drinking too, Spencer,” you pointed out gently, not wanting to put him in an uncomfortable position.

Spencer’s lips quirked up in a small smile as he shook his head. ���I don’t drink alcohol,” he explained, his voice calm and reassuring. “They were nonalcoholic.”

You felt a smile tug at the corners of your mouth, warmth spreading through you at his thoughtfulness. “Oh, well in that case,” you said, your voice softening as you looked at him, “I’d really like that.”

His eyes brightened at your response, and he gave a small, almost relieved nod. “Great,” he said, the awkwardness from earlier replaced by a quiet confidence. “Let me just grab my keys.”

As you waited for him, you couldn’t help but feel that this simple offer—this small, thoughtful gesture—was a sign of something more, something that might grow between you. And as the two of you walked out together, the night air cool against your skin, you found yourself looking forward to the drive, and to whatever might come next.

—

While guests began to filter out of Penelope's apartment, Hotch and Rossi found themselves lingering in the cozy living room, the buzz of the evening winding down. The two men exchanged a glance as they noticed you and Spencer leaving together, Spencer opening the car door for you with his usual quiet charm.

Rossi chuckled softly, taking a sip of his drink as he watched the scene unfold. “You know, Aaron,” he began, a hint of amusement in his voice, “I think those two might just be good for each other.”

Hotch followed Rossi’s gaze a small, rare smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly, his tone thoughtful. “They would make a nice pair.”

Rossi nodded, setting his glass down with a satisfied sigh. “Spencer needs someone like Y/N—someone patient, who sees the world a little differently, but isn’t afraid to challenge him.”

Hotch tilted his head slightly, considering Rossi’s words. “And anyone could use someone like Spencer,” he added.

Rossi smiled, a twinkle in his eye. “It’s not often you see something like that—a connection that just feels… natural.”

Hotch chuckled softly, a sound that was more a breath than a laugh. “It’s about time Spencer found someone who really gets him.”

Rossi raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on his lips. “And maybe someone who can keep up with that brain of his.”

Hotch’s smile grew a little wider at that. “She’s got her work cut out for her, then.”

They shared a knowing look, they’d both be quietly rooting for you and Spencer.

—

As Spencer opened the car door for you, you slid into the passenger seat with a smile, appreciating the small but considerate gesture. He walked around to the driver’s side and settled in, adjusting the mirrors and checking the controls with his usual meticulousness. The quiet hum of the engine filled the space as he started the car, and soon enough, you were on the road, the city lights passing by in a soft blur.

For a few moments, the two of you were content with the silence, letting the calm of the evening settle over you. But then, curiosity got the better of you, and you turned slightly in your seat to look at Spencer, your gaze soft but inquisitive.

“So, Spencer,” you began, your tone light, “you don’t drink alcohol at all? Or just not tonight?”

Spencer glanced over at you briefly before returning his eyes to the road, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Not at all, actually,” he admitted. “I’ve never really liked the way it makes me feel. Plus, it’s kind of a personal choice—helps me stay sharp, especially with work.”

You nodded, finding that very much in line with what you’d learned about him so far. “That makes sense,” you replied, your voice warm. “I can see how that would be important for you. You always seem so… focused.”

Spencer chuckled softly, a touch of bashfulness in his tone. “I try to be,” he said. “But it’s not always easy. My mind tends to wander a lot.”

You smiled at that, sensing an opportunity to tease him just a little. “Wander? You? I would’ve never guessed,” you said with playful exaggeration, giving him a sideways glance.

He laughed, the sound quiet but genuine. “Yeah, well, it happens more often than you’d think. Especially when I’m trying to solve a problem or figure something out. My brain just… runs in all these different directions.”

“I’d love to see that in action,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. When you realized how it might sound, you quickly added, “I mean, it must be fascinating to see how your mind works.”

Spencer glanced at you again, this time with a slightly more serious expression, though there was still a hint of that shy smile. “I guess I’ve just always been wired that way. It’s part of why I love what I do. But it can be… isolating sometimes, you know? People don’t always get it.”

You nodded, understanding the sentiment all too well. “Yeah, I can relate to that,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “I think a lot of us in this line of work feel that way at times. It’s hard for people outside of it to really understand what we go through, what we see.”

There was a moment of shared silence, both of you reflecting on what you’d said. Then, wanting to lighten the mood a bit, you turned the conversation back to something a little more playful.

“So, what do you do for fun, Spencer? When you’re not solving crimes and noticing everything that no one else does?” you asked with a teasing lilt to your voice.

Spencer seemed to relax a bit more, the serious tone easing as he thought about your question. “Well,” he began, “I like to read, obviously. I’m a bit of a collector when it comes to rare books. And, um, I also enjoy magic tricks.”

“Magic tricks?” you repeated, intrigued and a little surprised. “I didn’t expect that.”

Spencer smiled, the warmth in his expression growing. “Yeah, I picked it up as a kid. It’s something that stuck with me. I guess I like the challenge of it—figuring out how to manipulate perception, how to create something that seems impossible.”

You leaned in a little, genuinely fascinated. “That’s actually really cool. You’ll have to show me a trick sometime.”

He glanced at you, a spark of excitement in his eyes at the idea. “I’d like that,” he said simply.

As the conversation continued, the two of you fell into an easy rhythm, exchanging stories and little details about your lives. You learned that Spencer had an insatiable curiosity for nearly everything, and that he was just as eager to hear about your interests and experiences. There were moments of gentle teasing, of light laughter, and as the night wore on, it felt as though the distance between you was closing, replaced by a budding connection that was both comfortable and exciting.

By the time Spencer pulled up in front of your place, you felt like you’d gotten to know him in a way that few probably had—a glimpse beneath the layers of the brilliant, sometimes awkward genius to the kind, thoughtful person underneath.

“Thank you for the ride, Spencer,” you said as you unbuckled your seatbelt, turning to face him. “And for the conversation. I really enjoyed tonight.”

Spencer’s smile was warm, and this time, there was a hint of confidence in it. “I did too,” he replied, his voice soft. “Maybe we could do it again sometime?”

You felt your heart skip a beat at the suggestion, a smile spreading across your face. “I’d like that,” you said, letting the sincerity of your words hang in the air for a moment.

With one last smile, you stepped out of the car, the cool night air brushing your skin as you walked to your door. Glancing back, you caught Spencer’s eyes; he gave a shy wave before driving off without hesitation. As you unlocked your door, it struck you—you’d never met a man who didn’t try to make a move in such a moment. 

It was refreshing, and his sincerity left you smiling. There was something deeply endearing about how content he seemed just to share your company. As you settled in for the night, a warm feeling lingered.

—

Monday morning arrived with the usual hum of activity in the bullpen, but there was a new kind of energy in the air—one that had you exchanging sweet, shy glances with Spencer across the room. Every time your eyes met, it was like a quiet acknowledgment of the evening you had shared, a soft connection that lingered between you.

As you settled into your desk, organizing your files and preparing for the day ahead, you were pleasantly surprised when Spencer walked by, gently placing a mug of coffee on your desk. The familiar aroma wafted up, and you immediately recognized it as your favorite blend, made just the way you liked it.

“Spencer… thank you,” you said softly, picking up the mug and taking a tentative sip. It was perfect, just as you expected. You looked up at him, curiosity tinged with warmth in your eyes. “How did you know?”

Spencer’s lips curled into a small, almost bashful smile, his hands fidgeting slightly. “I pay attention,” he replied simply, his voice just above a whisper, as if the words held more meaning than they seemed.

Your heart fluttered at his response, and you couldn’t help but smile back at him. There was something incredibly endearing about how Spencer had noticed something so small, yet so personal. It wasn’t just the coffee—it was the care and thoughtfulness behind the gesture that made your heart skip a beat.

Smitten might have been an understatement for how you felt in that moment. You held his gaze for a moment longer, the unspoken understanding between you growing stronger with each passing second.

“Thank you,” you repeated, your voice soft and full of appreciation.

Spencer gave a quick, shy nod before retreating to his desk, his own heart racing from the brief but meaningful exchange. 

—

Wednesday morning, you made your way to Spencer’s desk. In your hand, you held a donut topped with colorful sprinkles, a small token of your growing affection.

Reaching Spencer’s desk, you gently placed the donut in front of him, your hand brushing against his arm ever so slightly. The brief contact sent a spark through you, a tiny thrill that lingered as you stepped back.

Spencer looked up, surprise flickering across his face before it softened into a smile. “Y/N? Thank you,” he said, his voice tinged with both gratitude and a hint of that shyness you found so endearing.

You smiled back, your eyes meeting his. “A sweet treat for a sweet man,” you replied, your tone light yet full of sincerity.

For a moment, Spencer just stared at you, his cheeks flushing slightly as he took in your words. It wasn’t often that he received compliments like that, especially not from someone who meant as much to him as you were beginning to.

“Thank you,” he repeated, his voice quieter now, almost as if he were trying to savor the moment.

You gave him a soft smile, feeling a warmth spread through you at his reaction. It was such a small gesture, but the way he looked at you made it feel like so much more. As you walked back to your desk, you couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder, catching him as he carefully picked up the donut, a faint smile playing on his lips.

—

“I think I’m going to ask her on a date,” Spencer said, his voice filled with a mixture of determination and nervousness as he spoke to Penelope in the breakroom.

“Y/N?” Penelope’s eyes lit up with excitement, a grin spreading across her face. She had been hoping for this moment for a while now.

Spencer paused for a moment, then, with a rare touch of humor, he replied, “No, Emily.”

Penelope blinked, caught off guard by his response, before quickly catching on to his teasing. She narrowed her eyes playfully at him, placing a hand on her hip. “I don’t think that would go over well, my love.”

Spencer couldn’t help but smile, feeling a bit more at ease with the banter. “Y/N or Emily?” he asked, his tone just as playful, though there was a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice.

Penelope laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t think Y/N or Emily would take well to you asking Emily on a date,” she said, her voice softening. “But, Y/n would be over the moon if you asked her out, Spencer. Trust me.”

Spencer nodded, a bit more confidence building inside him as he imagined what it might be like to take that step. “Yeah,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Penelope. “I think you’re right.”

Penelope gave him an encouraging smile, her eyes twinkling with excitement for her friend. “Go get her, Reid,” she said gently, patting his arm. “You’ve got this.”

Spencer took a deep breath, feeling both the weight and the thrill of the decision he was about to make. “Thanks, Penelope,” he said, giving her a grateful look before heading back to his desk, his mind now focused on how he was going to ask you out.

—

You stood in front of the elevator, the thought of a relaxing Friday evening at home making you eager to get out of the office. Your couch was practically calling your name, promising comfort after a long week. Just as the elevator doors began to slide open, you heard a familiar voice behind you.

“Y/N, wait up!”

You turned with a smile, spotting Spencer hurrying toward you. “I’m not moving, Spencer,” you giggled, teasing him lightly. “I’m waiting for the elevator.”

“Right… right,” he stammered, laughing awkwardly as he reached you, his hand instinctively going to the back of his neck, a gesture you had come to find endearing. 

“What's up, weirdo?” you asked, still smiling as you watched him struggle to find his words.

Spencer took a deep breath, his eyes meeting yours with determination and nervousness. “Will you go out with me?” he blurted out, the words tumbling out faster than he intended.

You didn’t hesitate for even a second. “Yes.”

Spencer blinked, clearly caught off guard by how quickly you responded. “I don’t want to make things awkward, but I love spending time with you and—wait, what?”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, his genuine surprise making the moment even sweeter. “I said yes, Spencer,” you repeated, your voice warm and reassuring.

Spencer’s eyes widened, a mixture of relief and joy flooding his expression. “You did? I mean, you did!” he stammered, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Wow, okay… this is great!”

The elevator doors opened just as he finished speaking, and you both stepped inside, the excitement of the moment bubbling between you. As the doors closed, Spencer couldn’t stop smiling, and neither could you.

“So, where are we going?” you asked, leaning slightly toward him as the elevator began its descent.

Spencer glanced at you, his smile softening into something more tender. “Anywhere you want,” he said quietly.

—

The evening unfolded exactly as you had hoped, with one delightful twist. You and Spencer ended up on your couch, both of you dressed in comfortable pajamas, a warm pizza box resting on the coffee table in front of you. The aroma of melted cheese and spices filled the room, adding to the cozy atmosphere.

Spencer was leaning back into the cushions, a slice of pizza in hand, his long legs stretched out comfortably. You were nestled beside him, your feet tucked under a soft blanket, feeling utterly content. It was the relaxing Friday evening you had been craving, only now it was even better with Spencer there beside you.

“This is nice,” Spencer said softly, breaking the comfortable silence as he took another bite of his pizza.

You glanced over at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “It really is,” you agreed, reaching for your own slice. “Exactly what I needed after this week.”

He looked at you, his eyes warm and a little shy, as if he couldn’t quite believe that this was happening. “I can’t believe this is what you wanted to do tonight,” he admitted, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. “But I’m really glad it is.”

You laughed softly, nudging him with your elbow. “Spencer, this is perfect. It’s exactly what I wanted—good food, good company, and no pressure to do anything but relax.”

He smiled at that, clearly relieved and happy. “I couldn’t agree more,” he said, his voice gentle as he looked at you with that familiar, earnest gaze.

As the evening wore on, the conversation flowed easily between bites of pizza and sips of soda. You talked about everything and nothing—cases, hobbies, favorite books, and the little things that made each of you laugh. It felt natural, effortless, like this was where you both were meant to be.

Eventually, you found yourself leaning into Spencer’s side, your head resting on his shoulder as you both watched the TV, a movie playing softly in the background. He wrapped his arm around you, his touch light and careful, as if he were still marveling at how right this felt.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the moment wash over you. It was the relaxing Friday evening you had wanted, with the added bonus of the guy you wanted right there with you. As you snuggled closer, a contented sigh escaped your lips.

This was perfect.

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

tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance @pleasantwitchgarden @alexxavicry @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @criminal-spence @navs-bhat @taygrls @person-005 

[undercoveravenger]

Part of the Pack

Pairing: poly hybrid!141 x Male!reader

Part 1: Click here

-----

After that moment on deployment when you woke up cuddled up with your teammates, your relationship with the 141 has changed and you’re not quite sure what to make of it.

Before, Soap had always joined you at mealtimes and Gaz’d drop in every now and again, but now the entire team clusters around you each day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Price has even joined Soap in loading up your tray with a frankly unreasonable amount of food at every meal and they both watch you expectantly as you try to make even a dent in the portion.

There’s also the gifts. Shiny things, mostly, left in your office or outside your door for you to find. You’ve come into possession of a number of rings and necklaces, and even a nice gold watch with an intricately inscribed face.

There’s other gifts too though, things that appear on your nightstand or set gently onto the pillow beside yours, travel mugs with coffee or tea or cocoa made exactly to your liking, granola bars, a high quality switchblade, even a tiny wood carving of a panther. Even with the light sleeping habits from years of service, you’d never been able to catch whoever was leaving things in your room for you.

To say the changes have thrown you off is an understatement, but it’s nothing compared to this moment. To this dingy bar with its too-dim lights and overplayed music with the 141 crowded into the booth around you, high on a successful mission and tipsy from the celebratory drinks, when Ghost tugs his mask up enough to expose his mouth and leans over to kiss you like it’s as second-nature as breathing.

You’re frozen, trapped in place by your surprise in the wake of his attention, and you can feel the low, satisfied pur that rumbles through him like thunder at the feeling of your lips on his. 

“No fair,” Soap whines as Ghost pulls away from you, clutching at you from your other side, “I had dibs on kissin’ ‘im first!”

And if that doesn’t have your reeling mind screeching to a halt. First?

You ignore Soap’s pouting for the moment as you examine your teammates with a new curiosity. Gaz’s eyes are dark where they flick between you and Ghost, hungry in a way you’d never seen him before. His wings tremble slightly behind him, like there’s electricity spiking through each individual feather. 

Price looks, well, not quite proud, but satisfied, like something he’s been waiting for has just clicked perfectly into place.

Soap takes hold of your jaw then, uses it to guide you back to face him and kisses you like he’s been dying to do it. His fingers slip back to twist into your hair and pull you closer, tongue pressing brief and teasing against your lip, and you have the distinct feeling he’d be on your lap right now if the booth wasn’t so tight.

“Wha-” you manage to gasp out when he pulls back to nose along your throat, tail thumping violently against the worn vinyl seat. “What’s happening?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?” There’s a fond chuckle from Price, and you catch the way his hand slips from Gaz’s shoulder down between his wings and the full body shudder it wrenches out of Gaz. “We’ve been courtin’ ya for goin’ on two months now.”

Wait, no - that couldn’t be - except it kind of had been, hadn’t it?

Price’s signals would’ve been the hardest to pick up on - his hand lingering just a few seconds too long after a pat on the shoulder, the way he’d corner you before an op to double check your gear, the weight of his eyes on you in the shooting range - what you’d thought had been judgement apparently admiration. The way he’d slip you the dessert from his MRE when the rest of the boys weren’t looking. 

And the more that you think about it, the more signs you can remember. The shiny gifts from Gaz, the way he’d damn near beam whenever he saw you wearing that watch - the way he’d been asking you to help him preen his wings, the way his pupils would blow wide when you’d say yes and the cute little huffs that’d come when you actually handled his feathers.

The little things Ghost had left you in your room (you’re not sure how you hadn’t realized it was Ghost before between the little panther carving and the stealth with which the gifts were delivered) and the way he’d let himself fall asleep against your shoulder on the flight home. Ghost doesn’t trust easy, and with good reason, but the way he’s been behaving around you…

And Soap - God, even if you hadn’t been able to see the signs from anyone else, you’re not how you hadn’t noticed his. That you hadn’t noticed the way those pointed wolf ears prick forward and his tail wags double time whenever he sees you, or how he’s so prone to draping himself against you with an arm over your shoulder or around your waist, especially after one of those long nights at the gym - the way he’d tuck his head into your neck after a workout, like he was trying to memorize the smell of you. The way he was always making sure you’d eaten or inviting himself into your room for a cuddle. You’d always assumed it was a wolf-hybrid thing if not just a Soap thing, but now that you’re thinking about it you’ve never seen him like that with anyone else except the rest of the 141.

“Oh,” you say, suddenly feeling rather foolish for not reading deeper into your teammates’ actions. Your eyes dart between the four of them again. “Really? All of you?”

“Think we’ll be too much to handle?” Gaz Kyle prompts, challenge burning bright in his clever golden eyes.

You huff a laugh and know he knows you too well, that he knows you can’t turn down a challenge, especially one with such a tempting reward. You down the rest of your drink and clamber out of the booth over Johnny. 

“I’ll get the tab and we’ll get outta here?” you call back over your shoulder as you head for the bar. 

You can’t fight back the grin that forms at the excited chorus of agreement behind you. Sure, you hadn’t seen it coming when they made room for you in their little family, but you’d be a fool to let something as incredible as them slip away from you.

[harryspet]

the island program | r.cameron

[warnings] dark!gray!rafe cameron x addict!reader, billionaire!rafe, obsessive rafe, pogue!reader, sober!rafe, rafe has a private island, rafe and reader with established relationship, kidnapping, descriptions of s ubstance a buse & withdrawal, praise kink, dom/sub dynamic, mental health themes, stockholm syndrome, rafe controls everything, spanking, DUBCON

a/n: I really wanted to write Rafe taking you to his private island :)

divider credit: @/h-aewo

In which the cure for your cravings is a softer life, a secluded island, and Rafe’s personal brand of discipline.

word count: 5.9k

rafe cameron masterlist

Rafe hadn’t heard from you in three weeks. He completed his important meetings, signed million-dollar contracts, and immediately tried to get in contact with you. You were always on his mind even though he was never on yours. He’d texted you about fifty times. No reply.

He’d gotten you that expensive phone so you could call if you needed help but you’d never used it when it was an actual emergency. You didn’t call him when you needed to be bailed out. You didn’t call him when you needed a ride from the bar. So stubborn. You’d walk the eight miles back to your motel room in heels. He was starting to believe you were doing this to spite him. 

You did call him, however, when you needed money for drugs. Rafe went in circles with you. You’d shun him when he didn’t give in. When he offered you shelter and let you get high within the safety of his expensive condo, you stole from him. 

It wasn’t always like this. At one point, you actually wanted help. That’s how you and Rafe met. A narcotics anonymous meeting in a church basement that smelled like mildew and cigarettes. It took him two years to actually get clean and that was thanks to the meetings, his sponsors, and his determination to finally fulfill his father’s wishes for his future. He relapsed about three times but now he had been clean for an entire year.

He thrived now. Without the influence of mind-altering substances, he could actually make good business deals. He could make a real future for himself. He grew up lucky but he wouldn’t waste that privilege any longer. He had crawled out of the hole and hoped you would follow behind him. 

Except you didn’t grow up as lucky as Rafe. He thought he was good for you. He recognized the sadness in your eyes. He knew what it felt like when the world was against you. Rafe often took what he wanted but he took his time with you. You needed a sponsor but sponsoring someone required a lot of trust. If you were any other girl, he would’ve devoured you whole. Your soft skin. Big, beautiful, tired eyes. Plump and raspberry-colored lips. Long curls that defied gravity, never tamed by a hair tie. Your uniform usually consisted of a pair of jean shorts and a worn hoodie that swallowed your frame. 

The first time he actually talked to you was outside of the Marlin Mart, after filling up his truck with gas. He wandered into the store for soda and a pack of gum but walked into a chaotic scene. The gas station owner had you by your wrist, shouting curses at you, while you tried to pull away from him, “Hey, hey, hey,” Rafe intervened quickly, “Let her go, man!”

“She’s a thief!” You twisted in his grip, eyes wild, defiant, like a cornered animal ready to bite. “Let me see what's in your pockets!” 

“I don’t have anything, old perv! Let me go!” You shouted back. 

“Let her go,” Rafe said again, placing a strong hand on the man’s chest, commanding, pushing him back, “Calm down, I’m paying for her.”

The man argued, of course, but Rafe talked him off the ledge. When Rafe turned back to you, he gave you a warning look. C’mon, I’m helping you not get arrested, he wanted to say. You gave in a moment later. You emptied your pockets. A bag of skittles, potato chips, and a can of Modelo. Rafe took in a breath, taking the items in his hands, and walked over to the gas station counter. 

You spoke to him the first time when Rafe found you outside, leaning against a tall ice box, “You didn’t have to do that.” 

Rafe gave you your items, wondering you were hungry and this was your sad excuse for a meal, “I’m Rafe, I’ve seen you at a few meetings.” 

You didn’t give away whether you really recognized him or not. It didn’t matter, Rafe had already memorized the details of your face. You could brush him off but he’d find a way to talk to you again. He wanted to know you. 

“Hmm,” Was all you said. 

“If you want a real meal, I could take you to the Wreck. We could talk about the program, and you know, recovery.”

“I don’t put out for gas station food and burgers,” When you rolled your eyes, sticking your hands in your jacket pockets, Rafe’s lips pressed into a thin line. 

“I’m not – not trying to be shady. It’s just been awhile since I’ve met someone under the age of thirty who’s in recovery. Just trying to be nice. It’s on me, you don’t have to give me anything in return.”

You used to look at Rafe like he was an alien. Like no one from his side of the island had ever spoken a kind word to you. You didn’t trust him. Rafe wasn’t sure if you knew how to trust anyone. Later, the two of you talked over bowls of hot gumbo. Well, Rafe did most of the talking. He talked about how hard it’s been maintaining his sobriety, how much he’s grateful for the sponsor that practically saved his life, and how much more control he feels over his life. 

Rafe always like control. It just took him so long to realize how much chaos all of the alcohol and blow were bringing to his life. He saw something spark in your eyes, a glimmer of something real, but it went away quickly. 

At the end of the lunch, you leaned across the table, a wicked smile on your lips, “I bet you know where the Kooks like to party. I’ve never tried any expensive shit. Maybe we could get fucked up tonight.” 

You hadn’t been listening. Not really. But he understood why. He would help you get to the other side of your problems. You were too beautiful to leave to your own demons. Rafe could save you. 

He should’ve known that you’d disable your location services. It slowed him down but Rafe had prepared for this. He had informats. Other druggies that would keep eyes on you and snitch on the dealers who sold to you. Sheriff deputies that gave him a call whenever you got booked into the county jail. 

He tracked you down to a motel, someone had seen you enter a room with some lowlife guy last night. They were lucky to have disappeared before Rafe arrived. Rafe couldn’t even count on two hands how many sleazy guys had to injure to the point of hospilization because he found them on top of you while you were out of it or because they had sold you something. 

Rafe knew you were starting to hate him. He could take the hate. As long as you were alive. 

Surprisingly, you weren’t passed out when he found you. You opened the door when he knocked. He could smell that you were newly showered, your hair freshly washed, but Rafe quickly spotted the remnants of last nights “fun” sitting on the nightstand. You were wrapped in a robe, a mascara wand in your hand, your makeup half done. 

“Who paid for the room? I know it wasn’t you.”

An eye roll, of course, “I have more sugar daddies than you, Rafe.”

“I’m not–” He stopped himself from arguing, “What are you getting ready for?”

“None of your business,” You turned away, marching towards the bathroom, “You worry so much.”

Rafe followed, standing in the doorway. He watched the way your hands trembled as you tried to paint your eyelashes. The tremors were new. Things were getting bad. How were things getting worse when his leash had tightened so much?

“Y/N,” Rafe said, tired, exhausted, “I want to help you.”

“And I never asked for your fucking help,” You said although Rafe knew you didn’t mean it, “I’m going away for a while. Gonna get out of your hair.”

His fingers tightened around the wooden trim of the door frame, “With who?”

“Always with the questions,” Even now, you were beautiful. Even with bloodshot eyes and track marks on your skin, “You can’t stop me.”

“I can. I have before. I’ll tie you down to the bed and stop you from hurting yourself.”

“What if I told you I was going to get help?” You looked at him and Rafe knew you were lying. All you did was lie, “My friend knows about this new treatment program. I’ve done every program this entire state has to offer. She’s gonna drive me there.”

“And you need mascara for rehab?”

“Anyways, it’s in Florida. Gonna make it a little road trip. You should be happy for me. I’m finally listening to you.”

“If you go, you’ll probably get yourself killed in a few weeks.”

“Fuck you, Rafe.” The mascara hit the sink with a clatter. You turned, fists flying at his chest. He let you. When the hits got harder, more frantic, he caught your wrists, then your waist. You weighed less than the last time this happened. You always forgot to eat when you were using.

He sat you on the edge of the bed, pinning your thighs when you tried to kick. It was nothing. Rafe was all muscle, all control. You were all bones and smoke.

“Ugh,” you groaned, still struggling, “What do you want, huh? I can do this on my own.”

“You can’t,” Rafe said, feeling like a broken record, “Come home with me. I’ll take care of you.” 

Rafe felt some of the tension in your body melt away, your shoulders sagged, and you let out a breath. You were considering it, he thought. Maybe you’d finally grown exhausted too. He loosened his grip and fixed his blue eyes on yours, “Hey, I’m serious,” He continued, “You need sleep and an actual meal. I promise there will be no hospitals, no doctors, just you and me.”

“Rafe,” You whispered weakly. He saw a glimmer of that innocent side he knew was inside of you. A little girl begging to be taken care of and loved, “I see the way you look at me…”

“What way do I look at you?” Rafe noticed it though he didn’t give it away in his eyes. Your legs parted slightly, your head tilted to the side as you looked him over. Your eyes became playful. 

“Like you think I’m pretty …. even like this.”

“I do,” Rafe said, his voice deep and sure, “I think you’re beautiful, Y/N.” 

“You can have me. You can have it.”

“Y/N-“

“I know you want to. I’d play nice. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

You smiled. Rafe’s heart was breaking in his chest. 

“And you’d want something in return,” Rafe spoke knowingly. You parted your lips to argue but Rafe continued. He stood tall, towering over your figure, “You think I couldn’t have already taken that from you if that’s all I wanted? It wouldn’t be hard even if you didn’t play nice. You’re weak. You’re fucked up every time I see you. Sad thing is, you’d probably let me do it over and over again if that meant you could score.” 

His voice hardened. The words landed like punches. And still, you didn’t look away.

“Stop,” That was all you managed. 

“That’s not all I want, Y/N. I want all of you. I want you safe. Clean. Sober. I want you to fucking listen to me not because you’re looking for your next fix. I want you to listen because I’m the one who gives a shit. Who’s going to give you everything you need. Guidance. Structure. Love. All of it.” 

You shook your head. You probably stopped listening in the middle of his rambling, “I don’t deserve that.”

“I’ll tell you what you deserve,” Rafe let out a breath. His rough hands nervously roamed over his shirt, buzzed hair, “Get your shit together. You’re not going to fucking Florida. If you don’t want me to have your friend arrested for possession then you’ll pack your shit and get in my truck.” 

You stood, shoulders squared like you wanted to fight, but you were shaking again. You’d burned through whatever energy you have left. You were hollow. Empty. Rafe could see it.

“You want to own me,” you spat, but the words lacked conviction. 

“I already have you, angel. That’s what I can’t get you to understand.”

That night, Rafe gave you another chance. Took you home. Let you put yourself together. Fed you until you were sick. It was routine. You relaxed, laughed a little, told him scraps of what you'd been through. You always smiled through the shame. You fell asleep against his chest during some movie neither of you were watching. He carried you upstairs. You probably hadn’t slept in three days.

The banging woke him up just after dawn. You were gone.

He moved downstairs, groggy and shirtless, drawstring pants hanging low on his hips. The banging was frantic. He opened the kitchen drawer and took out the syringe Barry gave him. He’d practiced. He was ready.

Rafe held the full syringe at his side as he approached the front door. There you were, wild and furious. “You locked me in? Open the door, Rafe! I’m serious, I can’t do this. Please,” Your eyes wandered down to his right hand, hanging by his side, “What’s that?”

Rafe slowly closed the distance between you. The rest had given you some of your strength back. Even as you scratched at his arms, Rafe kept you pinned to the door, “Rafe! Don’t! Please!” You screamed, tears in your eyes. 

He shushed you as the needle finally pricked the side of your neck. Your eyes were wide and sad, “It’s okay, baby. I got you,” Your eyelids started to droop and you pushed at him weakly. Rafe caught you when your legs finally gave out, “It’s okay, just sleep. I’m gonna take care of you.”

You sat up too quickly. You were going to be sick. Your seatbelt kept you in place. You squeezed at the soft, italian-leather of your seat. You tried to get your bearings. Your lips parted. You thought you were talking but your voice came out in a moan. 

You sat back, your body was weak, your head lolled to the side. A window. Clouds. A blue ocean. Your eyes fluttered until they were wide open, “Easy,” A familiar voice said. 

“What did you do?” Your voice cracked. You tugged at your seat but your fine motor skills were practically useless. You were so foggy. Not in the way you usually felt when you were coming down or withdrawing. That needle. He’d knocked you out. On purpose. “What the fuck did you do?”  

He was calm. Calmer than he’d ever been. 

“It was the only way. You were hysterical yesterday. And you haven’t been in your right mind for a long time,” You shook your head, “I made a decision. And you’re gonna hate me for awhile. But this is gonna be good for you. For us, too.”

You’d really done it this time. This was your fault. Why did you have to show the most unhinged side of yourself to him?

You were so angry at him. If you were honest with yourself, it wasn’t because you were sitting on his private jet, going to a foreign place. It wasn’t even because you actually hated him. It was because you knew that Rafe wasn’t going to let your skin touch another heroin needle, let your lips taste another sip of alcohol, or let you smoke another joint to mellow your withdrawal symptoms. 

Fuck, you thought. Fuck. Fuck. 

Despite the warnings from his business partners about the futility of the tiny island of Isla Brisas, five hundred miles from the Ecuadorian coast, Rafe had proved them all wrong. There was no long-lost treasure, but his plan had not led to Cameron Development's bankruptcy as they had predicted. Not only had his men found gold, but there was a good chance that the parts of the island that had yet to be explored would yield similar findings. 

His secret project. No one would ever disturb the two of you. No one would even be looking for you, he knew that. But he wanted you to feel like it was only the two of you in this world. No one on the island would consider helping you. The closest piece of civilization was thirty miles away on the Galapagos islands. 

The villa was tucked between a grove of palm trees. The backyard stretched into the soft slope of a green hillside. The front of the house had a winding, stone path that led to an infinity pool before a five-minute walk shaded by tropical trees took you to a private beach. White sand sparkled underneath the sun, kissed by turquoise waves.. 

There were no fences. No barbed wire. No obvious guards. But inside there were rooms with locks that clicked shut when he pleased. Windows that let in the sun during the day but provided blackout privacy at night. Staff that were local. Silent. Loyal. Bought. 

The first two weeks on the island happened in a blur. The bed was massive, the sheets always cool, even though your skin was often on fire. If you weren’t sleeping for hours at a time then you weren’t sleeping at all. You threw up everyday. Rafe was usually there, holding your hair, rubbing circles on your back. You begged him everyday to stop letting you suffer, to help you feel better. 

“I am making you better,” He’d always say. The only drugs he gave you helped your sleep and nausea, they didn’t get you high, and a week into the nightmare, he starting giving you something for the depression and anxiety. The depression was probably the worst symptom. 

He carried you from the bed, to the bathroom, and to the bathtub. He brushed your teeth, detangled your hair, and changed your clothes. You fought him in the ways that you could. It didn’t matter. Rafe did what he wanted. You kept trying to hate him.

One morning, you finally had the strength to pick yourself off the bed. You looked down at your hands and legs. Some of the bruising on your inner arms had started to fade, some had scarred. You could already tell there was more meat on your bones. Your stomach didn’t ache with hunger. You smoothed your hand down over your dress. The yellow night gown was light-weight, smooth and your fingers traced over the lacy floral designs that decorated it. It barely reached the middle of your thigh. And you were sure you’d never worn anything like this. You’d never worn anything this nice. Nothing so…delicate. 

You wobbled towards the master bathroom. It was so big that even your steps seemed to echo. You gasped when you saw your appearance. Tentatively, you touched the skin of your face, unsure that it was really yours. You looked brighter, your eyes were no longer sunken in, the darkness under your eyes had smoothed out. 

You looked away and wandered further into the bathroom. You took note of a modern soaking tub and a spacious shower with a rainfall shower head. You found the walk-in closet next, a heavy silence pressing against you. You were walking into someone else’s life, you were sure of that. It was neatly organized, large, and one side, from floor to ceiling, hung all of Rafe’s polished clothing.

On the other side was a stark contrast. Your fingers grazed over the soft fabric of a dress that was hanging at eye level. Silk, just like the one you were wearing, except this one would reach down past your knees. Soft hues of pink blush, pale golds, baby blues, and creamy whites filled the racks. More dresses. Skirts. Delicate. Frilly, even. The only pants you found were shorts and those were all silk as well. Pastel ribbons and lace. 

Your fists squeezed at your side. Did he expect you to feel happy? This wasn’t yours. This was the wardrobe of some island princess. Who did he think you were? You closed your eyes tight. God, you just wanted to get high. This would all be easier if you didn’t have to feel. You could handle this. You could pretend to be what he wanted if he just let you get high. 

You found Rafe on the balcony connected to the bedroom. Looking through the glass sliding door, you saw him leaning against the balcony’s railing, a phone pressed to his ear. The view behind him was dazzling. The sand was so white it was blinding. He wore board shorts and a cream-colored unbuttoned shirt. The conversation seemed tense. 

This was your chance. You weren’t sure if you wanted to step forward or to run. You took a step back but just as you did, his head turned. He said something into the phone that you couldn’t hear. You turned quickly, too fast, you felt a headache coming on. You hurried to the bedroom door anyways, padding over a soft carpet, before you tried to yank at the large, mahogany doors. They didn’t budge. Of course. 

You heard the glass doors slide open and the sound of crashing waves flooded your ears. 

“You’re out of bed,” He said. You turned, pressing your back against the door, and mentally cursed. Rafe looked different too. He looked happy, hopeful, “Look at you… you look so good–”

“Where is this place?”

“Far, far away.”

You pressed a hand to you forehead, “God, I feel like shit.”

“I know,” Rafe spoke, eyes understanding, “It’s gonna be a process. But you - you look better than you have in so long.”

“I don’t–”

“You really do,” Rafe took a step forward. He was so handsome. Sometimes you forgot. He was tall, commanding, and he seemed to be coming into his own even more as his business became more successful. You hadn’t even seen the rest of the house but you never understood until now how successful he’d become. It made your stomach twist,  “I love you like this.”

You shook your head defiantly, “At the detox clinic, they give you stuff to help with the cravings. Helps with the withdrawal. It’s too painful without. Just a small amount would help wean me off.”

“You’re not going to find a bottle of wine in this house. No pills. No stash under the sink. Best I can do is an ibuprofen.”

Your chest heaved and your eyes started to burn, “That’s not enough. You can’t just lock me up and expect me to raw dog my way through withdrawal.”

His expression didn’t change, even as your tears started to fall, “I hate to see you in pain. I’m here to take care of you but I need your cooperation. If you sit down on the bed, I’ll give you some pain medication.”

“I don’t want your fucking medicine!” Rafe’s jaw clenched, “Take me home!”

In a matter of seconds, he had you by your wrists, and was hauling you over to the bed, “You make this easier for yourself by listening. I’m done playing by your rules. I’m in control now. Do you hear me?” Rafe growled, pinning your arms above your head. His knees parted your legs and he pressed his weight onto you, “You are going to be obedient.”

“You can’t do this,” You whined, struggling beneath him, “You can’t fucking do this!”

“I can!” His deep voice rumbled across your skin, and for the first time, you were actually scared of him, “I’ve decided I’m not going to let you kill yourself. I’ve decided you’re going to live and this is the life I’m giving you. You’re going to do what I say, when I say it. You’re going to eat three meals a day, exercise, take your fucking vitamins, breathe fresh air, and you’re going to act like you’re happy until it starts to feel real.”

“Fine, okay – just let go – you’re hurting me–”

He scoffed. “Hurting you? After what you’ve done to yourself? After what you’ve let happen to you? I’m the one hurting you?”

And then his mouth was on yours. Crushing. Possessive. Final.

It felt like love. Even though all his weight was on top of you and he hadn’t asked for your permission. It felt like love because of how gentle and hot his kisses were against your lips, against your neck, and against your jaw. He squeezed you tightly but not to bruise. Not because he was getting off on your pain. 

It was a warm embrace. You tried to run from it. It was so overwhelming that he fit against you like a matching puzzle piece. Strong hips rocked against yours and it made you dizzy. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Your headache was gone, all you could feel was him, hard and heavy against you. 

He pushed the top of your nightgown to the side, took your nipples into his mouth, and sucked until your back was arching. “Please don’t,” You begged but the more you talked, the less you were able to hear yourself, “Rafe, I can’t.”

He sounded like an animal, a deep rumbling in this throat, vibrated against your skin. Like you’d denied him so long of his primal instincts. This was your fault. 

“So fucking beautiful,” It was out of your control. He’d decided that you were ready. He got you there easily. Rocking against your hips, grinding into you, making your juices soak through your lacy yellow panties. You were so ready that when he finally pushed inside of you, he met no resistance at all, “All mine.”

Your head tilted back just as a strong hand wrapped around your throat. You screamed but he didn’t stop. He went faster, thrusted deeper, “Look at you,” He spoke in a low rasp, “You’re gonna come already, aren’t you?”

You gritted your teeth. It was painful. You tried to push the pleasure away. He noticed and became relentless. You screamed again, “Fucking feel it,” he commanded, “Fuck, you’re fucking perfect. Made for me. You can take it. Fucking take it.”

Clenching around him, your body betrayed your mind. Reisting had made it worse. You convulsed around him and he tightened his grip around your throat. You expected a break, some sort of relief, when Rafe finally pulled out of you. Your muscles were still twitching, squeezing, your walls ached. You felt empty. 

He flipped your body easily. Your fingers clenched the sheets as he pulled your underwear down to your ankles. A series of spanks against your bare ass made you yelp but you kept still. He pressed his weight down on you again, sliding into your welcoming hole from behind. At this angle, he could go even deeper. He kissed above your ear, “Good girl,” Your lips formed a permanent “o”, “Stay like that. My good girl.”

You came again. This time because of the voice in your ear. It put you in a daze. You didn't know if you wanted to cry or to beg him to stop, but the words didn’t come. Only the sound of his praise, "Good girl," "You're perfect", each word tightening its hold on you, sinking deeper inside. Finally he softly said an, “I love you so much”. You hadn’t ever felt anything like this. Consumed and cared for. Used and loved. It was everything, all at once. 

Rafe didn’t sugar-coat his intentions. He was training you. You made the mistake of showing him that he could give you pleasure. That your mind melted when he was fucking you. He could make you chase after the orgasms. It was the only high he provided you. 

You ate all three meals provided to you and he’d bury his face between your legs on top of the kitchen table. You went out to the pool and swam with him instead of throwing vases, he fucked you hard against a lounge chair. You went a whole week without asking him for drugs and he’d fingered you until you lost your voice. You wore a bow in your hair, a pink mini dress he picked out, and sat in his lap while he worked in his office and you came for the first time with his finger in your ass. 

You’d replaced one addiction with another. You still thought about your old life almost every hour of every day but the pleasure took the edge off. 

The first time you’d seen another person other than a cleaning lady was when Barry, Rafe’s business partner, came to visit. He warned you to be on your best behavior. You saw it as a chance to be on Rafe’s good side for a long time. Maybe that meant you would be able to get away with more. Maybe that meant he’d do that thing again where he tied you down to the bed, put a vibrator on your clit, and made you cum over and over. 

They were out together, surveying whatever Rafe’s secret project was. He still kept all his business under wraps. All you knew was that there was gold involved. And you’d only heard that when you were eavesdropping on one of his calls. 

When they returned at dinnertime, you had dinner and a dessert ready. Grilled mahi-mahi and sweet potatoes for the entree and chocolate cake for dessert. You started early, knowing you might burn your first attempt. Luckily, you perfected the recipe on the second attempt. 

You chose a floral, white dress, one that was low-cut and showed off your ever developing breasts. You were slightly insecure about them but Rafe complimented your blossoming figure consisting. 

Rafe eyed you cautiously but Barry was more than impressed. You hugged Barry to greet him and you felt the man’s hands linger on your waist for a moment too long. 

You made conversation easily. Your tone was light, almost fake, but this was how Rafe wanted you. You smiled until it felt real. Barry thought all of his jokes were funny. You laughed politely. 

You served them both chocolate cake, leaning over each of them as you scooped a slice on to each of their plates. Rafe eyed you again, “After dessert, should we all get in the pool?” You asked, your eyes flirty and on Barry. He smiled, gold-tooth flashing. 

“That sounds–”

Rafe interrupted him, “You want a beer, Barry?”

Your heart pounded. Your lips parted, “A beer?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Barry responded, unaware of the tension between you and Rafe.

“Angel, could you get two beers for me and Barry from the fridge in the pantry? I had some flown in the other day,” You hid your hands behind your back, to hide how bad they’d started shaking. 

You hadn’t noticed any beers. Then again, you hadn’t looked in that fridge in awhile. What was he doing? Without another word, you turned on your heels and made your way to the pantry. To your surprise, and likely, your downfall, there was a pack of beers in the fridge. 

Shaking you picked up two. Just two. You stared down at them, cold, condensation dripping down the glasses. Fuck. You hadn’t chosen this. Rafe chose this. It was just beer. It wasn’t a hard drug. He didn’t have the right to do this. He was testing you. 

It took everything in you to walk back to the table and set them in front of each of the men, “Thanks, sweet thing.”

Still trembling, you sat back down in your seat. You were sweating. You watched both of them. Rafe’s strong hands twisted open his bottle. You sat eerily still as the men enjoyed their dessert and the alcohol. The conversation continued without you. 

You tuned back in when you heard Rafe say, “Why don’t you head out there, Barry, and we’ll join you in a second.”

Barry’s eyes flicked between you and Rafe, suspicious, before he said, “Sure.”

When the coast was clear, Rafe asked, “What are you trying to do?”

“What?” You asked though your attention was fixed on his glass. 

“You’re trying to get something,” Rafe said. Of course you were. All addicts do is use other people to get what they want. 

You didn’t move your eyes from the glass. 

“Hey, look at me,” And you did. It had become second nature. Do as your told, “You’re strong. You’ve been doing so good.”

“I’m not,” You disagreed.

Rafe tilted his head back, taking a sip, “You’re my good girl, right?”

“Yes,” You said quickly, “I’m trying. Maybe if I could just have a sip–”

“I know what you really want, Y/N, and you know I can’t give you that,” Rafe continued, voice steady, “You know what I can give you though.”

You nodded, “Okay,” You rubbed your hands nervously over your dress. Your palms were sweaty, “Can I have your cock, please? Can you make me cum?”

“Stand up, lift up your dress and bend over the table,” You did so quickly. You even made sure to pull down your panties. You were already wet. He didn’t need to warm you up. Sometimes you liked it better when he skipped the foreplay and went straight for what he wanted. You liked it. You had a purpose. You had love. 

He didn’t move immediately. He watched you. He took his time, finished his beer. 

“All this was because you wanted a reward, huh?”

“Yes, Rafe.”

His chair scraped against the marble floor as he stood. God, you were soaked. If he could just touch you –“You trying to manipulate me now? Use my friend to get what you want?”

“N-No–”

He spanked you so hard you screamed, one of your legs kicking up as you tried to fight through the pain, “Y-Yes, I-I’m sorry!”

“I know when you’re lying. I’ve always fucking known. You’re bad at it.”

“I’m sorry,” Another spank. You winced. 

“You’re not gonna have a sip of beer. You’re not gonna cum either, okay?”

“Rafe, please, I’ll be–” Five hard spanks. 

“Shut up, angel,” Five more spanks, “This is what this has all been about. Discipline. Not giving into temptation. You’re so close to getting it.”

Shame. You used to run from it. You were so ashamed of your life and your decisions that you wanted to feel nothing. With Rafe, you felt everything. Shame. Depression. Happiness. Pleasure. All of it. He didn’t let you run from it. 

He kept going until you were sobbing and your thighs were glistening with the need that had dripped down from your aching center. 

When he was done, he was out of breath. You were sorry. So sorry. He was right. You just needed more discipline, “Thank you,” You whispered, pulling your body from the table. Your body had grown stronger but you were still so much weaker than him. Part of you liked that, “Thank you, Rafe.”

You got down to you knees, “For what, angel?”

“For caring,” Your voice was so weak. You hugged his leg, rested your head against his knee, “Thank you for caring.”

He bent down, brushing a hand through your hair before trailing his fingers gently along your cheek. You leaned into his touch instinctively, eyes fluttering closed.

“I want you to go upstairs,” he murmured, “put on your swimsuit—the one-piece with the sunflowers. Then grab one of my belts and lay it on the bed and come back down.” 

“I’m going to spank you again tonight,” he continued, almost reverent. “And I want you to thank me again. Just like this. Just as perfect as you are right now.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. Trembling legs brought you up the stairs. You’d never felt like this before. You wanted Rafe to be proud of you.

Reblogs w/ your thoughts are the best way to support me! Please message me with drabble ideas for this au if you have any :)

[tokkiwrites]

summary: you own a local flower shop, and with each passing day, you notice the same man come byㅡ watching. you try to forget about him and try your hand at dating, but you didn't know you were his from the first day he laid his eyes on you. tags: obsessive/stalker!sergei kravinoff , afab reader, mention of violation, short mention of murder, mean sergei, degradation, unprotected p in v (spooky!), head m receiving, breath play, creampie, slight breeding kink. /ᐠ - ˕ -マ⁩ authors note 𑁯 ✿ happy spookytokki kinktober!! the last fic is her, wowza! i had so much fun writing all of these for you guys, n i hope you enjoyed them as much as i did. this has around 4.48k words, so it's the longest of the bunch. i loved the premise. >:) obsessive kraven and flower shop owner reader. remember, this is all fiction, and i dont encourage behavior like that in real life!!! anyway, maybe i will make it into a series. not betad!

It started in April. You remember because the daffodils had just come in, their yellow heads still stiff from the cold. You’d been wiping down the counter, lost in your routine, when you first noticed him— standing across the street, his eyes fixed on your window. He wasn’t a regular, not even someone you’d ever seen around town, but something about the way he stood there, hands buried in the pockets of his worn coat, made you pause.

He hadn’t come in that day, just lingered for a while before moving on. But the image of him stayed with you long after—broad shoulders, sharp features, his face caught in the shadow of his collar like he was hiding something.

That was six months ago.

Now, it’s October. The light is thinner, weaker, as you arrange chrysanthemums in small clusters. You catch sight of him again today, across the street like always. It’s not every day, but often enough that you’ve come to expect it. Sometimes, you wonder what he does in the moments between his appearances, where he goes. Why he always walk past but never stops.

You try to shake it off, focusing on the customer in front of you. An older man, looking for a dozen roses, but his words don’t quite register. You’ve seen the way Sergei watches the shop, the way his gaze follows people inside, lingering too long when you talk to other men. You shouldn’t care, but the thought of it—of him—sends a strange warmth flooding through you.

The old man clears his throat, and you snap back to reality, managing an awkward smile as you finish wrapping the bouquet.

“Thanks,” you mumble, handing it over.

Outside, Sergei is gone.

It’s three days later when the bell above your door finally rings, and he steps in. The air shifts with his presence, something heavy and deliberate in the way he moves toward the counter. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t soften the rough edges of his voice when he finally speaks.

“Do you have anything that lasts longer than a week?” he asks, his gaze holding yours in a way that makes it hard to breathe. His accent is faint, buried under years of elsewhere, but it’s there, just enough to make the question sound more like a demand.

You blink, trying to remember what he said. “Uh, the lilies,” you manage. “They—um, they hold up pretty well.”

He nods, eyes shifting to the bouquets behind you, though you can’t shake the feeling that he’s still looking at you, not the flowers. He doesn’t say anything. he just lets the silence stretch between you until you turn to gather a few stems. Your fingers tremble slightly, and you hope he doesn’t notice.

“You’re here a lot,” you say quietly, not sure why you decided to speak now, but needing to fill the space. “I mean… passing by.”

Sergei’s lips twitch, just enough to show the hint of a smile, but there’s nothing warm about it. “I walk this way often.” You nod, though the answer feels hollow, like it’s only part of the truth.

As you wrap the lilies, you feel his eyes on you, studying you, and something about it is thrilling in a way you don’t want to admit. When you finally hand him the flowers, your fingers brush his, just for a second. His skin is rough, cold, and the touch leaves a shiver running up your spine.

“Thank you,” he says, but there’s something strange in his voice, like the words are unfamiliar to him. Then, without another word, he’s gone.

By November, you’ve almost convinced yourself that it’s nothing. Sergei’s just a quiet man, someone who happens to walk by your shop. You try not to think about him too much, though that’s easier said than done. The men who come into the shop are kind, sweet even. You’ve gone out for coffee a few times, tried to meet their eyes, and pretend you felt something for them. But it never lasts.

None of them leave you breathless like Sergei does with just a glance.

And that’s the problem. You don’t know him. You know nothing about him, except the way he makes you feel—on edge, watched, but also... wanted. It’s confusing, this push and pull, this desire for someone you barely know. And it doesn’t help that, whenever you catch his gaze, there’s something dark in it. Something possessive. Something that makes you wonder what he’s thinking when he sees you talking to other men.

it's like you already belong to him; and you know it.

It’s late November when it happens again. The first cold snap has set in, the chill making your breath cloud the window as you adjust a vase of poinsettias. The shop is quiet, and you’re alone, lost in thought, when the door opens and Sergei steps in once more. His presence fills the space, the air somehow feeling heavier, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

“I’ll take the white ones,” he says, gesturing toward the lilies. His voice is lower this time, rougher, like he’s been thinking too much or not sleeping enough.

You wrap them in silence, aware of his eyes on you again. The tension between you feels thicker today, almost unbearable. As you hand him the bouquet, you can’t stop yourself from asking, “Do you ever buy these for someone?”

Sergei’s eyes flicker, narrowing slightly. For a moment, you think he won’t answer, but then he leans forward just a fraction, his voice low and controlled.

“No."

It’s just a word, but it wraps itself around you, a confirmation of something unspoken. You look down, feeling heat rise in your cheeks, and when you glance up again, he’s already turning to leave.

“See you soon,” he mutters before the door closes behind him, and you realize that you want to.

It’s late December now, and the snow has started to fall, gentle flakes that coat the windows of your little shop. The poinsettias are in full bloom, their deep reds and whites filling the space with a festive calm. But your mind isn’t on flowers today. It’s been difficult to focus lately—especially after last week.

That was the day Sergei saw you cry.

You hadn’t meant for anyone to see. The shop had been empty, the late afternoon light casting long shadows as you sat on the stool behind the counter, head in your hands. You’d just finished arguing with Mark, a guy you’d been seeing for a few weeks. Nothing serious, but you thought maybe it could be, until he said something that cut deeper than you expected. Something cruel, dismissive, about how you were "too quiet," how it was "hard to keep a conversation going with someone who never has anything to say."

You hadn’t even responded, too stunned by the way he looked at you, like your softness was some kind of weakness. So you let him leave, biting your lip until the door closed behind him. It wasn’t until later, when you were alone, that the tears came.

Sergei must have been watching from across the street, unnoticed as usual, though this time he didn’t just walk by. You hadn’t seen him enter, hadn’t heard the bell chime, but suddenly he was there, standing in the corner of the shop. Silent. His eyes were on you, sharp and steady, watching the tears slip down your cheeks.

For a moment, he said nothing. Didn’t ask if you were okay, didn’t offer any words of comfort. He just stood there, his expression unreadable. But something about the way he looked at you made you shiver—not from the cold, but from the feeling that he liked seeing you like this. Vulnerable. Soft and broken, just for him to witness.

You’d wiped your face quickly, embarrassed, pulling yourself together before he could say anything. And then, just as silently as he’d appeared, Sergei had left, the door closing softly behind him. You didn’t know what to make of it. The way his presence lingered after he was gone, like a shadow that clung to the edges of your thoughts.

It wasn’t until a few days later, after another argument with Mark, that things turned. Mark had come back, all apologies and excuses, but something about the way he spoke to you still felt off. He’d asked you to meet him after work, so you did, more out of habit than desire. The conversation hadn’t gone well. He was frustrated, saying things he didn’t mean, but the look in his eyes as he spoke made you flinch. It wasn’t until he grabbed your wrist—harder than he should have—that the tears started again. This time, not out of sadness, but fear.

What you didn’t know was that Sergei had been watching. He always seemed to know when you needed to be seen, always appeared at the edges of your world when you thought you were alone. Later, you would wonder how he knew where to find Mark. Whether he followed him, waited, or if it was just luck that they crossed paths that night after you’d gone home, shaken and silent. All you knew was that Mark never came back.

You didn’t see the violence, didn’t hear the crack of bone or the dull thud of a body hitting the ground, but when the news came days later—a body found in the river, no suspects—you felt the air in your lungs freeze. You tried to convince yourself it was a coincidence, tried to push away the gnawing suspicion in your gut. But when Sergei came into the shop the next day, silent and cold as always, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew. That he had done something.

It was snowing again when he walked in, the cold biting at the edges of the door before it clicked shut behind him. You were alone, rearranging the poinsettias for the third time that day, trying to distract yourself from the unease settling in your chest.

“You alright?” His voice was low, almost a growl, breaking the silence. His accent was sharper today, more pronounced, as if he was trying to draw you in with the weight of his words.

You didn’t look up right away. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though it didn’t sound convincing even to your own ears.

He took a step closer, his boots heavy against the wooden floor, and you felt the tension settle over you like a second skin. When you finally met his gaze, there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch. A darkness. Something more than just quiet observance. Something possessive.

“Mark,” he said slowly, testing the name in his mouth like it was something he had already chewed up and spat out. “He won’t bother you anymore.” You blinked, confused, the words hanging in the air between you like a dense fog. He wasn’t asking. He was telling you. And in that moment, you understood. “What did you do?” Your voice was barely a whisper, but you couldn’t tear your eyes from him.

Sergei didn’t answer right away, just watched you in that way he always did—intense, unblinking. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you expected, but no less terrifying.

“I did what needed to be done.”

Your heart raced, the realization sinking in. You should have felt scared, horrified even, but instead, you felt... safe. Like, in some twisted way, Sergei was protecting you, looking after you in ways no one else had.

It was wrong. You knew it was wrong. But standing there, in that small shop filled with delicate flowers and fragile stems, you felt something stir inside you—a recognition of the dark and dangerous things hiding just beneath the surface of his calm exterior. You should have told him to leave. You should have been afraid. But instead, you took a breath, nodded slowly, and whispered, “Thank you.”

Sergei’s lips twitched again, that almost-smile that never quite reached his eyes. Then, without another word, he came closer, the cold air from outside still clinging to him. "Is it wrong I want to kiss you right now?" he asks, voice rough, like the question wasn't even thatㅡ it was undeniable.

You couldn't speak. The words stuck in your throat as your pulse quickened. You should say something, anything. You should step back, put distance between you, but you didn't. Instead, your mind raced with a thousand thoughts, none of which seemed capable of grounding you.

Sergei's gaze flickered to your lips, his hand lifting slightly, like he might reach out and touch you but was holding himself back, his restraint barely visible under the surface. There was something raw in his voice, something that made your chest tighten because you weren't sure if it was wrong- or if it was exactly what you wanted too.

But it was dangerous. He was dangerous. You knew that now. You'd felt it from the start, Still, you stood frozen, much like the trees outside. You swallowed hard, finally finding your voice, though it was barely a whisper. "I don't know if it's wrong..."

His fingers brushed your jaw, slow, deliberate, as though testing your reaction. And then, so bitter, he murmured, ���Is it wrong that… I want to see you cry, but not by the hands of others?”

The words stood there between you, filling the space with something you couldn’t quite name. Your breath caught in your throat, a sharp, involuntary intake, the meaning of what he said settled over you like ice. You should have felt fear—anyone else would have—but instead, there was only that pulse of something in your core you couldn't ignore.

His thumb traced the edge of your cheek, lingering near your lips, his eyes still locked on yours. You tried to swallow the sudden lump in your throat, your heart pounding in your chest, but the intensity of his gaze pinned you in place, making it impossible to move or even think clearly. it all felt hazy.

You should step back, should pull away. This was crossing a line, a line you hadn’t even realized existed until now. But you didn’t. You stood there, the tension between you thick enough to suffocate, his words playing over and over in your mind until he spoke again.

Sergei’s hand moved to your chin, tilting your face upward, forcing you to meet his eyes. There was a heat there, something primal and raw, something he wasn’t hiding anymore. His voice, when he spoke again, was softer, yet somehow even more dangerous.

“I don’t want anyone else to hurt you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your lower lip, “but I want to see you break—because of me.” The confession should have terrified you, should have sent you running. instead, you felt yourself leaning into his touch, your body betraying the warning signs flashing in the back of your mind.

“Why?” you whispered, voice trembling. Sergei’s eyes flickered with amusement, as if he was mocking you. “Because,” he said slowly, his grip on your chin tightening just enough to make your breath hitch, “I want to know how far you’ll let me go.”

You could feel the space closing in, feel the weight of his words sinking deeper. It was a game nowㅡ his game, one you weren’t sure you knew how to play, but it was too late to back out. And somehow, some part of you didn’t want to.

you'd let him do it all. anything.

You stared at him, unsure of whether you should push him away or pull him closer. But the truth, the part you couldn’t admit to yourself, was that a twisted, hurt part of you wanted to let him see you break, wanted to be undone by him and only him. "Please kiss me." you manage to pull out from the pit of your soul, your senses filled by his smell mixed with the ones in your flower shop.

In one swift, consuming motion, he kissed you. It wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It was intense, fierce, like he'd been holding back for too long. His lips crashed against yours with a hunger that matched the heat rising in your chest. You felt his fingers thread into your hair, pulling you closer, as though he needed to feel you against him, needed to claim this moment.

And in that instant, all the fear, all the uncertainty, melted away. There was nothing left but him.

For a few seconds, he pulls away from the kiss, staring at your puffy lips and blushed cheeks, like he’s studying the effect he has on you, savoring it. "I want to have you crumble through my fingers and then build you up just to have you kneel at my feet again." It’s twisted, wrong, but it lights something inside of you, making you drip with arousal.

"You want this." he breathes against your lips, "I can see it." Sergei leans in, nose now flush to your neck as he huffs a deep inhale. "Smell it." you can feel him smile against the skin of your shoulder, palms riding down to cup your hips, grip not easing. "Feel it." he draws a long strip from the crook of your neck up to your ear, earning a soft moan from your parted lips. "Let me ruin you."

It wasn't a request but a demand, one that you were far too deep to deny him. the panties you had on were already soaked, and your hair stood up on end as Sergei trailed his calloused fingertips down your back. "Please..." it sounded so pathetic, weak, but that made him desire this even more. he listened to your pleads in no time, practically ripping the clothes off of you. the cold air hit your body, making it sting, nipples now pebbled. this was never something you imagined could happen, you fully naked and him fully clothed, scanning you as if you were his next full course meal.

"Kneel." this catches you off guard, but he's quick to notice the lack of response so he takes it in his own hands to make you obey. He roughly pushes you down to your knees, tapping the top of your head to look up at him. he's fast, unapologetic and carnal. he's what you're notㅡ what you need.

"Say you're sorry." The word cuts through the air, sharp and commanding, but you couldn’t understand why, it left you dumbfounded and for a split second, you just stare at him, breathless, unsure. "F-for what?" Sergei, ever attuned to your hesitation, doesn’t wait for you to respond. His patience isn’t one of his virtues, and you’re learning that quickly. he tuts, rolling i strand of your hair through his digits. “What do you mean ‘for what?’” he repeats slowly, his voice dripping with disdain, as though you should already know. “How many guys have you seen since you met me?”

Your stomach tightens at the accusation, the memory of each fleeting, empty attempt at connection flashing in your mind—Mark, and the others who never seemed to fill the space Sergei occupied without even trying. He leans down, his voice dropping to a near whisper, but there’s nothing soft about the way his words cut into you. “Even though you knew—felt—that you belonged to me?” it makes you realize you’d never stood a chance.

"Say it." you can feel the truth claw its way out. “IㅡI’m sorry.” a satisfied gleam flashing in his eyes. But the hunger remains. He isn’t done, not yet.

“Good girl,” your tummy flips as he says those words, a soft smile creeping upon your face. that feeling dissipates quick as you hear the buckle on his pants come undone and with a swift motion his zipper coming down.

"Show me how sorry you are." Sergei bites, taking out his hard-on and letting it spring free. your eyes widened at the sight. you'd never seen something so bigㅡ it was intimidating, but the churn in your stomach pushed you closer, slowly wraping your rosy lips around the tip. "yeah, like that. i wanna see you choke on my cock, c'mon." he says before thrusting deep in your throat, "Maybe if you weren’t such a needy whore.." he drags out "I would've fucked that pretty pussy like you wanted me to. But you don't deserve it. Not yet. You need to know who you belong to." he snaps his hips, the tip of his dick promptly hitting the back of your esophagus, drool and tears already dripping down your face.

for a moment he stops, and you feel him pull out a little bit, leaving only half of his shaft inside of your mouth, two of his fingers pinching your nose, cutting off your air supply. he was toying with you. "what if i keep you like this? make you sit like this, unable to breathe at all, with my cock down your throat... get you all dizzy and stupid." it was so sweet the way he said such bad things.

tears well up in your eyes, mind spinning as your heartbeat picks up, yet his hips don't budge and the pinch on your nose strengthens. "Look at me." and you do, all teary eyed and fucked out. Sergei's chest heaves up as he mutters a low 'God.', his other palm coming up to wipe your tears away. "You're so pretty like this." he lets go of your nose and you finally take in a big gasp of air just as he pulls back and burries his cock deep in your throat again making you gag. "So pretty when you cry."

his moves are deliberate, large palms on both sides of your head as his hips snap. drool pools from your mouth, falling onto your exposed thighs. you try to hold onto his legs for a little stability, but it was all too disorienting, so you were left at his mercy. with a few more harsh thrusts, he comes ropes down your throat and onto your tongue with a loud groan. "Swallow. All of it." You obey, the salty liquid now all gone from your mouth.

"Bend over the counter." you swiftly comply, scrambling to your feet. obliging his orders, you bend over the counter that still had a few petals scattered here and there, bare ass and cunt on full display. "mm.." sergei licks his lips before palming the small of your back "so pretty for me."

you completely shattered under his touch, his fingertips drawing small fires that spread through you in clusters, desperate whines escaping past your swollen lips. "please..." he roughly grabs you by the back of your head, leaning in to talk directly into your ear. "did i say you can talk?" you shake your head no, shuddering as you feel Sergei's beard rub against your pebbled skin.

pushing back your hips in gripe, you manage to get your face unwaveringly pressed to the countertop. "Don't be greedy now." With that, he nimbly plunged two fingers into your mouth, making you gasp. "Suck them like you did my cock." that's all you needed to hear, fleetly wrapping your lips around his thick fingers, sucking and swirling your tongue around them like there was no tomorrow.

pushing the fingers deeper, he wins a muffled gag, your tongue pressed flush against them. "yeah, good little whore." your walls were twitching around nothing, that familiar warm wetness spreading between your thighs that were parted by Sergei's knee. "Need'a prep youㅡ"

"No! pleaseㅡ hurry.."

he laughs, almost mocking you. "fuck, I'll tear right through you, little flower." Without any warning, he flips you over, fisting his shaft, aligning it with your fluttering entrance. "Filthy girl." inhaling a sharp breath, your muscles tense up as he plunges inside of your wetness all at once, with no warning. you writhe in pain for a bit, tears already spilling from the corner of your glossy eyes.

"Look at you swallowing me in." he groans, sinking his fingernails into the plush of your skin "c'mon, tell me you're sorry for being such an attention whore. apologize so i don't kill every man who looked your way." it was all so wrong, so dirty and vile, but it was making your tummy churn in excitement and blood pulse through your veins like nothing else. you felt so insane for liking the ideas Sergei put into your head, but you loved feeling insane as long as it was for him.

"I'm sorry, I'm so s-orry, pleaseㅡ" you moan as he drills deep into you, back flush to the cold counter. "Look at me. Look me in the eyes and apologize." he was so stoic, like he wasn't even destroying your insides right that moment. more tears fall from your eyesㅡ pleasure, fear, actually apologetic tears. you didn’t know which it was. but they fell like pearls. "I'm so-rry, 'm sorry, so sorry.." you were breathless, repeating those same words over and over again, as Sergei sped up his movements, your legs now closed together over one of his shoulders as he fucked into you with no remorse. "Shitㅡ fuck, 'm gonna come. gonna come so deep inside and make you keep it there, make you go to work with my come inside of you, fuck, you'd like that?"

"P-lease...pleaseㅡ! " With a loud plead, you reach your high, walls tightening around Sergei's shaft, causing him to growl. you were left shaking, thighs uncontrollably wriggling in the mans tight hold. with a few more pumps, he paints your walls with warm, white ribbons, panting soft 'you're mine's into the crook of your neck.

you cling to him, breathing in his scent as his seed slowly drips out from within you. you hear him hum before placing a soft kiss on the crown of your head. "my little flower."

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hellooo! I don't know if you've done a prompt/story like this yet but can I request where Oscar's daughter (who's around 4-5 years old) attends the bahrain gp (her second time attending after the Australia one) and he dedicates his pole position and win to her. (Because she thinks he lost the aus gp when she first attended) You don't have to make this but yeah. Also I love your stories so much!! 🫶🏻🩷

A win for her

The sun over Bahrain was just beginning to dip, bathing the paddock in that golden-orange haze that made everything feel just a bit more cinematic. The roar of engines had long since settled, but the energy was still buzzing in the air. Oscar stood on the podium, champagne bottle in hand, soaking in the cheers. He could barely hear them, though. All he saw was that little face in the crowd.

Wide brown eyes, pink earmuffs, and a tiny race suit with his car number stitched across the back—his daughter was practically bouncing in Lily’s arms.

He hadn’t planned to get emotional, but the moment he saw Yn lift her little hand and wave—just like she had done in Melbourne weeks before—his heart squeezed.

Back in Australia, she had been so excited. Her first Grand Prix. She’d worn the little team cap with pride, marched through the paddock like a seasoned pro, and sat in the garage with wide eyes, whispering “Go, Papa!” every lap. And then, when he hadn’t won, she had cried. Not out of anger or entitlement, just... heartbreak. She thought he had lost. Really lost. As if not finishing first meant he hadn’t even tried.

Tonight, Oscar had made a silent promise to himself: You’re gonna win this one. For her. So she knows.

And he did.

Before the Race/ Qualifying

“Papa, Papa, is your car gonna be faster today?” Yn asked as she clutched Oscar’s hand, her tiny fingers curling tightly around his.

They were walking through the paddock, just hours before lights out. The team garage loomed ahead, mechanics bustling around like ants with coffee in one hand and tools in the other.

Oscar glanced down at her. “I think so, sweetheart. I gave it a good pep talk this morning.”

“Did you really talk to it?” she asked, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Of course I did. I told it that if it makes it to first place, I’ll buy it ice cream.”

Yn gasped. “Cars can eat ice cream?”

He knelt in front of her, brushing a strand of her dark hair out of her face. “No, but they like it when you promise silly things. Makes them go faster.”

She giggled, leaning in for a hug. Oscar scooped her up and twirled her, the heat already rising in the desert air, but he didn’t care. Holding her close, even for a few seconds, felt like magic.

Lily caught up to them, holding a tiny water bottle and a team fan. “Alright, Yn, let Papa get ready. We’ve got your seat in the garage, remember?”

Yn pouted but nodded. “Okay. But tell your car to go really, really fast, Papa.”

“I will,” he said, setting her down gently. “And hey—if I win, it’s because of you, alright?”

She beamed, the kind of smile that could melt asphalt. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Qualifying was intense. The desert heat had dropped, but the track was still slick, and everyone was on edge. Radio chatter buzzed in Oscar’s ear as he pushed lap after lap, chasing milliseconds like they were gold dust.

And then—pole.

The garage erupted.

Oscar barely registered the cheers, his eyes immediately scanning the front row of the paddock. There she was—Yn, on Lily’s hip, fists in the air, shouting, “PAPA WON!” even though it was just qualifying.

When he came back to the garage, the first thing he did was kneel in front of her.

“You did it!” she squealed, nearly leaping into his arms.

“Well, not the race yet,” he said, laughing. “But it’s a really good start.”

“Did your car like the ice cream idea?” she asked seriously.

“It loved it.”

On Sunday, it was lights out, and away they went.

Oscar’s focus narrowed like a tunnel. Nothing but the car, the corners, the strategy. He could hear the team in his ears, feel the pressure behind him, but in the back of his mind—just beneath the surface—was Yn.

Every lap he completed, he thought of her watching. Every corner he nailed, he imagined her clapping. Every time he defended a position, he could see her tiny fingers balled into fists, eyes glued to the screens.

Lando was close behind for most of the race. The team warned him over the radio: “You’ve got two-tenths on him, keep it clean.” But Oscar wasn’t racing Lando.

He was racing a four-year-old memory. The image of his daughter crying quietly on Lily’s shoulder in Melbourne.

Not this time, sweetheart.

When he crossed the finish line, the radio exploded.

“Oscar, you’ve done it! P1, Bahrain Grand Prix winner!”

He couldn’t respond right away. His throat was thick with emotion.

Finally, he clicked the button. “This one’s for my daughter,” he said, voice cracking. “She thought I lost last time. I didn’t. But this time—this time, I won it for her.”

The podium ceremony passed in a blur—champagne, fireworks, confetti. Oscar’s eyes were constantly searching for Yn.

When he finally made it back down, he barely had time to take his helmet off before she was running toward him.

“PAPA!” she shrieked, arms wide.

He dropped to his knees just in time to catch her.

“You won!” she shouted, gripping him as tight as her little arms would allow. “You really really won!”

Oscar pulled off his gloves, pressing his forehead to hers. “I told you, didn’t I? We just needed one more race.”

She sniffled, and he realized she was crying again—but this time from happiness.

“I knew your car would like the ice cream,” she whispered.

He laughed. “Me too.”

Lily came over with a soft smile, pressing a kiss to Oscar’s cheek and smoothing Yn’s wild hair. “She hasn’t stopped talking since you crossed the line.”

“She deserves a spot on the team,” Oscar said, standing and carrying Yn in his arms. “Race engineer, team motivator, part-time sorceress.”

“Full-time car whisperer,” Lily added.

Oscar looked down at the girl in his arms. “Wanna join the post-race press conference?”

“Yes!” she yelled.

Lily raised an eyebrow. “She’s joking.”

Oscar shook his head. “I’m not.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🤍🦢

[rose24207]

My dad is a dumbass

Summary: Lucas is sent back in time to ensure his teenage father falls for his outcast mother instead of the wrong girl.

Genre: fluff, popular!Lando x bullied!reader, time travel

TW: bullying

A/N: I watched twinkling watermelon. SOMEONE SEDATE ME- anyways… *cough cough* English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

P2

Masterlist pt. 2

The moment Lucas felt the world spin beneath his feet, he knew something was very wrong. One second, he had been in his dad’s garage, tinkering with some old F1 tech Lando had insisted was too dangerous to touch, and the next?

He was here—standing in the middle of a high school hallway that smelled like sweat, cheap cologne, and regret.

Lucas stumbled, heart racing. The world had shifted—subtly, but undeniably. Everything around him was different. The posters on the walls advertised school dances from years ago. The fashion was outdated. The phones in students' hands were clunky.

His breath hitched.

This wasn’t just any high school.

This was your high school.

His parents had met here.

And from the way the students around him carried on, oblivious to the fact that a future-born kid had just dropped into their reality, it hit him.

He had traveled back in time.

And then he heard it.

A voice so familiar it made his stomach twist.

“Oi, Carlos, did you see that goal? Absolute beauty, mate!”

Lucas turned his head so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

There, leaning against the lockers, laughing with a group of friends, was Lando Norris.

Not Dad, the grown-up who nagged him about cleaning his room and told embarrassing stories to his friends. No, this was seventeen-year-old Lando—loud, confident, grinning like he owned the world.

Lucas nearly choked.

Holy shit. My dad is a dumbass teenager.

You always knew how to make yourself invisible. It was a skill you had mastered long ago—sitting in the farthest corner of the library, keeping your head down, never speaking unless necessary. It was safer that way.

High school had been unkind to you. The whispers, the taunts, the stolen lunch money—they had worn you down over time, molding you into someone small and quiet.

You thought you were alone.

Until a chair scraped across from you, and a boy you didn’t recognize sat down.

You stiffened, gripping your book tighter.

“Uh… do I know you?” you asked hesitantly.

The boy—Lucas, as he introduced himself—smiled, easy and relaxed. “Not yet.”

There was something strange about him. He didn’t feel like a normal teenager. His gaze was too sharp, too knowing. And yet… when he glanced at your book and casually remarked, “Pride and Prejudice? Classic,” you felt your heart stutter.

Nobody had ever paid attention to what you read.

“You’ve read it?” you asked, voice skeptical.

Lucas smirked. “More times than I can count.”

A flicker of warmth spread through your chest.

You hadn’t had a real conversation with someone in months.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel so alone.

Lucas had a problem.

His dad was an idiot.

A lovesick idiot.

And not for the right girl.

Her name was Jessica. And she was, in Lucas’ professional opinion, the worst person on the planet.

She was the kind of girl who faked sweetness when people were watching but turned venomous the second they weren’t.

And seventeen-year-old Lando was eating right out of her perfectly manicured hand.

Lucas watched in horror as his father practically tripped over himself trying to impress her.

“She’s so obviously playing you,” Lucas muttered under his breath.

Carlos, standing nearby, gave him a weird look. “Do you know Lando?”

Lucas coughed. “Uh, no.”

Carlos shrugged. “Then why do you care?”

Lucas clenched his jaw. Because if my dad doesn’t stop being a dumbass, I might never be born.

He had to fix this.

The first time Lucas tried to break them up, it was simple.

He “accidentally” spilled his entire drink on Jessica’s very expensive designer bag.

“Oh my God!” she screeched, jumping back like she had been set on fire.

Lucas put on his best innocent face. “Oh no. I’m so sorry.”

Lando, ever the gentleman, immediately started panicking. “Jess, I’ll fix it, I swear—”

But Jessica was too busy throwing a tantrum about her ruined bag.

She stormed off.

Lucas grinned, satisfied. Problem solved.

Until the next day, when Lando was still mooning over her.

Lucas groaned. This is going to be harder than I thought.

Lucas wasn’t just here to make sure his parents fell in love.

He was here to protect you.

And it didn’t take long for him to see how much you needed it.

You never told him what was happening, but he saw it.

The girls whispering behind your back. The stolen lunch. The tripping in the hallways.

Lucas’ hands clenched into fists.

One day, he caught a group of girls sneering as you walked past.

“She’s so weird.”

“I heard she eats lunch alone every day.”

Lucas saw red.

“Funny,” he said loudly, making them freeze. “I was just thinking how weird you guys are.”

The leader, a blonde girl with too much makeup, scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“You spend all your time talking about someone who doesn’t even know you exist,” Lucas said, crossing his arms. “Kinda pathetic, don’t you think?”

Their faces burned red before they stormed off.

Lucas smirked. That’s what I thought.

Later that day, you hesitated before looking at him. “Why did you do that?”

Lucas shrugged. “Because you don’t deserve it.”

You swallowed, blinking rapidly. “…Thank you.”

Lucas softened. “Anytime, Mum.”

You didn’t hear that last part.

Lucas had to be tactical.

He orchestrated run-ins between you and Lando.

He got you both paired as lab partners.

He even tripped Lando once just so he’d fall into your arms (which earned him a very suspicious glare from his dad).

And finally, finally, Lando started to notice you.

Lucas saw it—the way his dad’s eyes lingered too long, how he smiled softer around you.

It was working.

Until Jessica struck again.

She cornered Lando after school, batting her lashes. “Landooo, come to the party with me?”

Lucas froze.

If Lando went, he’d fall right back into her clutches.

Thinking fast, he jumped in. “Oh, he can’t.”

Lando blinked. “I can’t?”

Lucas clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Nope! He already has plans. With her.”

He pointed to you.

You turned scarlet. “W-what?”

Jessica scoffed. “Since when?”

Lucas grinned. “Since now.”

Lando looked at you, hesitant but intrigued.

“…I guess we have plans?”

You bit your lip. Then—shyly, hesitantly—you nodded.

“I guess we do.”

Jessica huffed and stormed off.

Lucas smirked. Checkmate bitch.

Days later, Lucas watched as Lando walked you home, a soft smile playing on his lips.

Lucas grinned.

His work here was done.

Now…

He just had to figure out how to get back home.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @hmma3 , @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris

[lemonsdietcoke]

A Pearl - Player!230

Dark!Choi Su-bong/Thanos x Fem!Reader

Warnings: emotional and physical abuse, NONCON/DUBCON,substance abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, toxic relationships, childhood trauma

Summary: “I fell in love with a war, and nobody told me it ended.” You thought love was supposed to hurt. That it meant holding on when everything burned. Inspired by ‘A Pearl’-Mitski

MINORS DNI

A/n: this story is super heavy so just be prepared going into this. This is probably the darkest thing I’ve written. Also the bold means it’s a flashback. Lmk if yall fw. I love feedback. Lmk what you think!!

……………..

The house is too quiet.

Not the quiet that lulls you to sleep, the kind that hums with the soft rhythm of peace. No. This quiet is suffocating. It weighs down on your chest, fills your throat until you can’t swallow properly, and presses against your ears until every little sound feels magnified. The ticking of the clock is too loud. The hum of the refrigerator rattles through the walls like a warning. And the silence, that awful silence, screams louder than anything else.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the springs groaning under your weight as though the house itself is protesting your stillness. Your fingers move without thinking, the chain of your necklace twisted between them. You tug it forward, letting the locket fall into your palm. The cool metal feels heavier tonight, like it knows something you don’t. You trace the shape of the rose etched into the surface—a small, intricate carving, its petals curling toward the center where the gold is worn smooth from years of touch.

When you were a child, you’d thought the rose was magic. Your parents had given it to you for your twelfth birthday, saving for months to afford something so fine. Your father had clasped it around your neck with careful fingers, your mother watching with teary eyes, saying it was for the little lady you were becoming. You’d carried it with you everywhere, opening the locket a dozen times a day just to see the tiny, faded photo inside—a family portrait taken before everything went wrong. The three of you, smiling despite the faded edges of your clothes, despite the peeling wallpaper behind you. Your father’s arm was wrapped tightly around your mother, and she was holding you on her lap, her hand tucked over yours. You remember the way her hair smelled like rosemary, the way your father’s laugh used to make your chest flutter.

You hadn’t worn the locket in years, not until him. Not until Su-bong had found it in your drawer, tucked away like a secret. “What’s this?” he’d asked, holding it up in the air between two fingers, his expression teasing but curious. When you’d hesitated, he’d snapped the clasp open before you could stop him, his brows raising slightly at the photo.

“Wow,” he’d said with a lopsided grin, tossing it back into your lap like it didn’t matter. “Didn’t know you were the sentimental type.”

You’d put it on that night, your chest burning with embarrassment. You’ve worn it every day since, the metal resting against your skin like armor.

Now, it feels like a lifeline. You wrap your hand around it tightly, letting the edges dig into your palm. The chain pulls against your neck, but you don’t loosen your grip. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded as your thoughts spiral. He left hours ago—another night, another excuse. He hadn’t even stopped to look at you when you asked him to stay.

“Do you really need to go? It’s already late.”

He’d barely paused to shove his shoes on, his hair falling into his face as he fumbled with the laces. His jacket had hung off one shoulder, sloppily thrown on in his hurry to leave. “Don’t start,” he’d muttered, voice low and clipped.

“I just—Su-bong, please.” Your voice had cracked, small and unsure, the way it always did when you tried to hold him back.

That was when he’d stopped. Just for a moment. He’d looked up at you then, a flash of irritation cutting through the haze in his eyes. “I won’t be long,” he’d said, his tone sharp enough to make you flinch. Then he was gone, slamming the door behind him hard enough to make the picture frames rattle against the walls.

He hasn’t come back. You’re not sure if he will.

You glance at the clock on the nightstand. 2:47 AM. The seconds tick by, loud and relentless. You press the locket against your lips, as though the cool metal might soothe the heat rising in your throat. The ache in your chest twists tighter, suffocating and raw, and you force yourself to stand.

The bedroom is dark, lit only by the faint yellow glow of the streetlamp outside. The shadow of the blinds cuts across the walls like a cage. You make your way to the window, each step slow and deliberate. Your legs feel heavy, your bare feet brushing against the cold floor. The night outside is still, the air thick with fog. You half expect to see him stumbling down the street, his head tilted to one side, his steps uneven. But there’s nothing. Just the empty road stretching out into the dark, a void that swallows everything in its path.

Your stomach churns. You don’t even know why you bother looking for him anymore. He never answers your texts when he’s out. He never picks up his phone. He always comes back when he wants to, not a moment before, and when he does, it’s like you’re supposed to forget he ever left. “What are you so worried about?” he always says, brushing you off like you’re a child. “I’m fine. Just let it go, babe.”

He never understands why you can’t let it go.

Your fingers shake as you unlock your phone, scrolling through your empty messages. The last text you’d sent hours ago—“Let me know when you’re on your way home.”—sits unread, untouched. You’d stared at the screen for so long that your eyes had blurred, waiting for the little dots to appear. They never did.

You close the app and toss the phone onto the bed, breathing out shakily. Your chest tightens as you imagine him laughing somewhere, his hand wrapped around a bottle, surrounded by people who don’t care that he’s tearing you apart piece by piece. He’ll come home eventually, his breath hot and sour against your skin, his hands rough and insistent. You’ll let him touch you, because it’s easier than saying no. Because it hurts too much to fight him when he’s like that. Because at least when he’s touching you, you know where he is.

The thought makes your stomach turn. You press your hand to your mouth, your breath shaking against your palm. The metal of the locket digs into your skin again, grounding you, keeping you here, when all you want to do is disappear.

The house is too quiet. The clock ticks louder.

And he’s still not here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The light in the hallway buzzes faintly, flickering every so often. You’re leaning against the bathroom door, your back pressed flat against the wood, knees curled up tight to your chest. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, too fast, too loud, until it feels like your whole body is vibrating with it. You can hear him on the other side—his voice rising, slurring, vibrating with that sharp, manic edge that always makes your stomach churn.

“Open the door!” His fist collides with the wood, hard enough to make the frame rattle. “Don’t fucking ignore me!”

The sound sends a jolt through your body. Your hands grip the locket around your neck so tightly the edges press into your palm, the thin gold chain pulling taut against your skin. You don’t even notice the sting. You’re not thinking about anything except how close he sounds. How loud. How angry.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your breathing shallow, uneven. You tell yourself to be quiet—don’t make a sound, don’t move—but your body isn’t listening. Your knees are shaking so badly they knock against the door, the vibration rattling the hinges.

“I’m not gonna fucking ask again!” The next hit is harder, a sharp, jarring kick that makes the whole door shudder. You gasp before you can stop yourself, slapping a hand over your mouth, but it’s too late.

“Oh, so now you’re scared?” he sneers, his voice dropping low and venomous. You can picture the way his lips curl when he says it, that smug, mocking smile that always makes your stomach turn. “What, you think this door is gonna save you? You think I won’t fucking break it down?”

The door shudders again—another kick, harder this time, and you flinch so violently that your head knocks back against the wood. A crack splinters through the frame, faint but audible, and you can feel the panic crawling up your throat.

You press the locket tighter against your chest, the rose etched into its surface digging into your skin. You focus on the weight of it, the coldness of the gold, the soft click of the clasp when it used to open. Anything to keep your mind from spiraling too far. But it’s not enough. Nothing is enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Earlier That Night~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night had started quietly, the house dimly lit as you waited for him to come home. He’d promised you that morning, “I’m staying in tonight, alright? No bullshit.” You hadn’t believed him—not really—but some part of you had wanted to. Some part of you had clung to that tiny, fragile hope like it meant something.

When the door slammed open hours later, you knew.

You’d smelled the whiskey first. It clung to him like a second skin, sharp and sour, mixing with the faint scent of cigarettes that always seemed to follow him. His steps were uneven, his hand gripping the doorframe for balance before he stumbled further inside. He didn’t look at you, didn’t say anything. He just went straight for the kitchen.

You’d stood in the doorway, your chest tightening as you watched him dig through the drawers, muttering under his breath. When he pulled out the pill bottle, your heart dropped.

“Seriously, Su-bong?” you said, your voice sharp before you could stop yourself. “You’re already drunk.”

He didn’t even look at you. He popped the cap off with a flick of his thumb, dumping two pills into his palm and swallowing them dry. “Relax,” he muttered, like you were the one being unreasonable. “I’m fine.”

Something in you snapped. You crossed the room, grabbing the bottle from his hand and slamming it onto the counter. The sound was loud, jarring, but it didn’t make him flinch. If anything, he looked bored.

“Fine?” you snapped. “You can barely fucking stand, and you think you’re fine?”

That got his attention. He turned to you, his gaze narrowing, sharp and calculating even through the haze. A slow, bitter grin spread across his face.

“Oh, so now you’re the expert, huh?” he said, his voice low and mocking. He stepped closer, the smell of alcohol making your stomach churn. “Since when do you give a shit what I do?”

The casual cruelty of it made your throat tighten, your anger dissolving into something smaller, something more fragile. You tried again, softer this time.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said, your voice quiet, careful. “Just… stay home tonight. Please.”

For a second, you thought he might listen. His gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw tightening. He looked tired. Worn out. You could almost see the man you used to know beneath the haze.

But then he shook his head, huffing out a bitter laugh. “I can’t stay here all night listening to your shit.”

You stepped in front of the door before you could stop yourself, your chest tight with something between panic and determination.

“You’re not going anywhere,” you said, your hands trembling as you tried to sound steady.

His head snapped up, his gaze locking on yours. His face twisted into something colder, sharper, and for the first time that night, you felt the first flicker of fear.

“Move,” he said, his voice low and clipped.

You shook your head. “No. I’m serious, Su-bong—”

It happened too fast. One second he was standing there, and the next his hand was wrapped around your arm, gripping so tightly you gasped.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” he snarled, dragging you to the side like you weighed nothing.

Your other hand shot out instinctively, pushing against his chest as hard as you could. He barely stumbled, but the movement seemed to snap something in him. His hand jerked, his grip tightening until you felt the sharp pinch of his nails digging into your skin.

“You fucking bitch,” he spat, and that’s when you ran.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your breath is coming too fast, too shallow, making your head spin. The pounding on the door has stopped, but you don’t feel any relief. Not yet.

“You’re so fucking pathetic,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less venomous. “Hiding in there like a fucking child. You think I need this shit? You think anyone else would put up with you?”

The words hit harder than his fists ever could. Your hands tighten around the locket until the rose leaves an imprint in your palm, the edges sharp and unforgiving.

You don’t respond. You don’t move. You just sit there, shaking, waiting for him to leave.

Eventually, he does. The front door slams behind him, and the silence that follows is heavier than the noise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The clock’s ticking feels slower now, like it’s dragging time with it. The minutes stretch and warp until they don’t feel like minutes anymore. Just this endless, dragging ache that lives in the pit of your stomach and refuses to leave.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table now, your phone lying in front of you, facedown like it’s mocking you. There’s a mug of tea in your hands, untouched. It’s lukewarm now, the steam long gone, but you don’t put it down. You hold it tightly, your fingers wrapped around the ceramic, because at least it’s something to hold. At least it gives your hands something to do besides tremble.

The house is dark except for the faint glow of the light over the stove. It casts long shadows across the counters, over the piles of unopened mail and empty bottles that have been gathering there for weeks. You keep meaning to clean, but every time you think about it, your body refuses to move. It’s hard enough to get out of bed most days, let alone scrub the smell of him out of the walls.

You glance at your phone again, your chest tightening as though it might vibrate, might light up with his name. It doesn’t. It never does, not when you’re waiting like this. You should be used to it by now, but the sting of it never dulls.

The worst part is, you don’t know if you want him to come home.

You close your eyes, letting your head drop forward, the heel of your hand pressing against the locket that hangs around your neck. The edges of the rose dig into your skin, sharp enough to leave marks. It grounds you, keeps your thoughts from spinning too far out of control.

But the memories are harder to stop. They come rushing in like they always do, filling the silence with the sound of his voice, his laugh, the way he used to look at you like you were something soft, something beautiful, something breakable. He doesn’t look at you like that anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You can still see the first time he smiled at you—really smiled, that kind of stupid grin that made your chest feel too full. You’d been sitting across from him at some shitty little diner, your fork pushing around a plate of cold fries while he talked about some dream he’d had, something ridiculous about a casino and a dog wearing sunglasses. It wasn’t even funny, but the way he told it made you laugh so hard your face hurt. You’d leaned forward, your elbows on the table, and he’d just stopped. Mid-sentence, he’d stopped, like he couldn’t believe you were there.

“You’re cute,” he’d said, simple and easy, like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would stick with you for years.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You open your eyes and the memory dissolves, slipping away into the dark like it never happened. You feel stupid for thinking about it, for still holding onto those pieces of him like they mean something. Like they haven’t been buried under all the yelling and the slammed doors and the nights you spent wondering if he’d ever come home.

You set the mug down on the table, your hands shaking slightly as you fold them in your lap. The quiet feels heavier now, pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

What if he doesn’t come back this time? The thought creeps in before you can stop it, wrapping itself around your throat like a noose. It’s not the first time you’ve wondered, but it’s the first time it’s felt real. Like a possibility instead of a threat.

You try to tell yourself that you’d be fine if he didn’t. You’d figure it out. You’d get up tomorrow, make coffee, go to work, clean the house, move on. But the thought of it—of him not being here, of him leaving without even a word—makes your chest feel like it’s caving in. You clutch the necklace tighter, the chain pulling taut against the back of your neck.

He always comes back. He always does.

But what if this time is different?

The clock ticks louder. The house is too quiet.

And you’re still waiting.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The door slams hard enough to shake the walls. You feel it in your chest, a dull, rattling thud that echoes through the quiet house. Your stomach twists, the dread rising so fast it feels like a sickness. You already know how this night is going to end.

You’re still sitting at the kitchen table, the cold mug of tea in front of you. It’s been hours since he left, and you’d given up hope of him coming home sober somewhere around midnight. But now that he’s here, a part of you wishes he’d stayed gone.

You hear his footsteps before you see him, the uneven shuffle of his boots dragging against the floor. When he stumbles into view, it’s like you’ve summoned him with your thoughts. His hair is messy, sticking to his forehead with sweat, and his jacket is hanging off one shoulder. He looks at you, his eyes glassy, his mouth curling into a sloppy grin that makes your chest ache.

“There you are,” he says, his voice low and hoarse. He sounds almost affectionate, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it, the kind that makes your throat tighten.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Your hands are clenched in your lap, your nails digging into your palms. You’re trying to stay calm, trying to keep your breathing even, but your heart is already pounding.

He doesn’t seem to notice. He walks toward you, his movements slow and unsteady, and leans against the table with one hand. The other hand reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from your face.

“Why are you sitting here all alone?” he murmurs, his tone soft now, almost sweet. The contrast makes you want to scream.

You pull back slightly, your jaw tightening. “Where were you?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You hate how small you sound, but it’s all you can manage.

His grin falters, and for a second, something colder flickers across his face. “Don’t start,” he mutters, standing up straight. “I don’t want to hear it right now.”

“I’ve been waiting for hours, Su-bong.” You can hear the edge creeping into your voice now, but you can’t stop it. The anger is bubbling up, sharp and bitter, mixing with the fear in your chest. “You said you’d be home—”

“I said, don’t start,” he snaps, cutting you off. His voice is louder now, the sharpness in it making you flinch. He takes a step closer, and you can smell the alcohol on his breath, heavy and sour. “What’s your problem, huh? Why do you always have to make a big fucking deal out of everything?”

Your throat tightens, the words you want to say choking on the way up. You look away, your gaze dropping to the table. You can’t do this tonight. You can’t fight him when he’s like this.

But he doesn’t let it go.

“Look at me,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less demanding. He reaches for your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “Why are you so mad, huh? You missed me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t move. You just stare at him, your chest tight with a mix of anger and something that feels too much like fear.

His thumb brushes against your cheek, and his mouth curls into that lopsided grin again. “Come on, baby,” he murmurs, leaning down until his face is inches from yours. “Don’t be like that.”

The kiss is sudden, his lips pressing against yours hard enough to make you pull back instinctively. You turn your head, breaking the contact, but his hand moves to the back of your neck, holding you in place.

“Su-bong, stop,” you say, your voice shaking. You try to push him back, but he doesn’t budge. His grip tightens, his other hand sliding down to your waist.

“You’re so tense,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your ear. “Relax.”

You push harder this time, your hands pressing against his chest, but it only seems to annoy him. His movements become rougher, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulls you to your feet.

“Stop it!” you cry, your voice rising in panic. “I don’t want to—”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” he snaps, his voice low and sharp. He spins you around, pressing you against the edge of the table, his body trapping yours in place.

Your heart is pounding now, the fear clawing its way up your throat. You keep trying to push him away, but he’s stronger, and he’s not listening.

The locket around your neck catches on the edge of the table, the chain pulling tight against your skin. Your hand shoots up instinctively, clutching it, your fingers trembling as you press it against your chest.

“Su-bong, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking.

He doesn’t answer. His hands are on your hips now, his grip bruising as he pulls you closer. The tears sting at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t let them fall. You don’t move. You don’t fight. You just stare at the wall, your breathing shallow, your fingers clutching the locket like it’s the only thing holding you together.

You can hear him murmuring something under his breath—something about how good you feel, how much he missed you—but the words blur together, lost in the haze of your thoughts. You’re not here anymore. You’re somewhere else. Somewhere quiet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house is still. The only sound is his breathing, slow and heavy as he lies beside you, one arm draped carelessly over your waist. You don’t move. You don’t even blink.

The locket is still in your hand, the imprint of the rose etched into your palm. You stare at the ceiling, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, and try to ignore the ache between your legs.

The tears come later, after he’s asleep. You press your face into the pillow, your shoulders shaking as you cry silently into the dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The car engine rumbles beneath you, a low, uneven growl that vibrates through the seat and into your chest. Su-bong’s hand is loose on the wheel, his other arm resting on the open window as the wind whips through the car. He’s not driving fast, but the way he keeps drifting too close to the curb, jerking the wheel at the last second, makes your stomach twist.

You press your hand against your thigh, trying to keep it from shaking, and force your gaze to stay on the road. You don’t want to look at him. You don’t want to see the glassy, unfocused look in his eyes or the faint grin that keeps twitching at the corner of his mouth. He hasn’t said much since you left the bar—just a few muttered curses under his breath, his jaw tight and his grip on the wheel tightening every time he takes a turn too sharply.

You want to tell him to stop. To pull over. To let you drive. But the words stick in your throat, thick and heavy, like a stone weighing you down. You know how that conversation will end. He’ll snap at you, tell you to relax, accuse you of trying to control him. And you’re too tired to argue. Too tired to do anything except sit there and hope the car doesn’t drift too far into the wrong lane.

The silence feels heavier than the rumble of the engine.

“You embarrassed me,” he mutters suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet like a crack of thunder.

You flinch, your hands tightening in your lap. “I wasn’t trying to,” you say quietly, your gaze still fixed on the road ahead.

He snorts, shaking his head. “Really? Because, You had to make a fucking scene, didn’t you? In front of everyone.”

The heat rises in your chest, sharp and stifling, but you press it down. You’ve gotten good at that—at swallowing your anger, letting it fester somewhere deep inside where it can’t escape. “I wasn’t trying to make a scene,” you say again, your voice quieter this time. “I just… I didn’t want you to drink anymore.”

“Why do you care?” he snaps, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. His grin is gone now, replaced by that sharp, mocking sneer that makes your stomach churn. “What’s it to you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t trust yourself to.

The car jerks suddenly as he swerves to avoid a parked car, and your heart leaps into your throat. He laughs—a short, bitter sound that makes your skin crawl—and slams his palm against the steering wheel. “Relax,” he mutters, his voice dripping with irritation. “Jesus, you’re so fucking tense all the time. It’s not that serious.”

It feels serious. Everything about this feels serious—the car, the road, the weight of his anger pressing down on you like a hand around your throat.

You don’t say anything else for the rest of the drive. You just stare out the window, watching the dark streets blur together, and press your hand against the locket around your neck, the edges of the rose digging into your skin.

~~~~~~~~~

The house looks worse than the last time you saw it, though you’re not sure how that’s even possible. It’s his friend’s place. The place they all went to drink themselves into oblivion, and share drugs.

The porch sags under its own weight, the roof dotted with holes that make it look like it’s caving in. The windows are either boarded up or covered with newspaper, and the light above the door flickers weakly, casting the entire place in a sickly yellow glow.

Su-bong doesn’t wait for you to follow. He slams the car door shut behind him and walks up the steps, his boots heavy against the rotting wood. You hesitate for a moment, your hand still resting on the car door, and try to swallow the lump in your throat. You don’t want to go in there. You don’t want to see his friends, to feel their eyes on you, to sit in that awful, stifling air and pretend you’re okay.

But you don’t have a choice. Not really.

The inside of the house smells worse than you remember—like sweat, beer, and something sharp and chemical that makes your nose burn. The walls are yellowed with smoke, the carpet littered with cigarette butts and broken glass. There’s a coffee table in the middle of the room, its surface covered in ashtrays, empty pill bottles, and the faint glitter of crushed powder.

Su-bong’s friends are sprawled across the couches and chairs, their laughter filling the room like static. One of them glances up as you walk in, his bloodshot eyes narrowing slightly. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

Su-bong shrugs off his jacket, tossing it onto the back of a chair, and grabs a beer off the table without a word.

“You’re late,” one of the guys Nam-gyu mutters, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He’d been friends with Su-bong for a long time. Before you even met him.

“Yeah, well,” Su-bong mutters, twisting the cap off the bottle with his teeth. “Got caught up.”

Nam-gyu glances at you, his gaze lingering a little too long, and something tightens in your chest. Su-bong notices, too. He sets the beer down and shoots the guy a look, his voice sharp as he says, “What the fuck are you staring at?”

Nam-gyu laughs, holding his hands up in mock surrender. His sweaty hair falling around his face, framing it.“Nothing, man. Relax.”

Su-bong doesn’t say anything else. He just takes another sip of his beer, his eyes flicking toward you briefly before turning back to the table.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hallway feels narrower than it should. The light from the main room barely reaches back here, leaving everything steeped in shadow, the air growing thicker and harder to breathe the farther you go. You can hear the faint hum of the television from the living room, the muffled sound of laughter and the clinking of bottles. The floor beneath you creaks with every step, the uneven boards sticky against your shoes.

The door to the back room is half-open, the dim yellow light spilling into the hallway. Su-bong pulls you inside without a word, his grip firm around your wrist. The door shuts behind you with a soft thud, sealing the two of you into the suffocating darkness.

Your first instinct is to stop breathing. The smell hits you like a wall—stale sweat, mildew, and the sour, chemical tang of old beer. There’s a mattress on the floor, sagging in the middle, its surface stained with patches of something dark and unrecognizable. The fabric is dotted with cigarette burns, the edges curling up like it’s been sitting here for years.

A single roach skitters across the corner of the mattress, vanishing into a crack in the wall before you can even process what you’ve seen.

Your stomach churns, your body screaming at you to leave, leave, leave, but Su-bong is already pulling you toward the mattress, his hands clumsy and insistent as they find your waist.

“Su-bong,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Stop.”

He doesn’t listen.

His breath is hot and sour against your neck, reeking of alcohol and something sharp and metallic. His hands slide up your sides, rough and impatient, tugging at the fabric of your shirt. You push against him weakly, your palms flat against his chest, but he’s too strong, too stubborn, and you’re too tired to fight.

“Relax,” he mutters, his voice low and hoarse. His fingers grip your shirt harder, pulling it up over your head before you can stop him. “You’re always so fucking tense.”

The room feels smaller now, the walls pressing in on you as the smell of sweat and mildew grows thicker, coating the back of your throat. You tilt your head away from him, your gaze darting to the ceiling, to the cracks in the plaster and the faint shimmer of cobwebs in the corner.

The locket presses against your chest, its familiar weight grounding you in a way that feels almost cruel. Your fingers brush against it, trembling as you press it harder into your skin.

“I don’t want to,” you whisper, barely audible.

He pauses for a second, his head tilting slightly, and you think—for just a moment—that he might stop. That he might actually hear you. But then he sighs, annoyed, and grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away from your chest.

“Don’t start,” he mutters, his grip tightening as he pushes you down onto the mattress. The fabric feels damp beneath you, sticky and rough against your skin, and you can feel something small and hard digging into your back—a piece of broken glass, maybe, or a shard of plastic.

You want to cry. You want to scream. But the lump in your throat won’t let you make a sound.

His hands are on you again, rougher this time, tugging at your waistband and pulling you closer. The mattress groans under his weight, the springs creaking loudly enough to drown out the sound of your shaky breathing.

You stop fighting. It’s always easier that way.

The smell of him overwhelms you—sweat, cigarettes, whiskey—and the sound of his voice blurs into static as your mind starts to drift. You stare at the wall, at the faint shadows moving across its surface, and try to focus on anything else.

Your fingers close around the locket again, the edges of the rose pressing into your palm. You focus on the feel of it, the coolness of the metal, the way it feels against your skin. You roll it between your fingers, clutching it tightly, and let your mind go quiet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The room is silent except for the sound of his breathing—heavy and uneven as he collapses beside you, his arm draped carelessly over your waist. The mattress shifts under his weight, the springs creaking one last time before the quiet settles over you like a blanket.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You just lie there, staring at the ceiling, your fingers still curled around the locket.

There’s a roach on the wall above you, its legs moving slowly as it crawls toward the corner of the room. You watch it for a moment, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, before closing your eyes.

The smell lingers—on your skin, in your hair, in the back of your throat. You know you won’t be able to wash it off, not entirely. It’ll stay with you, just like everything else.

You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears start to slip down your temples, soaking into the filthy mattress beneath you.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The car ride home is silent.

Not the kind of silence that settles naturally, soft and comfortable. This silence is jagged, sharp enough to cut, stretching tight between the two of you like a rubber band about to snap. The sound of the engine hums beneath you, broken only by the occasional crunch of gravel as Su-bong drifts too close to the shoulder.

His hands grip the wheel loosely, his knuckles brushing against the cracked leather as he leans back in the seat. His head tilts slightly to the side, his eyes half-lidded and glassy, and you can smell the whiskey on him even from here.

You press your hand against the locket around your neck, your fingers curling around the metal as your chest tightens. You don’t dare look at him.

The tension in the car is suffocating, pressing against your chest like a weight. Your throat feels tight, your pulse thudding in your ears. You want to say something, anything, to break the silence—but the words stick in your throat, thick and heavy, refusing to come out.

When the house finally comes into view, you feel a flicker of relief. But it’s fleeting, gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the hollow ache that’s been sitting in your chest all night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door slams behind you as Su-bong stumbles into the living room, tossing his jacket onto the couch without a second glance. You linger near the doorway, your hand still gripping the locket tightly, as though it might anchor you to something real.

The house is dark except for the faint glow of the streetlamp outside. Shadows stretch across the walls, long and jagged, and the air feels heavy, stagnant, like it’s holding its breath.

Su-bong doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look at you. He just collapses onto the couch, his head tilting back against the cushion, his eyes closed.

For a moment, you think he might pass out.

But then he sighs—a long, low sound that seems to echo in the silence—and drags a hand down his face. His fingers rub against his temples, slow and deliberate, and his leg bounces restlessly against the floor.

“You’re mad,” he mutters, his voice slurred but steady.

You don’t respond.

He opens his eyes, tilting his head to look at you. There’s something in his gaze—something searching, something almost vulnerable—that makes your stomach twist.

“Say something,” he says, his voice quieter now.

You stare at him, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you like a physical force. Your chest aches, the words you want to say bubbling up inside you, but you swallow them down. You don’t trust yourself to speak.

His leg stops bouncing. He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together as he looks at the floor.

“I know I fucked up,” he says quietly. “I know that.”

The words hang in the air, brittle and heavy, and you feel your fingers tighten around the locket.

“I shouldn’t have taken you there,” he continues, his voice breaking slightly. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have done any of it.”

He looks up at you then, his eyes glassy and rimmed with exhaustion. “I don’t even know why you put up with me,” he says, his voice cracking. “I’m such a fucking mess.”

He stands up slowly, unsteady on his feet, and takes a step toward you. His hands reach for yours, warm and trembling slightly as they close around your wrists.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says, his voice low and desperate. “You’re all I have. You’re the only thing that keeps me together.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your chest tightening as you stare at him. You want to pull away, to put distance between you, but his grip is firm, almost pleading.

“I’ll do better,” he says, his words spilling out in a rush. “I’ll stop drinking, I’ll stop everything. I’ll get clean. I swear to God, I’ll do it for you.”

You close your eyes, the tears stinging at the corners as you shake your head. “You’ve said that before,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“I mean it this time,” he insists, his grip tightening slightly. His voice cracks on the last word, and you can feel the tremor in his hands. “I’ll prove it to you. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just… please don’t give up on me. Please.”

He steps closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You think anyone else is gonna love you like I do?” he asks, his tone soft but cutting. “You think anyone else is gonna put up with you?”

Your breath hitches, the words cutting deeper than they should.

“Your family doesn’t want you,” he says, his voice cracking slightly, like he’s holding back tears. “They’ve never wanted you. But me? I love you. I need you. You’re the only good thing I’ve got.”

The locket feels heavy in your hand, the edges of the rose digging into your palm. You want to scream, to push him away, to tell him to stop—but the lump in your throat won’t let you speak.

“What if you can’t?” you whisper, your voice breaking. “What if you don’t stop? What if it’s always going to be like this?”

He shakes his head, his expression tightening with something that almost looks like panic. “It won’t be,” he says quickly. “I swear, baby. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything.”

The tears slip down your cheeks, hot and relentless, and you press your free hand to your face, trying to stifle the quiet sob that escapes your lips.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice breaking. He pulls you into his arms, his grip almost crushing as he presses his face against your hair. “Just give me another chance. That’s all I need. One more chance.”

You don’t hug him back.

But you don’t pull away, either.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He falls asleep hours later, curled up beside you on the bed, his breathing slow and even. You sit there in the dark, staring at the wall, the locket clutched tightly in your hand.

You want to believe him. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.

But deep down, you already know this isn’t the last time he’ll make this promise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first sign is the smell.

It hits you when you walk into the living room one evening, faint at first, like a memory trying to claw its way to the surface. You pause in the doorway, your hand tightening around the frame as you try to place it. It’s familiar. Sharp and acrid, clinging to the air like a ghost.

Cigarettes.

He’d thrown out the pack weeks ago. You’d watched him do it—watched the way his jaw tightened as he flicked the lighter one last time, muttering under his breath about how he didn’t need it, how it was “just a habit” and “no big deal.”

“I’m serious this time, baby,” he’d said, his voice almost convincing. “No more of this shit. I’m done.”

But now, the smell is here again, seeping into the walls, curling in the back of your throat like smoke.

You don’t see him at first. The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the TV, the sound muted to a soft hum. The curtains are drawn tight, blocking out the fading daylight, and the air feels heavier than it should.

He’s on the couch, slouched low with one leg thrown over the armrest, the other foot flat on the floor. A cigarette dangles from his fingers, the ash building up dangerously close to the filter, and there’s a bottle of something dark and half-empty on the coffee table.

Your stomach twists.

“Su-bong?”

He doesn’t look up. His eyes are fixed on the TV, the flickering images reflecting in his glassy gaze. The smoke curls up from the cigarette, disappearing into the stale air, and you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest as he exhales slowly.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice trembling slightly.

He blinks, slow and deliberate, like it takes effort to process the sound of your voice. When he finally turns to you, his lips curl into a lazy, lopsided grin that makes your chest ache.

“What’s it look like?” he mutters, holding up the cigarette like it’s some kind of joke.

You take a step closer, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “I thought you quit.”

He shrugs, leaning back against the couch with a sigh. “Yeah, well.” He takes a drag from the cigarette, the ember flaring bright in the dim room, and exhales the smoke through his nose. “Didn’t stick, I guess.”

Your chest tightens. You can feel the anger bubbling up inside you, sharp and hot, but it’s tangled with something else—something smaller, something that feels too much like disappointment.

“You said you’d stop,” you say, your voice breaking slightly.

He laughs—low and bitter—and takes another drag, the smoke curling around his lips as he exhales. “Yeah, and you said you’d stop nagging me. Guess we’re both full of shit, huh?”

The words hit harder than they should, knocking the air out of your lungs. For a moment, all you can do is stand there, staring at him, the lump in your throat growing tighter with every second that passes.

It doesn’t stop with the cigarettes.

The next day, it’s the pills. You find the bottle on the kitchen counter, the cap loose, a few of the tablets scattered across the surface like they’d been spilled in a rush.

Your heart sinks as you pick it up, the plastic cool against your palm. You stare at the label, your chest tightening as you recognize the name—one you haven’t seen in weeks, not since the last time he swore he was done.

You don’t even notice him standing behind you until his voice cuts through the silence.

“You going through my shit now?”

You spin around, the bottle clutched tightly in your hand. “I found it on the counter,” you say, your voice sharp. “You’re not even trying to hide it anymore?”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing slightly, and you can smell the faint tang of alcohol on his breath. “What’s your problem?” he mutters, snatching the bottle from your hand. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Your voice rises, trembling with anger and something closer to panic. “You promised me, Su-bong. You said you were done with this.”

He laughs again—that same bitter, careless sound that makes your chest ache—and shoves the bottle into his pocket. “Yeah, well, promises can be broken.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It all comes to a head one night when he stumbles in late, his steps uneven and his voice loud enough to wake the neighbors.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, the locket clutched tightly in your hand, when you hear the front door slam. The sound reverberates through the house, rattling the picture frames on the walls, and you feel your chest tighten as the familiar dread settles over you like a weight.

The footsteps are uneven, shuffling, and you can hear the faint clink of glass as he moves through the house. By the time he reaches the bedroom, your hands are trembling, the metal of the locket cool and sharp against your skin.

The door swings open, and he’s there, leaning heavily against the frame. His hair is a mess, sticking to his forehead with sweat, and his jacket is hanging off one shoulder. There’s a bottle in his hand, nearly empty, and his grin is wide and lopsided, his eyes glassy.

“Hey, baby,” he slurs, his voice low and hoarse.

You don’t say anything. You don’t move. You just sit there, staring at him, your chest tight with a mix of anger, sadness, and something that feels too much like fear.

He stumbles into the room, dropping the bottle onto the floor with a dull thud. The smell of whiskey clings to him, heavy and sour, and when he sits down beside you, the mattress dips under his weight.

“Why’re you sitting in here all alone?” he murmurs, his voice soft now, almost affectionate. The contrast makes your stomach turn.

You pull back slightly, your jaw tightening. “Where were you?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugs, leaning back on his hands. “Out.”

“You were supposed to be getting clean,” you say, your voice trembling.

He laughs—soft and breathy—and shakes his head. “Clean’s overrated.”

It’s different this time, though. The relapse isn’t just about him anymore. It’s about you��how much you can take, how much you can survive before the cracks in your foundation become too wide to repair.

You sit there in the dark, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, the weight of his relapse pressing down on you like a hand around your throat. The locket is still in your hand, the rose etched into its surface digging into your palm, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

It never feels like enough.

He’s laughing softly now, his voice slurring as he mutters something you can’t quite hear. His head tilts back, his eyes fluttering shut, and you know he won’t remember any of this in the morning.

But you will.

You always do.

The next day, he’ll act like nothing happened. He’ll grin at you over a mug of coffee, his hair still messy from sleep, and he’ll say something stupid, something that would’ve made you laugh once. And you’ll smile back, the same way you always do, because it’s easier than saying what you’re really thinking.

But deep down, you’ll know: this is how it always goes.

This is how it always ends.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The house is too quiet.

Not the quiet that lulls you to sleep, the kind that hums with the soft rhythm of peace. No. This quiet is suffocating. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re the only person left in the world.

You’re lying in bed when you notice it. The sun is just starting to rise, the pale light slipping through the blinds and stretching across the room in thin, fractured lines. You’ve been awake for hours, your eyes fixed on the ceiling, the locket clutched tightly in your hand.

It takes you a moment to realize what’s different. The absence is subtle at first, just a nagging thought at the back of your mind that you can’t quite place. The blankets beside you are crumpled but empty, the faint imprint of his body still visible in the mattress.

You sit up slowly, the ache in your chest twisting tighter as your gaze darts around the room. His boots aren’t by the door. His jacket isn’t hanging on the chair.

Your stomach drops.

No. He wouldn’t. Not like this.

You stand quickly, the blood rushing to your head as you make your way to the living room. The floor creaks beneath your feet, the sound echoing in the stillness, and you feel your chest tighten with every step.

The living room is empty.

The couch is still rumpled from the night before, the faint smell of cigarettes lingering in the air. The ashtray on the coffee table is full, the edges of the glass stained yellow from use. But he’s not here.

You check the kitchen next, your hands shaking as you push open the door. The counters are cluttered with empty bottles and crumpled receipts, the remnants of another night that you’ve already lost track of. His mug is still on the table, the coffee inside gone cold, but there’s no sign of him.

The panic starts to set in now, creeping up your throat like a sickness. You check the bathroom, the hallway, the spare room that neither of you use, but it’s all the same.

Empty.

You make your way back to the bedroom, your chest heaving with shallow breaths, and grab your phone from the nightstand. Your fingers tremble as you unlock the screen, scrolling through your messages with a growing sense of dread.

Nothing.

No missed calls. No texts. No explanations.

You press the phone to your chest, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might break through your ribs.

He always comes back.

You tell yourself this over and over, like a mantra. Like a prayer. He always comes back. No matter how far he goes, no matter how bad the fight, he always comes back.

But deep down, you know this time is different.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You find the letter hours later, tucked underneath the ashtray on the coffee table.

It’s written on the back of an old receipt, the ink smudged in places where he’d pressed too hard. The handwriting is rushed, uneven, but you’d recognize it anywhere.

“Sorry.”

That’s all it says.

Just one word, scrawled across the paper in shaky, uneven letters. No explanation. No apology. No promise to come back.

You read it over and over again, your fingers gripping the edge of the receipt so tightly that it crumples under your touch. The word blurs as the tears spill down your cheeks, hot and relentless, but you don’t stop reading it.

It’s the only thing he left behind.

The house feels bigger now, emptier. You wander through the rooms like a ghost, your feet dragging against the floor, your hands brushing against the walls as though you’re trying to anchor yourself to something.

His things are gone. Not everything—just the essentials. His jacket, his boots, the backpack he keeps in the closet. The rest is still here, scattered across the house like he’s planning to come back for it.

But you know he won’t.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the letter still clutched in your hand, and stare at the locket around your neck. The rose etched into its surface feels sharper today, the edges digging into your palm like a warning.

You think about the last time he smiled at you—the kind of smile that made your chest ache, that made you forget, just for a moment, how much he hurt you. You think about the way his hands felt on your skin, the way his voice sounded when he said your name, the way he used to make you feel like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

But that man is gone. Or maybe he was never real to begin with.

You don’t cry at first.

The tears come later, in the middle of the night, when the weight of the silence becomes too much to bear. You lie on the floor of the living room, the receipt still clutched in your hand, and sob into the empty space where he used to be.

The locket feels heavy against your chest, the chain pulling tight against the back of your neck as you curl into yourself.

You think about calling him. About texting him. About driving to every shitty bar and trap house in the city just to find him. But you don’t.

Because deep down, you know it won’t change anything.

He’s gone.

And he’s not coming back this time.

[sunshinesfreckless]

(Happy ?) Anniversary

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Felix x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, cursing, Felix says “fuck” like 7 times

Summary: Your busy boyfriend tends to forget important dates due to his schedule—but this time, it was the last straw for you.

A/N: Uhhh, very unrelated to the fic, but I want the fic requesters to know that I’m working on literally every fic you cuties requested. Please be patient—I hope you guys don’t have to wait too long. I’m doing my best hehe xx Ily all!

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

She had prepared the flowers hours ago. White roses, trimmed with trembling hands, arranged carefully in the vase he once said reminded him of his mother’s home. Everything had to look perfect. She fluffed the pillows on the couch twice. Then again. The candles on the table flickered gently, casting soft golden shadows across the walls — warm and delicate, like the evening she had imagined so many times.

She adjusted the straps of her silk dress once more and she’d worn her hair the way he liked, like she hadn’t tried too hard, though she had. God, she had.

From the kitchen came the scent of the food she had made. The stew simmered low, the rice was fluffy and warm, and the side dish was plated like she had watched in that cooking video over and over again. It was all ready. She just needed him.

She picked up her phone again, screen lighting up with her own reflection, expectant and bright.

Y/N: The food is almost done. I can’t wait to see you tonight.

She smiled to herself. There was a nervous flutter in her chest. Two years. They had made it through so much.

She sat down on the edge of the sofa, her hands folded neatly on her lap. Her eyes flicked to the door every few minutes. Then to the clock. Then to her phone again.

Still no read receipt.

She bit the inside of her cheek and typed again.

Y/N: Are you on your way?

A beat.

Then another.

She waited. The stew began to cool. The candles burned lower.

She waited.

Seconds melted into minutes, minutes into nearly an hour. She checked the app again. Still no reply. Still no sign of him reading anything. She opened his location once — just for a second — then quickly closed it. She hated doing that. She hated that she had to.

She stood and began to pace, heels softly clicking against the wooden floor. Maybe he was caught up in rehearsal. Maybe there was an emergency. Maybe the manager needed him. Maybe—

But she knew. Deep down, she always knew. He wasn’t coming.

She sat back down, slower this time. The candles had nearly burnt to the bottom. The flowers had begun to wilt at the edges — or maybe it was just her vision blurring. She wasn’t sure anymore.

The dress suddenly felt tight. Like a costume for a part she hadn’t been chosen for. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard again, but this time she couldn’t think of anything to write that didn’t sound like begging.

So she stayed still. Alone in the quiet room she had tried so hard to fill with love. The room smelled like food nobody would eat. Music still played low in the background, a playlist he had once made for her.

Two years.

And still, she had never felt more invisible.

Her thumb hovered over the call button, hesitation curling in her stomach like smoke. But she tapped it anyway.

Changbin picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, Bunny,” he greeted cheerfully, completely unaware of the ache she was holding in her chest.

She forced a smile he couldn’t see. “Hi Binnie…” Her voice was soft, hesitant. “Is, um… is Felix with you?”

There was a brief pause on the other end as he pulled the phone away and called out to the others in the background. Muffled voices responded, then a rustle as he returned to the line.

“No, he’s not. I thought he was with you — didn’t we all clear out of the dorm just so you guys could celebrate tonight?”

Her cheeks flushed with shame, though there was no one in the room to see it. She glanced at the untouched food, the dying candles, the table she’d poured her heart into.

“Yeah… I thought so too,” she said quickly, trying to cover her disappointment. “Maybe he got caught in traffic or something.”

They said their goodbyes, and she hung up. The silence settled again like a heavy coat on her shoulders.

Just as she sat back down, trying to swallow the sting in her throat, the front door creaked open.

She heard a familiar sniff — the kind he always did when he came in from the cold. Then the soft sound of his boots on the wooden floor. He stepped into the apartment, cheeks flushed pink from the winter air, a black beanie pulled low over his blonde hair. His glasses slid a little down his nose as he looked up.

“Oh, hey,” he said casually, giving her a faint smile. “Smells good in here.”

Then he saw her eyes.

Swollen. Red. Quiet in a way that wasn’t like her.

His smile faltered instantly.

“Wait… are you okay, babe?” he asked, concern blooming on his face as he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. His eyes darted around. “Where are the guys?”

Of course. He still didn’t realize.

She stood slowly, her hands clenched at her sides. Her voice came out so small it barely carried across the room.

“Do you know what day it is today?”

He blinked, confused. “Yeah, I had that fitting today. For Nicolas—”

She let out a short breath, almost a scoff. “No, Felix.” Her voice cracked a little. “I mean our day.”

It hit him then.

His gaze snapped to the table — the candles now half-burned, the cold food still untouched, the carefully arranged white roses she had picked just for tonight. His face paled.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered, breath catching. He dropped his bag to the floor like it weighed a thousand pounds. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I… I completely—”

She stepped back when he moved toward her.

“Don’t, Felix.”

He stopped mid-step, heart in his throat. “Please, baby. I swear I didn’t mean to forget. Things got so hectic and—”

She shook her head, eyes shining again with unshed tears. And this time, she didn’t hide them.

She stood there, arms loosely wrapped around herself as if trying to hold something inside from spilling out. Her voice was low, almost hollow, when she said it.

“Yeah. Obviously… This isn’t the first time.”

Felix froze in front of her. His hand hovered mid-air, like he had meant to reach out and touch her, but her words stopped him cold. His face crumpled for a second — just a flicker — before he tried to pull himself together.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No, I know.” She gave a small laugh, sharp and tired. “You never mean to. That’s the thing, Lix. It’s never cruel. It’s never deliberate. But it still hurts the same.”

The air between them grew heavy, a silence so loud it pressed on both their chests.

He swallowed hard.

“I had the fitting, and then Chan called and we had to—”

“I’m not asking for excuses,” she cut him off, voice trembling. “I’m not even asking for much, Felix. Just to matter a little more than whatever the hell always comes first.”

He flinched at that.

“That’s not fair,” he muttered.

“Isn’t it?”

He looked at her then — really looked. And for a terrifying second, she saw it in his face: the anger, the frustration. Not at her, not really, but at the impossible reality of his life. The life she had once told him she understood. Did she really ?

“You knew what this was,” he finally said, voice low and raw. “You knew what it meant to be with me. The schedule. The travel. The pressure. I don’t get to forget fittings or rehearsals or appearances. If I let people down, I don’t just apologize and move on — I lose everything.”

She didn’t say anything. Just stared at him with wide, wet eyes, like he’d just broken something that had already been cracking for far too long.

“Yeah,” she whispered, “but what about me, Felix?”

He went still.

“What do I lose?” she asked. “I sit here waiting, I make the dinner, I light the candles, I put on a fucking dress I haven’t worn in a year, and you… you don’t even remember. You walk in like it’s Tuesday.”

He took a shaky breath. “Baby, please…”

She stepped back before he could reach for her. “Do you know how humiliating it is? Calling Changbin just to ask where you are? Hoping maybe you were in traffic — begging the universe for a traffic jam to cover for the fact that you just forgot me?”

Felix’s eyes were glassy now. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“You’re everything to me,” he said finally, quietly. “You know that, right?”

She looked at him — her voice so soft it nearly shattered him.

“Then why do I feel like nothing?”

“Don’t say shit like that,” Felix snapped, voice tight, eyes burning. “You know that’s not fair. That’s bullshit.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, glossed with unshed tears. But she didn’t flinch.

“Well your excuses are bullshit too,” she shot back, breath trembling. “You always have a reason, don’t you? Always something more important.”

He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “What the fuck is your problem?” he growled. “It’s not an excuse—I’m sorry for being late, and I’m fucking sorry for forgetting our fucking anniversary, alright?”

She took a small step back. Not out of fear—but because the volume in his voice hurt more than she’d expected.

“We’ve talked about this!” he shouted, pacing now, his emotions spiraling faster than he could stop them. “So many goddamn times. You know how busy I am. We’re planning a whole comeback right now. I’ve barely slept in days, but I still came home. And now I’m the bad guy for being human? For slipping up once?”

She didn’t say anything. Her hands were starting to shake, but she curled them into fists to keep it hidden.

He scoffed bitterly, and when he looked at her again, something cruel slipped past the desperation.

“You are so fucking clingy, you know that?” he spat. “Always fucking needing something. Always fucking complaining when I can’t give you every second of my life. You should be grateful I even made it home tonight.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Her chest rose and fell unevenly, the sting of his words blooming into something sharp and cold in her lungs. He’d never yelled at her before. Not like this. Not with that look on his face, like she was just another burden.

She blinked fast, trying to keep her tears from falling, voice cracking as she whispered,

“…Well. I’m sorry, then.”

The front door creaked open.

The boys stepped inside, loud with laughter at first, but it died instantly when they saw her — standing still in the center of the room like she’d been hit by a truck. Her eyes were wet. Her shoulders drawn in tight, like she was trying to make herself small.

Felix grabbed his bag off the floor in one sharp movement.

Chan reached out instinctively. “Felix—”

But he shoved past him, jaw clenched, and stormed out without another word, the door slamming behind him.

Silence again.

Hyunjin stepped forward carefully. “What… happened?”

Chan looked at her with quiet alarm. “Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look up.

Just wiped her cheek roughly with the back of her hand, and with a voice small and tired beyond her years, she said,

“Suit yourselves. The food’s cold. You can heat it up.”

Then she turned and went upstairs, footsteps slow, dragging.

And when her door closed, she finally let herself break.

────୨ৎ────

Lee Know was halfway through a bowl of cereal, hoodie hood pulled halfway over his face, when the front door creaked open.

Felix stepped in, eyes tired, the beanie from last night still on his head.

“Morning,” his deep voice mumbled, scratchy from lack of sleep—or maybe from all the shouting.

Lee Know looked up from the kitchen counter.

“Where were you all night?”

Felix shrugged, trying to keep it casual. “Slept over at Wooyoung’s.”

A pause.

Lee Know set his spoon down slowly, expression unreadable.

“Well… your girlfriend’s gone.”

That made Felix freeze.

“What do you mean ‘gone’?”

Footsteps padded on the stairs behind him as Changbin came down, stretching.

“Good morning to you too,” he muttered sarcastically.

Chan came down next, already dressed and scrolling through his phone. He didn’t look up when he spoke.

“Where’s Y/N?” Felix asked, voice tight.

“Could ask you that,” Chan said flatly, opening the fridge and pulling out the orange juice.

There was no pity in their eyes. No sympathy for the wide-eyed confusion dawning on his face.

Felix dug into his pocket for his phone, unlocking it with fumbling fingers. He typed out a quick message.

Felix: Where did you go?

Felix: Baby please say something

Felix: I’m sorry.

Delivered. But no response.

His chest squeezed.

Last night had been a blur of anger and guilt, and he’d tried to bury both by disappearing into the safety of someone else’s couch and letting silence do the talking. But now that she was actually gone—really gone—it hit him like a truck.

He leaned on the kitchen counter, staring at his phone, jaw clenched.

“She left before sunrise,” Lee Know added, softer this time. “Didn’t even take breakfast.”

“Did you seriously not check on her before walking out?” Changbin’s voice held a quiet frustration now. “Not even a note? A text? After yelling at her like that?”

Felix didn’t answer.

Chan looked up finally, folding his arms. “You can’t just throw words like that at her and expect everything to be fine the next morning, Felix. You hurt her. Really hurt her.”

“She didn’t even cry when she said goodbye,” Lee Know added. “That’s how you know it was bad.”

Felix gripped the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles turned white.

“I know I fucked up,” he muttered.

“Then fix it,” Chan snapped, frustration bubbling over. “Unless you’re okay with losing her. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not,” Felix said, almost yelling. Then quieter, like he was trying to convince himself, “Of course not.”

He opened her chat again. Still no reply.

Then he tried calling her.

Straight to voicemail.

He stared at the screen, jaw clenching tighter, guilt curling in his stomach like poison. He couldn’t even blame her. The words he’d thrown at her—he could still hear them in his own voice. Clingy. Grateful I came home. As if she hadn’t waited hours, set a table, built a moment for them to celebrate them—only to be made to feel like a burden.

And now she was gone.

Really gone.

────୨ৎ────

Felix paced the living room like a storm trapped in a bottle.

“Guys, please just tell me where she is,” he begged for the fifth time, turning to Han, who sat cross-legged on the floor tuning a guitar but hadn’t strummed a single string.

“Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you,” Han said without looking up. “She needs space, and you need to understand why.”

Felix ran a hand through his messy hair, breath shaky. His voice dropped into a quieter plea.

“I just want to say sorry. Really this time.”

Across the room, Lee Know was leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed, silent and brooding. His cereal was forgotten and soggy in the bowl beside him. He didn’t speak, just stared at the floor. He hadn’t touched his phone in a while either, and his usual apathy looked more like discomfort now.

Then, slowly, he pulled out his phone and unlocked it with a sigh.

Felix watched with wide eyes, frozen in place.

Lee Know didn’t meet his gaze. He just lifted the phone to his ear and waited.

It rang once. Twice.

And then—click.

“Hi, princess,” Lee Know said softly, the corners of his mouth twitching in a rare, gentle smile. “Where are you?”

Felix swallowed hard, heart hammering.

A pause.

“Mm… I see. With Ryujin?” He glanced up, eyes flickering to Felix.

Felix exhaled, slumping down onto the couch, his head falling into his hands, relief crashing through his chest like a wave. His voice cracked slightly:

“Thank God…”

Lee Know pressed the phone closer, lowering his voice. “You know he was worried about you, right? Wouldn’t sit down. Keeps asking for you like a lost puppy.”

There was a silence as she responded on the other end. Lee Know listened with a slight nod. Then, he murmured, “Yeah… he knows. He’s been beating himself up since sunrise.”

Felix lifted his head, searching Lee Know’s face for any hint of hope.

Another pause.

And then—click.

The call ended.

Lee Know let the phone fall to his side, then turned to Felix.

“She said she was gonna come by tonight. Just to pick up some clothes.”

Felix shot up straight. “She’s coming back?”

Lee Know gave him a warning look. “She thinks you’re not gonna be here.”

Felix stood up too quickly, pacing again. “This is my only chance, right?”

“It’s not a performance, Felix,” Lee Know said coolly. “Don’t do it because you’re panicking. Do it because you actually get it now.”

Chan walked in just then, arms crossed and gaze sharp.

“Did I hear that right?” he said. “She’s coming over?”

Felix nodded, eyes hopeful. “Tonight.”

Chan raised his brows and scoffed. “After what happened, I’m honestly surprised she even wants to walk into the same apartment again.”

“Hyung—”

“No. Shut up for a second.”

Chan’s tone dropped. Firm. Controlled. Not yelling—but somehow worse than that.

“Do you even understand why she left?” he said. “Do you know what it does to someone to make a space just for you—light candles, cook, set the table—just to be treated like she’s overreacting? Like she’s clingy for wanting one fucking evening with the person she loves?”

Felix lowered his head.

“You didn’t just forget the anniversary, Felix. You made her feel like she was a burden for caring. And that’s the shit that sticks. That’s what people remember when they think about whether they feel safe with someone or not.”

The room fell quiet.

Even Lee Know didn’t chime in.

Chan stared at him a beat longer before sighing and turning away.

“If she shows up tonight, don’t just say sorry. Show her you actually mean it.”

Felix stood there, chest rising and falling, the weight of Chan’s words heavy in his bones.

He looked at the couch where she used to curl up beside him, the kitchen where she’d probably stood hours decorating a table for a night he never showed up for.

His heart thudded like a warning.

Tonight would either make or break everything.

────୨ৎ────

She hadn’t even taken off her shoes.

The hallway felt too quiet when she stepped inside, her fingers still trembling around the key she’d almost dropped twice. It was dark, except for a faint amber light flickering from the living room. She’d told herself she’d just grab her things, maybe leave a note. Maybe cry in the car after. She didn’t expect him to be here.

But when she turned the corner, she froze.

There he was.

On the couch.

Waiting.

His hair was a mess, clothes wrinkled like he hadn’t changed in a day, and his eyes—God, his eyes looked ruined.

“Hi,” he whispered.

She stayed by the doorway, fingers tightening around the handle of the overnight bag she planned to fill. The room smelled like her favorite vanilla candle—he’d lit all of them. The table was set again, this time clumsy but clearly him. Two plates. A reheated attempt at the same meal she had made. A half-wilted flower placed carefully beside the napkin.

It was almost laughable.

But her chest ached too much to laugh.

“Minho said you weren’t home,” she said, quietly.

He stood up. Slowly. Like he was afraid she’d bolt if he moved too fast.

“I wasn’t supposed to be,” he said, voice hoarse. “But I… I couldn’t let you come back to silence.”

She looked away.

“Y/N,” he stepped closer, but didn’t reach out. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Her eyes flickered to him, glossy already. She didn’t want to cry again. She really didn’t.

“You yelled at me,” she said. Her voice shook, the words barely above a whisper. “You’ve never done that before.”

He inhaled sharply like her words had sliced him.

“I know.” His voice broke. “I know, and I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

She looked at him then—really looked. His eyes were red, like he hadn’t slept. His hands trembled at his sides, and his lips were parted like he was still trying to find the right words to make everything right.

But there weren’t any.

So she said the thing that had haunted her the most.

“You made me feel small. Like I was annoying for loving you too much.”

He pressed his hands against his face, dragging them down in frustration before stepping forward again.

“No—no, baby, please. I never meant that. I never meant any of it.” His voice cracked. “You love me in the most beautiful way. You make spaces warm. You make days matter. I was stressed, and tired, and stupid—but I should’ve never, ever taken it out on you.”

Silence.

Her throat burned.

“I don’t want to be scared of you, Lix,” she said, and this time her voice broke. “I was scared when you yelled. I—I didn’t know what to do. You’ve never made me feel like that before and it…” She couldn’t finish.

He rushed to her then, falling to his knees in front of her.

“I swear to you,” he whispered, clutching the hem of her coat. “That’ll never happen again. I swear on everything—I’ll spend every day making sure you never feel that way. Please… please don’t give up on me.”

His eyes were shimmering, his fingers trembling against the fabric. She could feel the heat of his skin even through the coat.

“I miss you,” he said, choking the words out. “I miss you like my lungs miss air.”

She stood there for a long moment, heart in her throat, the space between them thick with unsaid hurt and love and regret.

Then she knelt too.

And wrapped her arms around him.

He broke.

Right there in her arms, the boy who had always held her like she was breakable shattered like glass in her embrace. He clung to her, face buried in her shoulder, breath ragged with sobs he no longer tried to hide.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” he kept whispering.

She stroked his hair gently, tears finally falling.

“I know,” she whispered back. “Just… don’t ever let me feel alone like that again.”

His arms tightened around her.

“Never,” he swore. “Not even for a second.”

And in that fragile moment, on the floor of their shared apartment, they started to put the pieces back together.

He held her like the world would collapse if he let go. And maybe, for him, it would have.

Still kneeling on the floor with her curled into his chest, Felix pressed his lips to her temple, voice thick but steady now. “I’ll do better. I swear.”

She didn’t answer, but he could feel the way her hand tightened at the back of his hoodie.

“I never meant to make you feel like an afterthought. And missing our anniversary—God, that’s on me. All of it is. You planned everything so beautifully, and I just… I wasn’t there. And I should’ve been.”

Her cheek pressed into his collarbone. He kissed the top of her head.

“From now on,” he whispered, “you’re part of everything. Not just the parts I have time for. I’ll make time. You shouldn’t have to beg for it.”

His words sank into her slowly, like balm on a bruise. And for once, she could tell he wasn’t just saying it—he meant it. He meant every word.

────୨ৎ────

It started small.

The next morning, he took her hand and asked if she’d come with him to the studio. Not just to drop him off. Not just for a coffee run. But to stay. With him.

She curled up on the couch. Watched the way he got lost in the music. Smiled every time he threw her a wink or made a goofy face mid-recording just to make her laugh.

The boys didn’t question it. Not once.

In fact, they loved it.

“You here for emotional support or to make sure he doesn’t forget your birthday too?” Changbin teased, and she threw a pillow at him while Felix grinned like an idiot behind his laptop.

She helped Hyunjin organize props for their SKZ Talker behind-the-scenes vlog. Chan gave her the camera once and let her film a whole segment herself. Felix kept sneaking in frames to kiss her cheek, until Lee Know pushed him out of the way with a deadpan, “Let her work, she’s better than you at this.”

Felix took her to late-night practice, where she watched them run the same choreo until their shirts clung to their backs. She clapped louder than anyone.

“I don’t care how tired I am,” he whispered during water breaks, forehead resting against hers. “As long as you’re here.”

She sat beside him at brand meetings, picked out outfits with the stylists, got a backstage pass to his world—and not once did he make her feel like she was in the way.

He asked her opinion.

He held her hand.

He told every staff member who looked surprised to see her, “She’s staying. That’s my girl.”

And every night when they got home, he’d wrap his arms around her and murmur:

“Thank you for not giving up on me.”

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

@sapphirewaves @bemyaehiweloveskz @velvetmoonlght

[itsnesss]

𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬 (𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬)

🖇 more...

The race was over, and as always, the paddock was a sea of emotions. But up on the Red Bull motorhome terrace, you all had your own ritual: the family meeting.

Oscar was sitting like a worn-out 40-year-old, Gatorade in hand, eyes glazed over. Next to him, Kimi had a blanket on his legs and was eating ice cream like he hadn’t just raced at 300 km/h.

“I told you not to go around the outside in that corner, didn’t I?” Oscar said without looking.

“It was exciting,” Kimi shrugged.

“It was half a second of sheer panic for half the paddock,” you said, arms crossed.

“Including Max,” Oscar added.

“I wasn’t scared,” Max protested, though his voice wavered slightly.

“You yelled ‘MY SON!’ over the radio,” Checo called from the back, a beer in hand and a teasing grin on his face.

“He’s not my son!” Max growled. But it was far too late.

Charles and Lando burst in right then, covered in confetti. They were carrying a giant pizza.

“Family meeting!” Lando shouted, tossing a cushion in the air.

Fernando walked in behind them, exuding his “wise uncle” energy, though no one really paid attention. Even he knew his role was to keep things somewhat under control. Or at least try.

“Where’s my slice?” he asked, settling between you and Max like it was his usual spot.

Kimi rested his head on your shoulder and you ruffled his hair.

“Next time, you brake, okay?” you murmured.

He nodded.

And while the rest fought over who got the last slice of pizza, you and Max locked eyes in silence.

“I didn’t ask for this family,” he said.

“But you love it,” you replied.

Max smiled.

“I do. Even if Lando is the cousin who never stops yelling.”

[witchywithwhiskey]

first and last

pairing: childhood best friend!steve rogers x female reader

summary: after more than a decade away from your home town—and your childhood best friend—you return. everything is exactly the same, but also, entirely different.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), fluff, angst, smut, drunken antics, some arguing, drunk masturbation (f) with an audience, semi-public, choking, dirty talk, praise kink, begging, boundaries, very light bdsm vibes, references to past sexual intimacy (piv sex, oral sex [f receiving]), nicknames (buttercup, baby), aftercare

word count: 8.8k

a/n: this is my entry in @the-slumberparty's Sundae Bar Challenge, and i've been working on it since june so i'm very excited to post it!!! i wanted to make a sundae i'd actually eat so i used the prompts Butterscotch (childhood friends) and Caramel (drunk/delirious/not in their right mind). it also might be a bit literal to have Steve working at an ice cream shop but whatever!!

i mentioned when i teased this fic that i'd thought about turning it into a much longer story/potentially saving it for a novel, but honestly i just don't know when or if i'll ever have time to do that. but these scenes don't necessarily follow right after each other, so if they feel disconnected, that's why. they're just the ones i wanted to write 😅

The sidewalk of Brambleberry Cove was warm from a full day under the August sun, the concrete gritty with sand beneath your bare feet as you walked the rest of the short distance to Seaside Scoops from your rental house a few blocks away. 

The sun dipped low on the western horizon, casting long shadows over the coastal town like stretching fingers reaching for the Atlantic Ocean. You could hear the steady sound of the crashing waves over the near distant sand dunes, their rhythm a background to your walk. 

It could’ve been a peaceful moment—you were back in your home town, surrounded by familiar sights and sounds and smells. But you were in a wretched mood, and all you could focus on was everything wrong with the world and your current place in it.

There was, of course, the throbbing pain in your big toe from when you’d stubbed it moments ago on the cursed, charming sidewalk, as well as the slight sting on the sides of your foot where your flip flop straps had torn. Your ruined shoes dangled from your fingers because Brambleberry Cove didn’t have a trash can on every street corner like the city you were accustomed to living in. 

In addition to those grievances, the straps of your bathing suit—which you hadn’t worn in far too long and hadn’t realized had become too small—were digging into your shoulders and hips uncomfortably. And, though you’d only been walking for five minutes from the little bungalow you were renting, your thighs were already beginning to chafe beneath the simple dress you’d thrown on. 

All told, you were not in the mood to appreciate the simple beauty of Brambleberry Cove. Instead of admiring the sun-bleached cottages that gave way to the small coastal shops lining main street, and letting yourself sink into the comfort of being back in your tiny beachside home town, you were fixated on everything wrong in your life—both in that moment and the larger scheme of things.

In your defense, though, there was a lot wrong in your life. There’d had to be to get you back to your home town after so long away. 

There was the dream job you’d lost, the ex who’d left you for someone else, and the friends who’d all promised to be there for you, but then vanished when you actually needed help. The only people who’d come through for you were your parents, who’d had a friend willing to rent a little Brambleberry Cove bungalow to you for a fraction of its normal summer price since it was already August and they weren’t going to make much more money anyway. 

You’d had to pack up and leave the city where you’d built your life for 15 years, and move back to your home town, which you hadn’t seen in nearly that long since your parents had moved out west shortly after you’d graduated high school. Being back home made you feel like you weren’t only taking a single step backward, but moving leaps and bounds in the wrong direction. It made you feel like a failure. 

But you tried not to think about all that on your short walk to Seaside Scoops, instead focusing on the pain in your toe and the digging ache of your bathing suit. 

By the time you saw the familiar neon sign for the ice cream shop, it felt like finding an oasis in the desert. You picked up your pace, ignoring the way your body protested, the soles of your feet no longer used to walking on the sandy sidewalk like you’d done countless times growing up in Brambleberry Cove. 

You could see through the window that there was a short line in Seaside Scoops, and you hurriedly pushed through the door of the shop. Once inside, you breathed in the familiar scent of sugar and hot fudge and reveled in the feel of the air conditioner ghosting over your sun-warmed shoulders. 

Surreptitiously, you shoved your ruined flip flops into the garbage just inside the door and got in line behind the couple with their two small children. You glanced around the shop, not really taking it in, and hoped whoever was working behind the counter was still lax on the ‘no shirt, no shoes, no service’ rule that had theoretically been in place since before you were born—but had never been enforced in practice. 

Finally looking to the counter, wondering idly if you’d recognize who was working or if it’d be some local teen that had been a baby the last time you’d been to Brambleberry Cove, you were shocked to see who was working at Seaside Scoops. Your belly swooped like you were standing on a boat on the choppy sea, your heart racing when you recognized the man behind the counter. At one time, he’d been the boy you’d shared so much of your childhood with, so many of your summers with. 

When you got a good look at him, you were almost surprised you recognized him so fast. He was no longer the scrawny teenager you’d left behind when you’d gone off to college and never looked back. He looked so different from the boy you’d known well enough you could recall his face in perfect detail, but, in so many ways, exactly the same.

On the whole, it was a shock to see the man Steve Rogers had become. 

Sandy brown hair fell on either side of his handsome, suntanned face, swept back like he had a habit of running his hands through it countless times a day. A short, well-kept beard decorated his strong jaw, bracketing a set of soft pink lips that were curved in a devastating grin. His bright blue eyes sparkled beneath the fluorescent lights of the shop, and when he spoke to the family in front of you in line, his voice rumbled like the distant roar of the ocean.

Seeing Steve Rogers for the first time in over 15 years made something loosen in your chest, anxiety uncoiling from around your heart and shaking free for the first time in a long time. A sense of safety and comfort washed over you, and you had the sudden thought that this was how you were supposed to feel about coming home. 

But you shoved that thought aside and continued your perusal of your childhood best friend, making note of all the ways he’d changed from the boy you’d known.

Thick, golden biceps were bare and bulging beneath the edge of his white t-shirt, and dense, brown hair covered corded forearms as Steve folded his arms on top of the ice cream case. He was tall—tall enough to lean over the case to talk to the kids with the couple in front of you, asking them about their favorite ice cream flavors and if they’d like to try anything new.

The kids, a boy and a girl, both stared up at him with wide eyes, shyness and wonder clear in their twin expressions. They looked to their parents for permission before shyly revealing what flavors they’d like to try. Steve gave a deep, hearty chuckle at their timidness, and complimented them on their choices, which seemed to make them both loosen up a bit.

Inexplicable heat flushed through your body at the sound of Steve’s deep laughter, and the easiness with which he interacted with the kids. You’d never been particularly good with children, mainly because you’d never had much of a chance to interact with any, and you’d never felt any particular desire to be around them. But seeing Steve looking like he did talking to those kids made your belly swoop again and something inside you pulse with a need you didn’t want to fully unpack.

Shoving those thoughts into a box in the back corner of your mind, you forced yourself to look away from your childhood friend and up at the menu that listed all the ice cream flavors. You’d been to Seaside Scoops hundreds of times in your life, if not thousands, and, at one time, you’d had the list memorized. 

Hopefully you still had that knowledge tucked away somewhere in your brain, because you weren’t taking in anything you were reading as you not-so-patiently waited for Steve to finish up with the customers in front of you.

It felt like forever, and by the time the family took their cups and cones of ice cream toward the side door that opened up into an outdoor seating area, you’d already cycled through three rounds of the same argument with yourself about why you should leave Seaside Scoops without talking to Steve. You couldn’t imagine your first conversation in 15 years going well.

But you couldn’t leave without talking to him. Not when he was right there and it had been so long and you were dying to know everything that he’d done in the last 15 years since you saw him last. 

Still, it took you a few extra seconds to gather the courage to lower your eyes from the menu board and finally look at your childhood friend. When you did, your gaze caught immediately on Steve’s, and your heart gave a little flip at the devastatingly charming smile on his impossibly handsome face.

“Hey there, buttercup,” Steve rumbled, his tone as friendly and familiar as it had always been. All of a sudden, it felt like no time had passed at all. 

“Hi, Steve,” you said, trying for the same casualness he’d achieved, but your voice sounded faint and faraway in your ears. The corners of your mouth flickered in a tremulous smile.

You couldn’t understand the surge of emotion filling your chest and rising in your throat, pricking at the backs of your eyes like you wanted to throw yourself into your oldest friend’s arms and sob about everything wrong in your life. 

The same deluge of emotion had hit you when you’d stubbed your toe on your walk to Seaside Scoops and you’d had to stand there by yourself, sucking in deep breaths of salty Brambleberry Cove air, nails biting into the flesh of your palms to keep yourself from breaking down. 

Just as you’d done then, you beat back the emotion, blinking your eyes rapidly to rid them of tears. Still, a thought needled you as you stood across the counter from Steve—the knowledge that if you did let yourself break down and cry, he wouldn’t hesitate to fold you into that broad chest of his, wrapping you up in his thick arms and holding you so securely, the world might not seem so grim anymore. 

You chalked it up to nostalgia and the rough time you were having, forcing yourself to take a deep breath and paste on a bright smile. Casting your eyes around Seaside Scoops, you pretended to give the place a real look, though you didn’t really notice much as you continued to blink back tears. 

“You work here now?” you asked lightly, looking at the new standee in the corner.

It was a cartoon shark holding up a sign advertising Seaside Scoops and their many ice cream flavors. But what caught your eye was that it looked a bit like the shark Steve had drawn for you when you’d gotten a bad grade sophomore year and wanted to cheer you up. It even had the same little sailor hat sitting perched on top of his head—which only made sense because sharks didn’t have blowholes, he’d told you at the time.

You’d smiled then, and you smiled again remembering it.

“Uhh,” Steve started, and you turned tear-free eyes back on your old friend, your gaze drawn to the way his bicep bulged against the sleeve of his t-shirt as he scuffed the back of his neck. There was a little bit of a sheepish tinge to his smile. “I actually own Scoops now,” he said in a rush, like he was confessing to something, though you couldn’t imagine what. “I bought it when Mr. Wallace retired down to Florida.”

“Oh,” was all you could think to say, glancing around the ice cream shop with a keener eye.

The shark standee wasn’t the only new thing in the place. Everything, from the tables and chairs to the menu board and counter, looked slightly newer than you remembered. Nothing was wildly different, which was why you hadn’t noticed it when you first looked around. Everything just looked better than it should if it had aged a decade since you’d last stepped into the shop.

Something about it made you think Seaside Scoops looked exactly like your memory of it—but the polished, perfect version in your head, instead of the place as it had been. Yellowed with age and a lack of upkeep. It was genuinely astounding what Steve had done with the place and it took you a few moments to find the right words, though they still felt pale in comparison to the bittersweet nostalgia in your heart.

“The place looks great,” you said with a half smile as you turned back to Steve. A small thread of pride wormed through your heart at seeing what your oldest friend had accomplished and your smile widened when he brightened under your praise. “I like the shark,” you said, hooking a thumb over your shoulder at the standee. 

A bit of pink tinted Steve’s cheeks above his beard, and he cleared his throat. 

“Is a dipped twist still your favorite?” he asked, clearly trying to change the subject and your smile dimmed just a little. The Steve you’d known had been shy about showing his art to anyone but you, and it seemed that you’d been gone long enough to be lumped in with everyone else. 

You swallowed back a lump in your throat and nodded. “Yeah, that’s still my favorite,” you answered, more than a little surprised Steve remembered your order.

Sure, you’d gone to Seaside Scoops together countless times as kids. It had been your hangout spot for most of your childhood, and even into your teen years. You’d study together over a cup of cookie dough with sprinkles for Steve and a cone of vanilla and chocolate softserve dipped in chocolate sauce for you. But that was more than a decade ago.

Your heart gave a heavy squeeze when you remembered the night before you’d left Brambleberry Cove, the way Steve reminded you of the promise you’d made as children—that you’d always be friends. Your stomach twisted into knots as you were confronted with the reality that you hadn’t kept up your end of the deal. You’d left, and you’d allowed your oldest friend to become a stranger. 

You wondered if Steve remembered the promise you’d made, the reminder he’d given you as a parting gift, or if he’d forgotten. You wondered if he’d ever want to be friends again.

Steve’s back was to you, his wrist flicking expertly beneath the softserve machine as he filled up a sugar cone with the twist of chocolate and vanilla. You forced yourself to push aside the memories of the past, blinking back more tears before Steve could catch them in your eyes. 

You and Steve weren’t friends anymore, and you needed to accept that. It was unreasonable to hold him to a promise he’d made more than two decades ago, especially when you were the one who’d left and had barely tried to stay in touch between college classes and exploring your new city.

With a great amount of effort, you kept your mind blissfully blank as you let your gaze trail idly over Steve’s broad back, unable to stop yourself from noticing just how wide his shoulders were, or the way they moved beneath the soft, worn cotton of his t-shirt. He really did fill out the shirt well, his sides tapering down to a thin waist. And his ass looked particularly good in the curve-hugging denim of his jeans. 

As Steve turned around, you raised your eyes quickly and arranged your expression into one of innocence. Steve paused, giving you a shrewd look like he would’ve done when you were teenagers and you were hiding something from him, but then he just shook his head and laughed under his breath, turning to the chocolate sauce where he’d dip your ice cream cone. 

“So, what brings you back to Brambleberry Cove, buttercup?” Steve asked, his gaze focusing on dipping your ice cream just right, a look of determination on his face that was endlessly endearing. 

You grimaced at the exact moment he glanced up at you, and he chuckled at the face you made. The sound was smooth as warm caramel and sent a new wave of heat rolling down your spine. 

“That bad, huh?” he asked, genuine interest in his tone.

Although there was a point in your life when you could’ve told Steve anything, and the urge to do so still lingered deep in your bones, you knew your relationship was different. You couldn’t dump all your problems on your childhood friend after not talking to him for 15 years. You didn’t even know if you were still friends anymore. 

Plus, there was a small crowd gathering behind you as the late dinner rush started to filter into Seaside Scoops. Even if you’d wanted to tell Steve everything that had happened to you in the 15 years since you’d last seen him, it wasn’t the time. 

So you just gave him a sad smile and accepted the ice cream cone from Steve’s hand, ignoring the butterflies and ticklish warmth that fluttered through your body at his touch. You gripped the sugar cone tight—but not too tight—so you didn’t fumble it. 

“Yeah,” you whispered in answer to his question, leaving it at that. There was an awkward beat, and your eyes dropped to the ice cream that was already beginning to melt despite the air conditioning in the shop. Thankfully, you had an easy way to move past Steve’s questions. 

You pulled some cash from the wristlet where you’d also stashed your phone and I.D., asking, “What do I owe you?” because you figured it must’ve been more expensive than what you remembered. And you didn’t want to risk looking up at the menu and catching Steve’s eye, not wanting any of the emotions or heat that seemed to flood you whenever you looked at him.

But a large, warm, golden hand closed over your fumbling fingers, startling you enough to look up into the sky blue eyes of your childhood friend. Your lips fell open in surprise as tingling warmth worked its way up your arm from your hand, wrapping around your heart and making it beat harder. 

For a long moment, you simply stared at each other. Steve really had grown up and changed so much, the evidence in the weathered grooves of his forehead and the lines between his brows, but his eyes still looked the same—soft as clouds, warm as the summer sun. 

“It’s on the house,” he murmured, his voice low and earnest, the thrum of some emotion you couldn’t identify laced through his words. “It was nice to see an old friend,” he said, giving your hand a squeeze before he pulled his away.

It wasn’t until Steve straightened up to his full height that you realized he’d been leaning over the counter, and your faces had been very close together. Heat crept into your cheeks at the realization that Steve had been in your personal space, and all you’d thought about was his eyes. 

Shoving all the money in your hand into the tip jar, you muttered, “Thanks, Steve.” As you zipped up your wristlet, you noticed that some of your ice cream was in danger of dripping onto your hand.

Without thinking, you licked quickly around the edge of the sugar cone, a soft moan slipping free when the cool sweetness of the ice cream hit your brain.

Steve made a strangled sound that dragged your attention away from your treat, finding your childhood best friend looking away and coughing into his fist, a deeper pink flushing his cheeks. You quirked your eyebrow in confusion when he looked back at you, but his expression gave nothing away and you had to wonder if you’d imagined the noise. It had almost sounded…aroused.

Shaking that thought clear from your mind, you gave Steve a smile and began to step away from the counter so he could help the next customer.

Steve’s eyes lingered on you, and he offered you one last charming, friendly smile, raising his hand in a wave. “Don’t be a stranger, buttercup,” he rumbled, his low words managing to reach your ears over the chatter in the shop. He gave you a long look, emotion swirling in those familiar eyes of his, and your breath caught in your throat.

The intensity of his gaze and the warmth in his parting words hit you straight in the gut, and you stood stunned in front of the register while Steve turned and walked to the other end of the ice cream case to help the next people in line. 

For a long moment, you couldn’t get over the way Steve had been able to read your mind, to pluck the thought that you were strangers to each other out of your brain and then tell you he didn’t want that to be the case. Your mind raced with questions. Did he still think of you as friends? Did he remember the promise you’d made all those years ago to always be friends? How did he know the exact right thing to say? 

But then the rational side of your brain resurfaced from wherever your heart had momentarily buried it, and you remembered his farewell was a normal thing for people to say to each other. Especially people who hadn’t seen each other in a while and likely would again because they both lived in a very small town. That’s all it was, just a normal goodbye. 

Not Steve Rogers somehow reading your mind because he knew you so well. 

With those rationalities ringing in your head, you dashed out of Seaside Scoops and it wasn’t until your feet had carried you to the next block that you remembered your broken shoes and stubbed toe and chafed thighs. 

But those problems didn’t seem quite so bad anymore. Not with the delicious ice cream cone in your hand, and the sunset casting Brambleberry Cove in gorgeous, golden light—and especially not with Steve’s warm, honeyed voice ringing in your head, calling you buttercup. 

It had felt so normal to hear the nickname roll off Steve’s tongue that you hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t realized how long it had been since you’d last heard it. But, just as it had when you were younger, it filled your chest with a bright, golden warmth. You grinned to yourself as you strolled back to your little bungalow, licking up the melting ice cream as fast as you could.

Your mood was decidedly better, and you enjoyed the walk home, refusing to think too much about why exactly you felt lighter and happier and less miserable about being home in Brambleberry Cove than you had before going to Seaside Scoops. It was just the ice cream, obviously. There was no other reason.

“You’re staring.” Steve’s voice was low, the undercurrent of laughter in it almost mixing with the sounds of the distant waves. You could hear them through the open windows of his truck as he eased the vehicle down the winding road leading away from the docks on the north side of Brambleberry Cove. 

His comment dragged you out of your drunken haze, and you took a deep breath to get your bearings. Your lungs filled with the salty nighttime air of the sea and the earthy leather interior of your childhood best friend’s truck, a small smile curling the corners of your lips and your eyes sliding closed. When you forced them back open, you realized he was right.

Huh, you really were staring at Steve. 

Your head was swiveled to the side, your cheek pressed to the brown leather of the seat back, your eyes fixed on the profile of his face that was highlighted in the glossy silver of the moon and warmed by the golden light of the town’s street lamps. 

You couldn’t find it in yourself to feel embarrassed or ashamed for staring at Steve, though. And it was at that moment you realized you were drunk. 

It didn’t surprise you. After all, you were the one who’d thrown on some jean shorts and a cute top and then took yourself to Shanty’s, the only place in Brambleberry Cove to go if you were a local looking to avoid tourists. 

You’d been happy to see Bucky Barnes, your other oldest friend after Steve, manning the bar. But you’d been much less happy with him when he’d insisted on calling Steve to take you home after you’d downed more than your fair share of liquor. 

It was probably for the best, though. You were drunk and horny and if you weren’t careful, you would’ve gone home with Brock Rumlow. Just thinking about it made you grimace at yourself and your poor almost-decisions. 

Focusing back on Steve, you couldn’t fault Bucky too much for calling your old friend to pick you up—not when it had ended with you able to watch his side profile while he kept his eyes on the road. It felt practically shameful to indulge yourself so much. That is, if you’d had any shame left, but you’d drowned it all in alcohol.

“You’re still staring, buttercup,” Steve rumbled, the humor clearer in his tone. The edges of his mouth were flickering beneath the silvery golden light of Brambleberry Cove at night and you knew he was trying to suppress a smile. It was fascinating to watch, but then Steve rubbed his hand across his mouth, scrubbing through his beard, and it broke you free of your drunken trance.

“I just can’t get over how different you look,” you huffed, raising your arms and flopping them back against the seat in your best approximation of a shrug. “And how exactly the same.” 

Steve barked a laugh, the sharp sound bringing a smile instantly to your face. You’d never heard him laugh like that, and you couldn’t help but love that you were still discovering new things about him, even after knowing him all your life. 

He glanced over at you, his expression bemused like he was sure you were drunker than he’d thought. You probably were, but that didn’t stop you from being right, and you tried to convey that in the brief moment he looked at you. 

Steve’s gaze slid quickly down your body, not like he was checking you out—more like he was checking to make sure your seatbelt was still buckled and you weren’t in danger of doing anything ridiculous. You were only in danger of saying ridiculous things, at least, according to him apparently. He shook his head after he’d turned back to watching the road.

“You’re gonna have to explain that one to me, buttercup,” Steve said, a little bit of gruffness in his tone. He cleared his throat before he went on. “Usually when someone we went to high school with comes back, they tell me they never woulda recognized me.” 

You gave an unladylike snort, drawing another surprised laugh out of Steve before he bit off the sound to let you speak.

“Well those people should have their eyes checked,” you muttered scornfully, pushing yourself up from where you’d been slumped against the warm leather seat. You twisted your body in your seat so you were facing Steve, your eyes tracing the lines of his face from across the cab. “You still have the same eyes,” you pointed out vehemently, as if Steve was arguing with you, even though he wasn’t. “And your nose still has that little bump in it, and your lips are still so soft and full…”

You trailed off, realizing far too late that you were saying your inside thoughts out loud. Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, you watched Steve as he processed what you’d said—the way his fingers scratched a little nervously at his beard, those twin lines forming between his brows. Your gazed traced every curve and line and divot in his face, examining his expression, wanting to memorize it and save it for the rest of your life. 

“I don’t think any of those people noticed those things,” Steve murmured, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it over the slight breeze drifting through the windows while he drove through town. 

Your heart lurched at the implication of Steve’s words, but you couldn’t bring yourself to take them back, even if they were dangerously close to revealing something you hadn’t even had the courage to admit to yourself yet. 

Instead, you focused on your anger at the hypothetical people who weren’t recognizing Steve just because he’d grown up, gotten tall, gotten buff, grown out his hair and his beard and looked altogether very different to the skinny teenager he’d been.

“If they didn’t see those things, they didn’t really see you,” you muttered to yourself, indignant on Steve’s behalf, but trying to keep it to yourself. Apparently, you weren’t good at moderating the volume of your voice, because Steve snorted at your remark. 

“No, no one ever saw me as well as you did, buttercup,” Steve said, his voice low and warm, and your heart promptly rioted in your chest. 

There was something so dizzyingly wonderful about hearing Steve say such intimate words to you in that deep, caramel voice of his, genuine affection shining through his tone. It took your breath away for a moment, and your brain short-circuited. 

It was on the tip of your tongue to tell him…something. The thing you hadn’t admitted to yourself yet. But you were still you, and your brain tripped at the last moment, and instead you blurted, “Do you ever think about our first time?”

Steve choked on a snort, his eyes darting to you with honest surprise. You couldn’t blame him. You’d had no idea those words were gonna spill from your mouth until they were out, but you supposed they weren’t as bad as what you’d almost confessed, so you didn’t try to take them back or change the topic of conversation. You waited with bated breath for Steve’s response, and whether he remembered your night together when you were both 18.

When he saw you were anticipating his answer, he spluttered, “You mean when I came three seconds after getting inside you?” 

You began to smile, because he remembered, but then Steve continued talking.

“Y’know, I told Bucky about that once,” he said, his eyes fixed so fully on the road that you got the impression he didn’t want to meet your gaze and your stomach plummeted. “I was drunk, and didn’t know if it really counted as sex. Bucky was no help, of course—he said he didn’t know either since it was so quick.” 

Something new was swirling in your gut, and for long moments you could only sit there on the warm leather of the truck and stew in that hot, feral feeling. It must’ve showed on your face because, when Steve finally looked over at you after you’d been quiet for so long, the truck lurched forward, his foot pressing too hard to the gas.

“Don’t worry,” he rushed to say, guessing at what was upsetting you and guessing wrong. “I didn’t tell him it was with you.”

“Don’t you dare,” you snarled, the words bursting out of you with a ferocity you’d never used in your life, let alone when talking to Steve. But you were furious all of a sudden, and it wasn’t until the words were spilling from your mouth that you understood why you were so angry. “Don’t you dare try to take this away from me, Steven Grant Rogers.” Your voice was seething and barely recognizable, but you couldn’t stop. “You were my first, and it was perfect—because it was you.” 

Steve glanced over at you, something like shock written across his face, but when he looked back at the road, his brows settled low over his eyes. The muscle in his jaw popped and you knew he was grinding his teeth together, taking his time to gather his thoughts before he spoke. It took him a long moment to respond.

“You deserved better.”

The noise of your scoff was loud, even to your ears, and you strained against the seatbelt still buckling you into the passenger seat as you leaned toward your childhood friend.

“You ate me out until I came three times, Steve!” you cried, holding up three fingers as if the adult man your friend had grown into somehow didn’t know how many three was. “No man has ever made me come so many times in one night as you did then.” 

When Steve still didn’t look at you, just kept driving with his hands gripping the wheel and the muscle in his jaw popping, you huffed an exasperated sound and flopped back into your seat. Your back was to the leather as you crossed your arms over your chest and stared out at Brambleberry Cove through the open passenger side window. 

The silence grew until it was suffocating, and you needed to break it. So you said the first thing that came to mind. Again.

“You’re who I think about when I touch myself, Steve.” Your words drifted from your side of the truck to the other, carried on the light breeze floating through the cab. “I think about you and that night, and it gets me off every single time.”

Steve made a strangled kind of sound, like a growl that was torn free from his throat against his will. Then he was quiet, and he was quiet for so long, you thought that was the only reaction you’d get to admitting the truth. Until…

“I think about you, too, buttercup.”

The confession hung in the air between you, settling heavily onto the leather bench seat in Steve’s truck, the air rushing in through the open windows buffetting around it. 

You didn’t feel Steve’s admission sink into you. There was simply a before and an after. And in the after, you were moving. You were unbuckling your seatbelt and scooting across the seat toward Steve until your bare knee brushed against the denim of his jeans. 

He shot a startled look in your direction—which, in a distant part of your brain, you registered as completely adorable—before quickly pulling over to the side of the road. He was just throwing the truck into park when you slid into his lap, straddling his thighs and pressing your chest to his. 

“We should do it again,” you purred, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and leaning close. When Steve didn’t respond right away, just kept giving you that surprised look, you thought he might not have understood you, so you explained, “Have sex.”

Steve closed his eyes and a light tremor shuddered through his body as his hands settled respectfully on your waist, a few of his fingers brushing the skin where the edge of your tank top didn’t quite meet the waist of your shorts. Then, it was your turn to shudder, the feeling of his warm, calloused hands against your bare skin making heat flood between your thighs, your core warming and your body melting into your old friend’s hands.

“Please, Steve,” you whispered, tipping your head forward until your lips were a hairsbreadth from his, so close you could taste mint chocolate chip ice cream on his tongue and it took everything in you not to lick into his mouth desperately. Your voice was practically a whine as you went on, “Let’s see if we can do better this time.” 

Steve’s hands shifted to your hips, his fingers digging into your soft flesh hard enough to almost hurt, and you thought he was going to give in. But then he swallowed audibly, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and he pushed you gently away, his head tilting back against the leather seat so your lips no longer teased him with an almost-kiss.

“You’re drunk, buttercup.”

Steve’s voice was a delicious rasp, and you couldn’t help but shiver at the sound of it even as the meaning of his words settled into your drunken mind. You pouted at your childhood friend, hoping the fact that he hadn’t pushed you off his lap entirely meant he wasn’t saying no.

“And horny,” you said, the words slipping from your lips on another whine. Of their own volition, your hips squirmed on your oldest friend’s lap, trying to get closer, trying to find some kind of friction to work against the aching heat pulsing between your thighs. But Steve’s firm grip held you in place. “Stevie.” His name was nothing but a pathetic whimper. 

A low growl rumbled in Steve’s chest, and then one of his hands was abandoning your hip to cup your face, tilting it up so he could loom over you. The lines of his face were hard, stubborn, and the look in his eyes left no room for argument. 

“You know I won’t touch you when you’re drunk,” he bit out, his voice soft, but as firm as his hold on your body.

A memory slammed into you—you and Steve planning your first time together. You’d made a deal at the start of high school that if neither of you lost your virginity through all four years, then before going off to college, you’d lose it together. 

When the time came, you’d been a little nervous, even though it was Steve, and you’d joked that you could take some wine coolers to the beach and get it over with, just like all the other kids in your school. Even then, Steve had looked at you stubbornly, and said, without a shred of willingness to waver, that he wouldn’t touch you if you were drunk.

Back then, it had sent a shiver down your spine, and it had much the same effect more than a decade later in his truck. Your body trembled with arousal, and you pushed feebly against Steve’s hold—not really trying to break it, just enjoying the feeling that came from realizing how strong he was. Those biceps and corded forearms of his weren’t just for show.

“What about just the tip?” you murmured, the words tumbling past your lips before you could think better of them, knowing there was no use trying to argue with Steve when he’d made a decision. But you were clearly thinking with something other than your brain, because the words kept coming. “That’s not sex, just the tip—please, Steve.” You were begging shamelessly, but your shame and embarrassment were still nowhere to be found since you were still definitely drunk.

Steve’s jaw ticked so hard, you could’ve sworn you heard the muscle pop in the quiet of his truck as he ground his teeth together. 

“Buttercup,” he growled, a warning in his tone. “That’s not happening.”

Your fists gathered in the front of Steve’s t-shirt and you yanked on it restlessly, not trying to do anything more than annoy him. “Whyyy,” you whined, drawing out the word until it was nearly a wail. Unslaked heat burned in your blood and, while you knew why he was refusing to have sex with you, in the moment, you couldn’t understand why your oldest friend was torturing you.

Steve’s hand slid down from your cheek to wrap around the front of your throat, and you stilled immediately, something about the possessive, dominant gesture making you calm. That was new, Steve hadn’t done anything like that when you’d first been together, but you liked it more than you would’ve expected. Your lips were still parted, your panting breaths gusting out of them, your heart racing, and you were finally calm and quiet.

Your oldest friend’s eyes roamed over you, taking in your reaction. At first he seemed surprised, but then a glint of something you’d never seen before sparked to life in the depths of his blue eyes. You watched his gaze drop to your mouth, and nearly whimpered at the way the corner of his lips flickered in the ghost of a smirk. But then he fixed his gaze back on yours, pinning you in place with that stubborn look in his eye, though it was slightly dimmed in favor of that new, hungry glimmer. 

“I won’t fuck you only to wake up tomorrow and find out you regret it,” Steve said, enunciating all his words clearly despite the fact that his teeth were grinding together “That you only wanted it because you needed to scratch an itch.” 

Your lungs dragged in a soundless gasp and you finally understood his reticence, even if you couldn’t imagine ever regretting doing anything with Steve. But when you opened your mouth to protest, Steve’s fingers squeezed the sides of your throat. 

Your words died on your tongue, and your mouth went slack, your eyes going hazy with pleasure. You couldn’t have been more obvious that you liked the way Steve choked you if you tried. And he read your enjoyment easily from the expression on your face, that look of hunger sparking brighter in Steve’s eyes before he went on.

“When I fuck you again,” he growled, his words a promise. “I don’t want you drunk on anything but my cock.”

“Stevie,” you whined his nickname again, the name only you were allowed to call him, your lips forming into a pout. It hadn’t escaped your notice that he’d said ‘when’, and not ‘if’, about having sex with you again, but you didn’t want to push your luck. And besides, unslaked need was still burning brightly through your body, consuming most of your focus. “I need…something, please.” You let out a little whimper and squirmed in his lap again, unable to stop yourself.

Steve huffed a laugh, his thumb stroking down the side of your neck, over your thrumming pulsepoint, while the fingers of his other hand slipped half an inch into the waist of your shorts, only far enough to dig harder into your soft curves.  

“I’m not going to touch you more than this, buttercup,” Steve began, his voice a low, delicious rumble that you swore you could feel in the clenching of your core. “But I didn’t say anything about stopping you from touching yourself.”

Your eyes widened in excitement, and you wasted no time in acting on the implication in Steve’s words. Holding his gaze, one of your hands slipped free from his shirt and trailed down your body. When you reached between your thighs, the backs of your fingers brushed against a thick bulge in the front of Steve’s jeans. 

It twitched against your soft touch, and you gasped in delight, loving the proof that Steve’s body recognized you just as much as his mind.

But when you twisted your hand, intent on giving Steve’s bulge a friendly squeeze, his hand darted down from your hips to your wrist, his fingers circling around you and stilling your hand. “Buttercup,” he rumbled, another warning. 

A shiver raced down your spine and you reveled in the way it made you feel to hear Steve say your nickname like that. It occurred to you that it was new—you’d never heard him say it quite like that before, with frustration and arousal flooding his tone. 

You wanted to hear every flavor of your nickname on Steve’s tongue. You wanted to hear him whisper it like a prayer, and groan it into your lips while he kissed you. You wanted to hear Steve shout your nickname while he came with you. 

But the look in Steve’s eyes was stubborn again, and you knew you’d have to wait to hear all the ways he could say your nickname. 

“OK, Steve, ‘m sorry,” you mumbled, twisting your hand in his hold and pressing the tips of your fingers to the seam of your shorts, your hips jerking forward to seek more of the friction you offered yourself. 

Steve’s hold loosened, but he didn’t let go of you entirely, like he didn’t trust you just yet. But you didn’t care, your fingers were pressing into your clit through the thin denim of your shorts, and you were rocking your hips to grind against them, your wetness soaking through your panties almost immediately.

The moment when your fingers found just the right spot, you sucked in a sharp breath, your spine arching and your hips pressing down hard against your hand. Your head tipped back, your eyes narrowing into slits as you held Steve’s gaze. You moaned while you rubbed tight circles against your clit through your shorts.

“I’m going to come embarrassingly fast,” you huffed in warning, your chest heaving already with labored breaths. 

But Steve only smirked, a touch of smugness in the curve of his lips.

“Don’t worry, buttercup, I remember exactly how sensitive your sweet little clit is,” he rumbled, and you moaned loudly. His fingers flexed against your throat, digging in enough to quiet your sounds and making your eyes widen as your hips lurched in their rhythm. He chuckled at your reaction before continuing on.

“I remember sucking on your puffy little pearl, your thighs squeezing my head, my fingers buried deep in your tight, warm hole,” Steve purred, seemingly knowing exactly what to say to drive your pleasure higher. “I remember the exact way your pussy gripped my fingers when you came, like you wanted me deeper—deep enough that you could feel me in your belly.” 

“God, Steve,” you groaned, your head falling back listlessly on your shoulders, too heavy to keep it up. But Steve’s fingers dug into the back of your neck, and you understood the wordless command immediately. You lifted your head and caught your oldest friend’s eye while you kept rubbing your clit, pushing yourself closer to coming apart in his lap. 

“I remember how big your cock felt inside me,” you confessed, spurred on by Steve’s own filthy words. “I remember how long it took for you to sink your thick, fat cock into my tight pussy.” You paused only to take a quick, hitching breath. “I was already so close when you came, and I remember, I thought, maybe if you hadn’t been wearing a condom, maybe I would’ve come, too.” 

The lines of Steve’s face shifted, hardening, his jaw ticking wildly and his eyes going molten fierce, like the blue at the center a campfire that burns too hot to sit near. 

“Don’t fucking say that, buttercup,” Steve growled, his voice gravelly like he was chewing on seashells. “If I hadn’t been wearing a condom, I would’ve come so much faster—I never woulda made it all the way inside you. Woulda been coming with just my tip inside your warm, wet pussy, baby—woulda been too risky, buttercup.” 

Your eyes wanted to fall closed as you moaned, but you didn’t let them. You couldn’t tear your gaze away from Steve, not with that furious and ferocious hunger in his eyes, his desire for you etched into every single line and curve of his face. 

You were so close. You just needed a little more to push you over the edge.

“Fuck, Steve, I know I shouldn’t, but I love the thought of you coming inside me, filling me up, making me yours,” you confessed, the words bubbling up from the very depths of your soul. It was on the tip of your tongue again, that thing you hadn’t admitted to yourself. Instead of letting it free, you moaned, long and loud, your fingers rubbing faster against your clit and your hips grinding against your hand. 

“Christ, baby,” Steve gritted through tightly clenched teeth. His fingers were digging into your hip again, diving further beneath the waist of your shorts, nearly skimming the edge of your panties. His other hand tightened around your throat and dragged you into him, until your face was right in front of his and he could watch every twitch and change in your expression as you pleasured yourself. 

“Come on, baby,” he said, his voice urgent with need. “Come before I do something we’ll both regret.” 

The hand that wasn’t wedged between your thighs pressed to the center of Steve’s chest, just above his heart, and a moment later, you felt his warm palm cover it. He was still holding your throat, his fingers digging into the sides hard enough that you knew he could feel your fluttering pulse beneath his touch. And you could feel his heart pounding beneath your palm, the rapid pace nearly matching the frantic one in your chest.

“Come, buttercup, come for me,” Steve commanded, his eyes holding yours. For a moment, it felt like he could see straight into your soul. It was a scorching intimacy you hadn’t felt since that night you’d first been with Steve, and you were helpless to it.

“Stevie,” you cried his name as your pleasure rose up and consumed you, sending you over the edge into a earth-quaking orgasm. Your body writhed in Steve’s lap, your hips grinding gracelessly against your hand as you collapsed forward, leaning into the grip of his hand around your throat. You sobbed your pleasure, the waves of your release wracking your body for long moments.

Eventually, the final swell ebbed and the last of your energy receded with it. Your damp forehead fell against Steve’s cool, dry one and you struggled to catch your breath. His hand slipped from the front of your throat around to the back of your neck and he smoothed it down your spine. 

He held you close, whispering in your ear, “Such a good girl, buttercup, you did so good.”

Once you finally settled, Steve shifted, his beard grazing your lips as he pressed a kiss to your cheek. 

“Can I take you home now?” he asked.

You huffed a laugh and slumped against his chest, laying your head sleepily on his shoulder. “I don’t think I can move yet,” you said, slurring your words with tiredness. And drunkenness.

Steve chuckled, but made no attempt to move you. You only felt him lifting his arms around you, though his hands didn’t settle on your body. 

“If you see Sam while you’re back in town, don’t tell him I did this,” Steve murmured in your ear. Then you felt the truck rumbling to life and getting back onto the road and you realized where your oldest friend’s hands were. He was driving you home, with you still sitting boneless in his lap.

When Steve arrived at your rental house, not too long after, he helped you down from his truck and looped an arm around your waist, getting you into the bungalow. Thankfully, you were sated from your release in his truck so you didn’t try to proposition him again, just dutifully did as he said, changing into your pajamas in your bedroom while he waited outside the closed door. 

Then he let you lean against his broad chest while you brushed your teeth and washed your face, before guiding you back to your room and tucking you into bed. Last, he pressed a sweet kiss to your forehead that was so comforting, and made you feel so safe, your eyes fluttered closed and a soft smile curled your lips.

Before he could leave, your hand darted out and grabbed Steve’s wrist with surprising precision given your state and the fact that your eyes were closed. You dragged them open again, blinking away the bleariness until your childhood friend’s face came into focus. 

“I don’t regret anything we’ve done together, Stevie,” you mumbled, the side of your mouth hitching up in a lopsided smile. “I’m glad you were my first.” You lost the battle with your eyes and they fell closed. You also, apparently, lost the fight against biting back your feelings, murmuring sleepily, “I want you to be my last.”  

For a long moment, Steve was quiet. He seemed to wait until you were just on the edge of sleep before responding to your drunken confession. 

“Tell me that again when you’re not drunk, and I’ll believe you, buttercup,” Steve murmured, ducking down to press a kiss to your hand, still wrapped loosely around his wrist, before carefully extricating himself. 

You were snoring before Steve closed and locked the front door of your bungalow behind him. He walked down the short path to his truck, which sat at the curb, a subtle smile on his lips and a glimmer of hope in his eyes.