#i just want to say that i belong with you

[espresso1patronum]

boxer!gojo who loves seeing his sports therapist bent over the chair in his locker room just before a match. he says it’s just something to do, a way to calm his nerves, but the way he’s gripping your hips, pressing your cheek against the cool leather, tells a different story.

"look at you, taking me so well," he murmurs, voice dripping with satisfaction, watching the way your body trembles with every deep thrust. "so fucking good for me—knew you would be."

his bandaged fingers dig into your hips, pulling you back onto him. "but you like this too, don’t you?" he chuckles, low and rough. "needy little thing, always so tight around me—like your pretty body knows who it belongs to."

you whimper when he presses in deeper, stretching you, leaving no room to breathe. he groans at the sight, rolling his hips just to hear you gasp. "fuck, you’re clenching—squeezing me like you don’t want me to leave. that desperate to keep me inside, huh?"

boxer!gojo who doesn’t stop even when they call his name over the speakers. "five more minutes," he calls out, voice steady, completely unbothered. as if his cock isn’t buried deep inside you, making a mess of you right before he’s supposed to step into the ring.

he leans down, breath hot against your ear, hips rolling just to tease. "be good for me, baby—let me feel you cum, yeah?"

you nod, whimpering, and he groans at the way you squeeze around him, the way your body obeys him so perfectly.

"that’s it," he praises, fingers digging into your skin as he fucks you through it. "so goddamn perfect when you listen to me."

boxer!gojo who pulls out at the last second, groaning as he spills over your back, fingers smearing the mess just to watch you squirm. "fuck, look at you." his voice is thick with admiration and possession—like he loves seeing you like this, ruined by him.

he grins, breathless, tapping your ass. "clean up before they see you like this, yeah? unless you want them to know how well i fucked you." and just like that, he’s gone, stepping into the ring with a cocky smirk—knuckles taped, muscles loose, completely at ease.

because really, what better way other than this to warm up?

[verstappenverse]

Call Me When You Breakup

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max is in the wrong relationship, and you both know it. But knowing isn’t choosing, and you’re done waiting.

1.8k words / Inspo / Masterlist

You don't want to be here.

Not in this overpriced, dimly lit restaurant. Not sitting across from your best friend who, for all intents and purposes, should be yours but isn't. Not watching him share a plate of something too delicate, too refined, with someone who doesn’t know him the way you do.

You shouldn't be here, but you are. Because Max asked, and you’ve never been able to say no to him.

His girlfriend, the word itself sticks in your throat like it doesn’t belong there, sits beside him her hand curled possessively around his arm like it’s an accessory.

She's beautiful in that effortless way that makes it impossible to hate her, but easy to envy and you do, not because she's done anything wrong, but because she has him and you don’t. She’s the kind of girl who wears white to brunch and never spills anything. Who smiles with her teeth but never with her eyes. She laughs at all the right moments, smiles like she’s being watched, and you suppose she probably always is.

She tells people he’s different with her, like it’s some accomplishment, like she’s smoothed out all the parts of him that used to be real. And maybe that’s what she wants, a version of Max that’s easier to manage. More polished. Less... passionate.

And maybe he needs that. Maybe it’s easier to be loved when no one sees the cracks.

But you do.

And you love him anyway.

"You're quiet tonight."

Max's voice breaks through the fog of your thoughts, dragging you back into the present. His blue eyes flick to yours, brow furrowed. You know that look. Concern. Like he always gets when you're not yourself. Like he doesn't realise he’s the reason why.

"I'm fine," you lie, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Just tired."

His girlfriend, her name, why does her name escape you? Leans in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, whispering something you can’t hear. Max laughs, low and affectionate, and it splinters something inside you.

You force your attention back to your plate, pushing the delicate food around with your fork, though you have no appetite for it. Each bite seems tasteless, it’s not the kind of meal you’re used to. You’d much rather be somewhere familiar, somewhere real, where the food is greasy and the air is thick with laughter, the kind of places where Max talks with his hands and lets himself forget who he has to be.

But tonight, he’s wearing someone else’s life. And you’re just the spectator.

Max's laughter, though, it’s still real. It’s just harder to swallow now, harder to accept, because it’s not for you. Not tonight.

Then he leans in closer than necessary, voice dropping again, warm and soothing, bringing you back to the present. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Your heart stutters for a beat. The question, the tone it’s always the same. Always concerned. Always directed at you. But never for you. You’ve learned to ignore the quiet ache that blossoms each time, because it’s pointless.

"I'm fine," you repeat, this time with more conviction. The smile feels less forced but still unnatural. "I promise."

His eyes linger on you like it’s a habit he can’t break, and you can tell he’s not buying it. His gaze flicks briefly to his girlfriend, who is now chatting animatedly with the waiter about some wine pairing, before he leans in, close enough that only you can hear.

"Are you sure? You know you can talk to me right?"

That damn sweetness in his voice. That quiet tenderness he saves just for you, like a secret between the two of you, a secret you’re not sure you can keep much longer. His girlfriend is only a few inches away, but the distance between you and Max has never felt more cavernous.

You swallow, unable to look at him, because if you do, you might say something you can’t take back. Something that would shatter the delicate balance you’ve managed to maintain.

You want to tell him that you're not fine. That you haven’t been for a long time. But you can’t. You just can't.

Instead, you nod, your throat tightening, unable to force the words past your lips. He doesn’t need to know. Not now. Not when it could ruin everything.

Later that night when you’re alone in your apartment, you do what you swore you wouldn’t.

You scroll through old photos, ones where it was just you and Max, before… before everything became complicated. Late-night drives through Monaco, your legs propped up on his dashboard. His arm around you after a race, champagne still clinging to his skin. The way he looked at you, like you were his whole world.

And maybe you were.

Maybe, for a time, he was yours too.

You miss him. Not the version of him you get now, careful and distant, but the Max who used to call you at 3 a.m. just to talk. The Max who used to sit on your bathroom counter while you took off your makeup, who would trace patterns into your wrist absentmindedly as you talked about the future.

That version of Max doesn’t exist anymore.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just buried under the weight of a relationship that isn’t meant for him.

She’s the safe choice. The quiet, easy path. She’ll never demand the real version of him, but she’s there and for now that’s enough for him.

Your fingers hover over his name in your phone, heart hammering in your chest. You shouldn’t call.

But you want to.

Call me when you break up.

The words sit on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them down.

Instead, you type a message you’ll never send.

We’re so meant for each other, when will you wake up?

You read the words, and the weight of them sinks deep in your chest. But you delete them immediately. They’re too raw. Too desperate. Too honest.

With a shaky breath, you shut off your phone, the screen fading to black.

The thing about being in love with Max Verstappen is that you never really stop waiting.

You wait for him to see you. Wait for him to realise what you've always known. Wait for the moment when he’ll turn to you and say, it was always you.

But waiting is exhausting.

And you're tired of feeling like an afterthought.

So you do what any rational, heartbroken person would. You try to forget.

You let strangers buy you drinks, let them whisper sweet nothings into your ear, let them kiss you in the dark corners of bars where no one knows your name. You chase distractions, hoping that one of them will make you feel something, anything, other than the ache of missing him.

But they never do.

Because none of them are Max.

And maybe that’s why when your phone rings one night, his name flashing across the screen, you still answer without hesitation. Because this isn’t the first time. It’s become a pattern. A quiet, painful ritual. A fight with her. A call to you.

"Hey."

He sounds off. Tired. Worn down in a way you’ve never heard before.

"Can I come over?"

Your pulse spikes. "Max—"

"I just… I don’t want to be alone right now."

The unspoken words hang between you.

I don’t want to be with her right now.

You exhale shakily. "Yeah. Of course."

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings, cutting through the silence that had settled over your apartment like a heavy fog. You stand frozen for a moment, uncertainty crawling up your spine, before you force your legs to move.

He looks wrecked. Like he hasn't slept in days. He doesn't say anything at first, just steps inside, closing the distance between you in a way that makes your breath catch.

"Did something happen?" you ask softly.

Max shakes his head, exhaling sharply. "I just needed to see you."

The space between you closes with a speed that makes your pulse skip. It’s like he’s always known the exact way to find you, to make everything else fade away, to pull you back in like you’re a magnet and he’s the force that won’t let you escape.

His eyes search yours, and it’s in that moment you realise he knows.

He knows he's with the wrong person.

He knows that no matter how much he tries to pretend, it’s always been you.

But knowing something and choosing it are two entirely different things.

And you’re tired. Tired of waiting for him to make the right choice. Tired of standing here, always second. Always the backup when things aren’t perfect in his world.

So you step back, putting space between you that feels like a chasm.

"You can’t do this," you whisper. "You can't just run to me when things go wrong with her. It’s not fair."

His jaw tightens at your words, the muscle in his cheek twitching, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he looks down, taking a long breath, his chest rising and falling with the weight of something unspoken. You can see the frustration, the guilt in the way his shoulders tense, but it doesn’t change anything.

"I—"

"You love me Max." Your throat tightens, interrupting him before he can pull you in, and you hate the way your voice cracks on the last word, but you don’t care. "I know you do."

Silence.

Painful, suffocating silence.

But then—

"I do." His voice is raw, like the words are being torn from him. "I do love you."

Your breath stutters. "Then why are you still with her?"

Max opens his mouth to respond, but the words die on his lips. His eyes dart away from yours, like he’s trying to find the right thing to say but can’t. He clenches his fists at his sides, and the tension in his body is palpable. "I... I don’t know," he mutters, voice thick. "I don’t know what I’m supposed to do."

"You’re supposed to choose Max!" Your voice cracks, the frustration bubbling over.

He opens his mouth again, but the words won't come. You watch him struggle, like he’s stuck in a loop of his own making. "I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to hurt you," he says, regret creeping in.

"But you have," you say, your voice steady but filled with everything you’ve been holding in. "You have hurt me Max. And you don’t get to keep doing that and expect me to just be here when you feel like it."

Max takes a step toward you, but you shake your head, stepping back. "No," you whisper, shaking your head. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to have me when it’s convenient for you. You either choose me, or you don’t."

Max opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Because there’s no excuse. No reason good enough.

Just fear.

Of change. Of consequences. Of finally choosing what’s real over what’s easy.

And you? You’re done waiting for him to be brave.

So you smile, even though it hurts. Even though your heart is shattering.

"Call me when you break up."

Then you shut the door.

[ilium-ilia]

simon riley x fem!reader | drabble | intersecting lines | morbid thoughts | death and the macabre | erotic morbidity? | blood kink taken to the extreme | two sides of the same coin can never look in one direction, but that won't stop them from devouring each other whole anyway

You only learned that you should be disgusted with blood when it first stained your underwear.

Thick endometrium and stale ichor, expunged from your body like a pest, sticky between your thighs, rotting in the core of you—keep it quiet. You'll make the men squirm if you open your pretty lips about it. Suffer in silence. Wrap agony with a pale, baby pink bow and grin with teeth as iridescent as pearls; nothing less. Everything more.

The boy in your biology class cringes at the frog you slice open during lab. Heart long since stilled, webbed hands and feet pinned open and wide, tender stomach ready to dive into—he gags, and the sympathetic puker that is his partner nearly spews over his shoes.

Later that year, after sustaining a bloody nose during a football game, he grins—wears the crimson proudly as it pours into his lips as if he realizes for the first time that iron tastes and awful lot like victory.

Blood is a fickle bitch.

It haunts your dreams. A wide, open sea of red that pours down your throat, coagulating in your chest, spilling into your stomach until you're bloated. Clawing for the surface, the sky asks why you aren't satisfied—have you not had enough death to satiate your hunger? They speak as if this is what you wanted; a choice you actively pursued, and not someplace you ended up.

As if there would be anywhere else that would welcome you with open arms.

Hands wrapped tight around a wheelchair, you gently lead your patient down the hall. She said she wanted to go for a walk, but her legs don't quite work the same anymore. You don't mind. It gets your steps in, and you're able to hide from the EVS tech who can't quite keep his eyes off of your ass.

She tells you about her grandson. Freshly jellied just two months ago—a tiny thing with predictably small hands and fingers and a scent she can't ever get enough of. She asks if you've ever experienced anything like that, and you smile and say you have.

You don't tell her about the blood that stains your shoes, or how it belonged to a seventeen year old boy, or the glass that was lodged in his throat, or how he couldn't live even after you patched him up.

Oh, I could never do something like that.

It's the default expression someone shares when you talk about your work. Tight lips, clenching jaws, twitchy feet—they speak like they don't know how beautiful blood is, like pomegranate juice flowing beneath overgrown thumb nails, or the fortitude it takes to see beauty when nothing but death has been shoved down your throat your entire life.

So you look for something else to sear your throat instead. A good pint, usually.

Shoved in the corner of a dilapidating pub, far out of the way, on the fringe of a wicked swing shift—the glass warms in your lips. Your hands tap against the table. No matter how many times you wash your hands, you can't get the stench to go away. Of blood. Of an emergency department.

Death approaches you with a black jumper, blue jeans, and eyes darker than a moonless night���his name is Simon Riley. Something he grunts out when you ask who the fuck he thinks he is for joining your table uninvited. Unfazed, sipping on his glass of whiskey neat, gaze fixated on the football game that drones on the telly too far for him to properly see.

You let him stay only because he smells familiar. Gun powder and cigarette—nicotine thick on his skin that even the faintest sniff leaves your blood buzzing. A culmination of all things dark, of things that get most people to flinch away, of things you lean into because you learned to smile through the fear and now you crave it more than anything else.

That night, you let him fuck you, only because you're curious to see if his blood tastes any different than your own.

Cock buried deep enough inside of you to snuff out the ache, you unhinge your jaw to fit him all in. Maw closing around his neck, teeth dipping where they shouldn't, you expect him to squeal like a stuck pig—instead, he laughs. Lips red like rose petals and viscera, Simon laughs. Wipes his fingers along his shoulder. Shoves them down your throat.

Yeah. Nasty fuckin' girl. Knew you were. Nothin' good ever smells this sweet.

Your whole life you have spent mending people—sewing them back together—that you never once stopped to think what it felt like to be torn apart. Simon does it beautifully. Practiced hands clawing through your cunt, dipping where you need him to, cleaving you clean in two just to lick you clean with the flat of his tongue. Trembling fingers trace every scar on his body as he skewers you, chest vibrating with each thrust, blood yearning to spill free just as he releases into you.

He kills for a living. The antithesis of you. The zenith of what you should despise but can't. Bullet through brain, knife through throat—he visits you before his boots have the time to shake off the gore. When he's still feverish with a fresh kill, and in desperate need of something sugary sweet to cleanse his pallet before he can't tell the difference between the taste of offals and rot.

Still, you work. Bedside manner. Water cups. Smiles over screams. Inhale blood. Wipe down the bed once the body is gone—bring the next one in. No need to glove up, you're not afraid of the cancer; not anymore.

No matter how hard you suppress it, you know that in the end, you get to go home. Cheek to Simon's chest, middle finger tracing his sternum, pressing into his xiphoid process, hand bouncing with each beat of his heart. You smile through the gushing blood and sour sweat as he pushes his fingers into your mouth.

Atta girl. Just need that dumb brain of yours turned off every now and then, huh? Yeah, me too, sweetheart.

Deeper. Enough to claw into your throat. Thick cock in your cunt, fresh blood on your lips, a grin peeling over sharp canines—your death rattle arrives with an arching back. With tense fingers in taut skin. With a whisper against your skin.

La petite mort.

Little death.

And as Simon drips on you—fresh, and red—you can't help but think about how good it feels to love something that death can touch.

[cheyisagirlkisser]

warnings: oral sex (e! receiving), masturbation, service top (fem) reader, possessive sex. mdni please.

"Can I touch myself?"

Ellie's thighs are warm are covered in freckles, the softest earmuffs known to womankind. Comfort is the last thing on your mind when you're tongue deep in her pussy, though.

You pull your mouth away from her needy hole and give her an incredulous look. "I'm eating you out already, aren't I?"

"I mean.." Ellie gnaws on her chapped bottom lip nearly hard enough to leave a wet, dark red streak. Then, you see it from below. You see her one hand squeeze her own perky tit, thumbing over her nipple. If her cheeks weren't already flushed, she is now a strawberry as her other hand reaches between her own legs to massage circles into her clit.

Her face is something you'd see on the cover of a dirty magazine. That look of frustrating embarrassment, and her actions that deceive her. The ways her nipples harden at her own touch should be printed out in color and pinned to your wall. You take pride in these moments when she finally unwinds like a spool of thread. You take pride in the little scoffs of denial she throws your way, even as she lowers herself further for your tongue to explore all of her.

"'m needing your tongue while I do it, though." She whines, losing the solidity in her voice as her own fingers work magic on her clit.

You won't say no to a request like that, as much as you love to tease. Your tongue belongs in her pussy, it belongs to her whenever she needs it.

"You feel so fucking good inside me, o-oh my god.." She whorishly moans. You already know it, though. You feel her clenching around your tongue, trying to feel you even deeper. The only noise you can hear is her pleasured moans and the lewd sound of your tongue fucking her hole. If you could speak, you'd tease her.

You need your girl's tongue in you to get off? Can't take care of yourself?

In a desperate motion, Ellie's hand leaves her tits to find semblance of support in front of her. It's like she's treating your face as her own masturbation pillow, humping your mouth and rubbing her clit raw.

It's your purposeful, vibrating moans that have her mewling, pace picking up. You just embrace her movements. You drive your tongue as deeply as it can reach into her and taste each sensitive spot nobody else can experience but you. I hope you know you're mine, Ellie Williams. I'll spell my own name inside this pretty fuckin' cunt of yours.

You feel her orgasm before it occurs in the way she twitches and squeezes your muscle. Then, the release coats your tastebuds and drips down your chin like a mushy strawberry in June. You keep going, though. You don't stop until she cries in protest and stops her ministrations, and then you give one final kiss to her ruined cunt and clean her up.

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[dismalflo]

notes in the margins

Remus lupin x reader who are strangers until they're not ✩ 5.8k words

summary: You meet Remus at a party you'd rather not be at, and you think that's the end of it... until he manages to make his way into your life properly.

cw: strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, reader is quite lonely and a lil socially inept.

The house is packed with people, most of whom you’re unsure whether you care to know. The air reeks of smoke and cheap booze, and it feels like everyone is watching you. They can see it—the way you stand in the corner of the kitchen, awkward and alone, like you don’t belong. It doesn’t help that you’re staring at the liquid in your plastic cup as though it holds the answers to the universe.

As you study it, lost in thought, you come to the conclusion that you should leave. Go home. Back to your bed, where it’s safe. Keep your life the size of a box. Just as you're about to pull out your phone to text Maddison that you're heading out, a voice from your right startles you.

“The drinks are awful, aren’t they?”

You think he’s talking to someone else nearby, until the toes of a pair of converse step into view, and you look up—mostly because you’re worried you’re the punchline of some joke.

He’s smiling, but it’s not a mocking smile. It’s like he’s in on something you’re not.

“Want something better?” he asks, his gaze playful as he tilts his head, studying you like you’re some kind of puzzle.

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” you mutter, looking down at your hands as they nervously twist the cup. A quiet confusion settles in—you have no idea why he’s talking to you.

There’s a pause. A long one. You almost expect him to walk away, but instead, he shifts on his feet and seems to settle in. You look up, hoping he’s leaving because that means you can go home. But his smile has softened, and he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, an uncertainty creeping into his eyes.

“I’m sorry, but I feel like I know you from somewhere,” he says, voice low, as though he’s trying to piece something together.

You shrug, trying to play it off with a small, apologetic smile. “I think I just have one of those faces.”

“I’d disagree,” he says, a small quirk of his eyebrow.

There’s something in his voice that leaves you uncertain. Your life feels like it’s a never-ending loop of work and home, and you’d definitely remember meeting someone like him. Tall, nice, warm smile—it’s hard to forget. The uncertainty gnaws at you, and you start picking at the skin around your nails. But when you look up, you see his cheeks flush slightly, a shy, almost bashful look creeping in.

It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one keeping this conversation stalled. But it’s hard, harder than it should be. You don’t know what to say, how to say it, without feeling like a socially awkward mess. And now that you're lost in your head, the words feel stuck.

“So, who do you know here?” His voice is soft, genuine, and he leans down just a little to make sure you can hear him.

“Huh?” It takes a moment for you to catch up, then you blink, trying to pull your thoughts back together. “Oh—nobody, really. Just a friend of a friend kind of thing.”

He nods, like he understands, and you do the same without thinking.

“That makes sense,” he says, his tone light but with a touch of exasperation. “Sirius invites everyone he knows. Every time.”

The way he says it, the affection in his voice, it’s clear he and Sirius are close. And for a split second, you feel a pang of envy. You don’t know them, but just the way he speaks about him, how it sounds, makes you long for something similar. Sure, you have Maddison, but she’s more of a sporadic presence, a friend you catch up with once every few months. The one time she invites you somewhere that's not a cafe, she ditches you before the night even starts. You can’t blame her. She’s always been like that.

Another awkward silence falls, but this time, you rush to fill it. You don’t want him to feel like you’re just standing there in silence.

“I came with Maddison,” you say, almost too quickly.

His smile widens. “Oh, I’ve met her. She’s nice.”

You let out a dry laugh. “She was. Until she left me two minutes after we got here.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, and he bursts into a loud laugh, his eyes lighting up. You freeze, worried he thinks you’re serious and mean, but before you can correct yourself, you scramble. “I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, voice a little too quick. “I mean, she didn’t—well, you know. She had her reasons.”

“It’s okay,” he’s still chuckling like your bluntness really tickled him. But you have the distinct feeling that you’ve somehow made a fool of yourself. It's that exact moment you decide you have to leave.

“I—uh, I need to get going,” you mutter, watching his expression falter just slightly before he nods. “I’ll see you around…” 

“Remus,” he adds, offering his name.

You give him yours in return, and then, without another word, you’re gone.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

The next day is another loop of the same dull routine that drags on in an endless, gray haze. Home, bus, work. Last night was out of the ordinary. The hours blur, blending together like the monotony of an old, well-worn song. You drag yourself through it all, each step like trudging through mud. But at least, you’re away from the suffocating quiet of your apartment. At least you don’t have to stare at the same walls, the same empty corners, with nothing but your own thoughts for company.

You wait at the bus stop, shifting from one foot to the other. The sky is heavy with dark clouds that seem to threaten an impending downpour. The air is thick with the tension of rain that hasn’t quite arrived yet, and the chill seeps through your jacket. Eyes flicking up to the horizon, praying for some excitement, anything. Maybe the rain will come. At least that would be something.

But still, no bus.

The minutes stretch on in silence. You shuffle your feet, watching up and down the street. You can feel the weight of the sky above you, pressing down like it’s waiting for something to give.

“I knew I recognised you from somewhere.”

You freeze, heart catching in your throat. It takes a second to register the words, and you blink, turning toward the sound of the voice.

Remus.

The same guy from the party last night. His figure is tall and familiar as he walks casually down the path toward you, cigarette dangling loosely from his fingers. The soft glow of the ember flickers as he takes a drag, his eyes fixed on you with an expression of recognition, but also something else—something more curious than you'd expected.

“Remus?” you ask, not quite sure whether you're still dreaming or if the world really does work this way, where you run into people you barely know on the most random of days.

He grins at you, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yeah, I didn’t think I’d run into you again so soon. Lovely to see you.”

Your stomach tightens at his words. You shift uncomfortably, looking anywhere but directly at him. The awkwardness from last night floods back, the way you were so sure he was going to walk away, leaving you alone in your own little corner of the world. And yet, here he is again, standing in front of you.

“I’m surprised you recognise me,” you admit, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself as a gust of wind picks up. “I wasn’t exactly the life of the party last night.” It feels a bit easier speaking to him in a place that you know. 

He chuckles softly, almost as if your self-deprecation amuses him. "Well, you were hard to miss, you know? There’s something about you," he trails off, his voice almost hesitant. Then, like he’s remembering something, he adds, “I wasn’t expecting to find you here, though.”

You can’t help but smile, even if his eyes locked on you feels exposing. "Yeah, me neither. I—uh, I take the bus home after work, so..."

“Ah,” Remus cuts you off, the look on his face suddenly shifting to something a little more serious. “The bus won’t be coming for a while. There’s been an accident up the road, a big one. You’re gonna be waiting here for ages.” he sounds apologetic, like he's really sorry he's the one telling you.

You sigh, processing the information, but your mind is too caught up in the reality of being stuck here longer than you wanted. The bus is never reliable, but this is a new level of inconvenience. You feel the familiar unease creep up your spine, the thought of the endless wait stretching before you like a dark tunnel with no light at the end.

“Great,” you mutter under your breath, staring at the pavement beneath your shoes. "Just what I need."

Remus watches you, his expression thoughtful. You feel his eyes on you for a moment too long, and it makes you shift again, the silence hanging heavy in the air between you. Your brain goes into autopilot, spiraling through scenarios—what if the bus never comes? What if you’re stuck here for hours? The thought of waiting outside, in the cold, with nothing but your thoughts for company, fills you with a strange mix of frustration and exhaustion.

Just as the anxiety begins to swell, Remus interrupts the chaos of your spiraling thoughts.

“You hungry?”

You blink up at him, thrown off guard by the sudden question. Hunger. Right. You hadn’t really thought about food until now, but when you do, it’s like your stomach growls on cue. You’re always hungry, but especially now, when your brain feels like it might short-circuit from the sheer amount of time you’ve spent just...waiting.

“Yeah,” you admit, a little embarrassed by how eager the word slips out. "I’m starving, actually."

He gives a simple nod, gesturing for you to follow him. Without thinking twice, you do.

And that’s how you end up across from Remus in a cramped booth, your knees brushing beneath the table as you dig into a burger and fries, the world outside the booth fading into the background.

As you bite into your burger, the warm grease and salt doing wonders for your hunger, you notice how easy it feels to sit across from Remus. The bus stop seems like a distant memory, replaced by the low hum of the diner and his easy going nature. It’s a strange thing, how someone can just slide into your world like that, without any pretence or pressure.

“You know,” Remus says between bites, his voice a little quieter than before, “I come here pretty often. The owner’s been giving me free refills on the coffee since I was sixteen.” He gives a shy, almost embarrassed smile, but there’s a glint of pride in his eyes.

“Free coffee, huh?” you joke, grinning, “So you’re basically royalty around here.”

He laughs, but there’s a trace of humility behind it. “I don’t know about that. I think I was probably quite annoying back then, or at least James and Sirius were. Most of the time I’m reading and writing here.” He looks down at his burger for a second, as though the words aren’t quite meant to leave his lips.

“Oh, you write?” you ask, leaning in slightly, curiosity piqued. You can’t help but wonder what kind of stories this guy has locked away.

He nods, still not meeting your gaze. “I, uh, yeah. It’s nothing serious though,” he quickly adds, as if he’s embarrassed by the idea of someone knowing. “Just something I’ve been working on for a while.”

You tilt your head, eyeing him with interest. “What do you write about? I feel like I'm always reading different stuff.” you remember yourself after, looking down as you add, “You don't have to tell me.”

Remus squirms a little in his seat, and his gaze flickers away. You can tell he’s hesitating, like he’s unsure whether he wants to share or not. It makes you even more curious.

“It’s, um, kind of a mix of fantasy and... I don’t know... life stuff. Nothing too exciting,” he says quickly, sounding almost apologetic, but there’s a subtle spark of passion in his voice when he talks about it. "I just... I guess I like to write things that feel real, even if they’re set in a world that isn’t. Does that make sense?"

You smile, the feeling of him letting you in on a piece of his world not lost on you. “It makes perfect sense,” you say, your voice soft, appreciative. “That sounds amazing. You should be proud of it.”

Remus looks a little taken aback, but a small, shy smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, well... I’m still working on it. Not ready to share it with anyone just yet.”

You nod, understanding. There’s something vulnerable about sharing your work, even with the people you trust most. “I get that,” you say. 

For a while, you both sit in comfortable silence, your shared laughter from earlier still hanging in the air. It’s strange, but for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re not just passing time. You’re actually existing in the moment, and Remus is there with you, filling the space with his easy charm and the subtle way he listens to you without judgment.

“So, what about you?” he asks after a beat, his voice steady, as though the shift in conversation is natural. “What’s your story? What do you do?”

It’s an innocent enough question, but somehow, it feels heavier than it should. You feel a little vulnerable suddenly, how do you compare to him? But instead of feeling pressure, you find yourself wanting to answer, to let him see more of you. You shrug, trying to play it cool. “Not much. I work in retail—pretty boring stuff, honestly.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “Retail, huh? That doesn’t sound boring.”

You laugh softly, then take a sip of your drink. “Well, I guess it’s not boring so much as it is... repetitive? But, yeah, nothing as exciting as writing a book.”

His smile widens a bit at that, and for a brief moment, you feel like you’ve managed to take down some of the walls between you. But just as quickly, the conversation stalls, and you both find yourselves lost in the simplicity of each other’s company.

“I’m glad we ran into each other today,” you say suddenly, the thought slipping out before you can filter it. “It’s nice, you know, having someone to talk to for a change… and i'm sorry for being weird at that party last night.”

Remus looks at you as he nudges your knee under the table, his expression softer now, more open. “It’s alright, it was all a bit overwhelming.”

After a pause, Remus picks up his phone, glancing at it before looking back at you. “Hey, uh, I was thinking... Since we both end up here a lot, maybe we could hang out sometime? Like, outside of weird bus stop encounters.” His voice is tentative, like he’s worried you might decline, but the way his eyes meet yours, hopeful but unsure, makes your heart do a small flip.

You’re caught off guard by the suggestion. Hang out? With him? You hadn’t even realised how much you wanted something like that until now.

“Yeah, sure,” you say before you even really process the words. You can’t help but smile a little at the thought. “That sounds nice.”

A look of relief passes over his face, and he pulls his phone out, his fingers tapping quickly as he hands it over. “Great. Here, give me your number, and we’ll figure something out.”

You type your number in quickly, your fingers moving almost on their own. When you hand the phone back to him, there’s a flicker of something between you.

Remus grins, his eyes warm as he tucks the phone away. “I’ll text you soon. It’ll be nice to actually get to know you, you know? Be more...comfortable.”

You laugh, feeling some weight lift from your chest. “Yeah. I think we can manage that.”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

When Remus said he’d text you soon, you expected it to be about a week—or, honestly, you figured he might never reach out at all. So when you woke up the next day to a text from him asking if you wanted to grab coffee, shocked didn’t even begin to cover it. But of course, you said yes, and now you’ve been meeting up a couple of times a week, sipping coffee and slowly getting to know each other.

There’s a simplicity in talking to Remus that you’ve never quite experienced before. He’s always checking in to make sure you’re comfortable, that you’re enjoying yourself. It feels effortless. He feels effortless. The only moment that’s thrown you off was one evening when he asked what kind of books you liked to read over the phone. You told him, and his response was just, "Okay, great. Talk to you later," before hanging up. It left you with more questions than answers still looking forward to the next time you get to see him.

The coffee shop smells of roasted beans and fresh pastries, the comforting hum of conversation blending with the soft clink of ceramic cups. You slide into the booth, trying to shake off the lingering chill of the walk over, your fingers curling around the warm cup in front of you. It’s a Saturday morning, and the light filtering through the windows has a gentle quality to it that makes everything feel calm and still.

Remus arrives just moments later, a little breathless, but with that familiar easy smile that you’ve grown to look forward to. He orders his usual—black coffee, nothing fancy—and slides into the seat across from you. There’s a small, almost shy smile playing at the corners of his lips as he sets down a small, worn book on the table between you.

You blink at it, glancing up at him. “What’s this?” you ask, your eyebrows knitting together in curiosity.

Remus looks down at the book, then up at you, his cheeks flushing slightly as he rubs the back of his neck. It’s not like him to be this nervous, but the way he avoids your gaze for a moment makes you wonder if he’s second-guessing himself. He clears his throat, still looking at the book with a mixture of nervousness and excitement.

“It’s... a book I thought you might like,” he says quietly, his voice hesitant, as if he’s unsure of your reaction. “That's why I- uh, why I asked the other night.”

Your fingers hover over the book’s cover, the title printed in elegant, curling letters. A title that immediately pulls you in, the kind of thing you’d never pick out on your own but might really enjoy. You glance back up at Remus, noting the soft blush on his cheeks. The vulnerability in his actions surprises you.

“I—thank you,” you say softly, your heart squeezing in a way you hadn’t expected. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you now, his eyes shy but hopeful, like this small gesture means so much to him. “I’ll definitely read it.”

He relaxes a little, his smile widening. “I’m glad. I thought... Well, it’s not exactly the most popular book or anything, but I figured it might speak to you. And if you don’t like it, I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, already flipping the book over in your hands, feeling the weight of it, the smoothness of the cover. “I’m sure I’ll love it.”

The conversation moves on from there, the usual topics filling the gaps—work, the weather, the books you’ve been reading—but it feels different this time. There’s a new layer to the connection between you two, something unspoken, something that feels important but can’t quite be named yet. The coffee passes in a haze of easy conversation and laughter, and by the time you both get up to leave, you feel a strange sense of contentment—like the world is, for a moment, just right.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Later that evening, you’re curled up in your favourite armchair, the soft light of your reading lamp illuminating the pages. The book feels comforting, a little like a friend you didn’t know you needed. You make it through the first pages chapters, quickly absorbed in the world it creates, and then, as your eyes scan the margins, you pause.

In the very first chapter, there’s a note scrawled in neat handwriting:

“This reminds me of you. You get lost in your thoughts the same way she does.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, but you’re already turning to the next page, not thinking much of it. But as you keep reading, the notes continue, each one more personal than the last.

He's put a box around a passage that talks about someone new becoming sunshine in one of the characters lives. Next to it he's written: you.

You pause, fingers trembling slightly as you turn to the next page. And then there’s another one:

“This part just made me think of you, that you’d like it.”

It clicks suddenly like an epiphany that you really, really like him.

The tears catch you by surprise. You hadn’t expected to feel this... moved. This seen. It’s like Remus has captured pieces of you in these notes—things you never said, things you didn’t even realize were there. He’s taken something as simple as a book and turned it into a way for you to see yourself through his eyes, as if he’s been quietly paying attention, noticing things about you you hadn’t even noticed in yourself.

Before you can stop it, your tears spill over, and you grab your phone, feeling the need to reach out to him. You hit his contact, your fingers shaking as you press the call button. It rings twice before he picks up.

“Hello?” His voice sounds a little surprised, but it’s warm, comforting.

“I—Remus, I just—” You can’t even finish the sentence, the tears turning into a full-on sob.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” he questions gently but there’s a tinge of panic in his voice. “Do you need me to come get you?”

You wipe your eyes, trying to regain some composure, but the emotion is too raw. “I’m fine. It’s just... I don’t know. I didn’t realize how much it would mean to me, and now... I just wanted to say thank you. For the book. For everything.”

He lets out a big sigh of relief. “That's okay, you’re welcome, dove.” 

“Thank you,” you whisper, barely able to say the words without breaking down again. “Thank you so much.”

“I’m really glad you liked it,” he replies softly, his voice warm with sincerity. “Really.”

You hesitate, wondering if this is the right moment. Part of you is almost certain that he feels the same way you do, especially after what’s just happened. But another part of you worries—what if you’re reading him wrong? What if you’ve misinterpreted everything?

“Would you…” you begin, unsure, “Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow night? We could get takeaway, or... anything you want?”

There’s a soft chuckle on the other end of the line. “Yeah,” he says, his voice filled with affection. “I’d love that.”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

You pace around your flat, your eyes darting to the clock on the wall. It’s almost time for Remus to arrive, and you’re certain your stomach is doing somersaults. Why does this feel so much more important than it probably is? It’s just dinner, right? Yet, everything feels magnified. The messiness of your living room seems somehow ten times worse, and the familiar clutter of books, mismatched furniture, and the remnants of your life in its chaos feels more glaring than usual. You straighten up a few things, putting cushions back in place on the couch, smoothing down the edges of the blanket. You pick up a few dishes that you’d left out earlier, trying to make the place look somewhat presentable, even though you know Remus won’t care.

You glance in the mirror, adjusting your hair for the hundredth time, frowning as you tug at the collar of your jumper. It’s nothing fancy. A comfortable knit, a bit oversized, something you know you feel good in. But suddenly, you feel self-conscious, like it’s not enough. What if he doesn’t think you’re pretty? What if you don’t look good enough? You shake the thoughts away. This is ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous. Remus isn’t like that. He’s told you many times that you look pretty even when you’ve just been in your uniform straight out of work.

You make a mental note to stop overthinking, but your nerves don’t seem to want to cooperate. A quick glance at the clock tells you that he’ll be here any minute, and you’re still unsure whether you’re prepared for what might happen tonight. You know you’re about to open up, to tell him something that has been building inside you for weeks now. You can’t stop thinking about the way he makes you feel, how effortlessly he fits into your life. You’re nervous, terrified, but also strangely excited. You want to know if he feels the same way, even if the answer might hurt.

Your phone buzzes, startling you. You pick it up to see a message from Remus: On my way! Can’t wait to see you.

You smile at the text, feeling a wave of warmth settle over your nerves. You try to calm your breath, reminding yourself that this is just Remus—someone who’s become a friend. Someone who’s been kind and patient, and who might just be more than that.

A knock on the door jolts you from your thoughts. You take a deep breath, mentally bracing yourself, and open it to find Remus standing there, looking exactly like himself—tall, with a soft smile that sends a flutter to your chest. He’s holding a small bouquet of flowers, which he quickly extends toward you.

“For you,” he says, his voice low and warm, his smile a little shy.

You feel your cheeks flush at the gesture, the simple thoughtfulness of it. “Thank you,” you say, taking the flowers and feeling an odd sense of gratitude fill you. They’re beautiful. You’re not sure if this is just Remus being Remus or if it means something more, but the sincerity in his eyes makes you feel seen.

“They’re lovely,” you add, feeling a little shy as you take them to put in a vase on the kitchen counter.

“You look lovely too, by the way,” Remus says, his voice just a bit too quiet. He clears his throat and looks at you a little sheepishly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird. I just—yeah. You look great.”

You blink, feeling the heat of his compliment spread through you. “Thanks, Remus. You look... nice too,” you stutter, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole for being so awkward.

He laughs softly, clearly understanding how the moment is making you feel, but there's no mockery in his tone—just affection. "Thank you."

The two of you settle into the couch, the awkwardness slowly dissipating as you begin ordering food. The simple act of choosing what to eat feels grounding, like it’s a small step toward normalcy. You both decide on pizza—something familiar, easy, and comforting. As you wait for it to arrive, you talk about the usual things. But your mind keeps drifting to the real reason why you invited him here.

You can feel it now, the weight of the conversation you need to have hanging in the air between you two. You feel restless, like there’s something inside you just waiting to burst free.

The pizza arrives, the conversation shifts, and you sit together, eating in the cozy comfort of your living room. Yet, even as you laugh and share stories, your heart is pounding. You know it’s coming. You know you have to say it.

“Remus,” you begin hesitantly, your voice catching in your throat as you look at him. “I... I wanted to tell you something.”

He glances up from his slice of pizza, a curious, open expression on his face. “Yeah? What’s up?”

You swallow hard, trying to calm the nervous flutters in your stomach. Your fingers trace the edge of your pizza box, too aware of the weight of the moment. “I... I think I like you, Remus.” The words rush out before you can stop them, and you quickly add, “I mean, I like you more than just as a friend. And... I don’t know. I just thought I should tell you. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same, I just... thought I should say it.”

You rush the last part out, your face flushing deeply, your heart hammering in your chest as you stare at your hands. You can’t even look him in the eye, afraid of what you might see—or worse, what he might not say.

The silence that follows feels endless. Your mind races through worst-case scenarios: What if he doesn’t feel the same way? What if you just ruined everything? What if he laughs, or worse, gets awkward?

But then you hear him clear his throat. When you finally dare to look at him, Remus is watching you with wide, warm eyes. His lips curl into a soft, genuine smile, and for a second, the anxiety that had been gripping your chest eases just a little.

“I feel the same way.” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"you- you do?"

He nods, his smile growing just a little. “Yeah, I do. I’ve been... kind of terrified to say it, honestly. But... I like you, too. More than just a friend.”

Relief floods through you, and before you can stop it, a giddy smile spreads across your face. "Oh my god," you breathe, unable to keep the laugh from escaping. "I thought I was going to die just now."

Remus chuckles softly, a quiet, knowing sound that makes your heart race a little faster. He leans in a bit closer, his expression softening, and you feel an electric pulse between you two. The air around you seems to shift, becoming thick with everything unsaid, everything you both now understand.

"You don’t have to be nervous," he says, his voice low but warm. "I promise I’m not going anywhere."

You smile shyly, the tension in your body easing, but the words don’t quite come out right. Instead, you take a deep breath, your eyes locked with his. You’ve already told him how you feel, and the vulnerability is still there, but now it’s accompanied by a quiet kind of hope

Remus reaches out slowly, almost hesitantly, as if he’s testing the waters. His fingers brush against yours lightly, sending a wave of warmth through your skin. You glance at his hand, then back up at him. His gaze is tender, searching yours for permission. There’s a slight hesitation, but it’s not strange—just... careful.

"Can I?" he asks, his voice just barely audible.

Your heart skips a beat. You nod, almost imperceptibly, too caught up in the moment to speak. The room feels smaller now, the space between you two shrinking with every passing second. Remus' hand moves a little closer, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, before he gently pulls your hand into his.

The warmth of his hand in yours feels like everything you’ve been waiting for, and you can’t help but smile softly. And then, without thinking, your thumb traces the edge of his hand, a quiet way of saying you're okay, you're safe. You can feel him relax in response, the tension in his shoulders melting as he inches even closer.

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, the anticipation growing as you both lean in, inch by tentative inch. The moment feels suspended in time. You close your eyes, a soft laugh bubbling up from you as you let out a nervous sigh.

"Remus," you whisper, barely a breath.

He stops, his face inches from yours, his eyes searching yours with that same softness, that same quiet intensity. The world outside seems to disappear. The sound of your breath and the beating of your hearts are all you can focus on.

Then, it happens. He leans in, his lips barely brushing against yours at first. It’s tentative, soft, like a question. Your breath hitches in your throat, and for a moment, you’re sure time has stopped. His lips are warm, gentle, and the kiss feels like the answer to everything you’ve been waiting for. You feel lightheaded with it—like everything in the world has finally made sense, like this is right, and maybe it always was.

A small giggle escapes you both, just a tiny, nervous sound, and Remus pulls back a fraction, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "I’ve wanted to do that for a while," he admits, his voice hushed.

You smile, feeling the warmth of the moment flooding through you. "Me too."

And then, without another word, you close the small gap between you again. This time, the kiss is deeper, more certain, though still gentle. His lips press against yours with a sweet intensity, like he's savoring it, savoring you. Your fingers move instinctively to the back of his neck, pulling him closer as his hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across your skin. Everything feels soft, tender—a slow, steady rhythm between you that’s almost perfect in its simplicity.

The kiss deepens, just enough to make your pulse race, but it still carries that same sweet, careful energy, like you're both savoring each second of it. It’s a slow kind of magic, the kind that makes your heart feel full and light all at once.

When you finally pull away, breathless and a little dazed, you rest your forehead against his, your noses brushing lightly. The laughter that had been bubbling inside you finally spills out, soft and giddy, and Remus chuckles with you, his fingers still gently brushing through your hair.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

You nod, smiling wider than you ever thought possible. “Yeah. More than okay.”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

let me know what you think of this! <3

[foxtrology]

fallin' (3)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 7.1k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.

Harry woke up before her.

Of course he did.

He always woke up early. Even on the rare nights he didn’t drink too much, even on days off. But this morning—it was different.

This time, he didn’t wake up to check the markets or answer a string of emails from London.

This time, he woke up to her.

And for once in his goddamn life, he didn’t want to move.

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet. Pale gold light filtered through the huge windows, casting the entire penthouse in a soft, honey colored haze. The city outside was quiet, unusually so. A stillness blanketed everything, like even Manhattan understood something sacred was happening here.

She was asleep beside him.

Naked.

And stunning.

One leg tangled with his. The edge of the comforter barely covering the curve of her hip. Her cheek pressed against his bicep, hair fanned across his chest like silk threads spun by a dream. She was breathing slowly, evenly—completely lost to the world.

Harry didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

He just stared.

Her lips were parted slightly, lashes fluttering against her cheek. He could still see the faint marks he’d left on her neck, her chest, the insides of her thighs. Gentle. Worshipful. Proof that he had memorized her the night before with lips, tongue, hands. Proof that he hadn’t been able to stop touching her even after she fell asleep.

She looked…at peace.

Like she belonged here. Like this was her bed too.

Harry’s throat tightened.

Last night had been slow and quiet and aching. All softness and tension and the kind of closeness that scared him more than boardroom deals or billion dollar collapses ever could.

And now—this morning—it was just as terrifying.

Because he didn’t want her to leave.

He shifted slightly, just enough to press a kiss to her forehead. Then to her cheek. Then to her shoulder. Her skin was warm and smooth beneath his lips, and he lingered there, breathing her in.

She stirred.

A small, sleepy hum escaped her throat as she pressed in closer, her hand sliding across his bare chest, curling there like it belonged.

He froze.

Then, cautiously, let himself exhale.

He didn’t know how to do this.

He didn’t know how to wake up next to someone and not immediately put his walls back up.

But with her—it felt different.

He tilted his head and kissed the tip of her nose.

She wrinkled it and groaned. “Harry.”

His lips twitched. “Good morning.”

Her eyes stayed shut. “Why are you awake?”

“Because I wanted to look at you.”

A beat.

Her brows furrowed. “Creep.”

He smirked, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Romantic creep.”

She groaned again, burying her face in his chest. “It’s too early.”

“It’s not. The sun is literally up.”

“Barely,” she muttered. “Go back to sleep.”

But Harry didn’t want to go back to sleep.

He wanted to stay awake and memorize every inch of her like he hadn’t already done that last night.

He kissed her shoulder again.

Then lower.

To her collarbone.

Then down the slope of her chest, right to the curve of her breast.

She squirmed slightly, breath catching. “Harry…”

He didn’t say anything.

Just kept kissing her.

Soft. Lazy. Reverent.

Her skin glowed in the morning light, warm and flushed as he licked a slow stripe across the peak of her breast before taking it gently into his mouth. Just for a second. Just to feel her react. Her fingers threaded into his hair, not pulling—just there.

“You’re trying to distract me,” she mumbled.

He hummed against her skin. “Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

He shifted again, moving across her chest with light, open mouthed kisses, stopping to trace a few lingering marks from the night before with the flat of his tongue.

She shivered.

“It’s cold,” she whispered.

Harry pulled back slightly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was busy being kissed awake, creep.”

He smirked, brushing her hair off her forehead. “You want to go back to sleep?”

She shook her head.

“You hungry?”

“Too comfortable to move.”

He nodded, more to himself than to her, then suddenly slipped out from beneath the comforter.

She frowned, half sitting up. “Where are you going?”

“I have to make some calls,” he said, already walking—naked—across the room like it was the most natural thing in the world. “And turn on the heater before you freeze to death.”

She watched him press a button on the wall panel, heard the low hum of the heat system kicking in. Then, still completely naked, he crossed the room, opened a drawer, and returned with a pair of thick socks.

Her brow lifted. “Seriously?”

Harry knelt on the edge of the bed, lifting one of her feet into his lap with gentle fingers. “Your toes are cold.”

“I’m fine.”

He looked at her. “You’re not.”

She huffed, letting him pull a sock onto her foot. Then the other.

“I feel like I’m being dressed by a butler.”

“I’m naked,” he reminded her. “So, no.”

She laughed quietly as he kissed her ankle through the sock. “You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe,” he said, already reaching for a folded pair of sweats and a soft shirt from the drawer. “Arms up.”

She blinked.

“You’re dressing me?”

“Until you get warm, yes.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

He grinned.

She lifted her arms anyway.

He tugged the shirt over her head, smoothing it down her sides, then helped her sit up and step into the sweatpants, pulling the waistband gently low on her hips before kissing her bare stomach once—soft and slow.

Then again.

And again.

“Harry,” she murmured, breath shaky now.

He met her eyes. “You’re calling out of work today.”

Fuck it was a Friday. Which meant rush hours.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I can’t afford to—”

“You need rest,” he said, pressing a kiss to the center of her chest, right between her breasts. “And you’re staying here.”

“I—Harry—”

He looked up at her, mouth still brushing her skin. “Call.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Call.”

He kissed the slope of her breast.

“No.”

He kissed her hip.

“Harry—”

He kissed her collarbone.

“I hate you.”

He grinned. “You don’t.”

She groaned, grabbing her phone from the nightstand.

He watched her type the number in, still half laughing as she pressed the phone to her ear.

“Yes, hi—it’s me. I’m… sick,” she said flatly, shooting him a murderous look. “Yes, I can’t come in today. Sorry. Yes. Thanks. Bye.”

She hung up and threw the phone onto the comforter. “Happy?”

Harry nodded. “Ecstatic.”

She flopped back against the pillows, hair spilling everywhere. “You’re ridiculous.”

He climbed into bed beside her, pulling the comforter over both of them, kissing her shoulder again.

“You love it.”

She muttered something unintelligible.

And then she curled back into his chest.

Warm now.

Safe.

Content.

Harry waited until she was dozing again before grabbing his own phone off the nightstand.

James was first.

He texted simply:

Day off. Don’t come by. Will call later.

Then, reluctantly, he opened the other thread.

Danny.

Which already had eight unread messages.

Danny: You alive?

Danny: Blink twice if she’s still there.

Danny: Did she spend the night? Did you confess your feelings? Did you cry?

Danny: I bet you cried.

Danny: You definitely cried.

Danny: Why aren’t you answering?

Danny: Are you dead?

Danny: If you’re dead I’m stealing your office.

Harry rolled his eyes.

Harry: Rearrange all my meetings. I’m not coming in today.

Danny: ARE YOU SERIOUS.

Harry: Very.

Danny: You spent the night with her didn’t you.

Danny: YOU DID.

Danny: DID YOU CRY.

Harry: Stop texting me.

Danny: That’s not a no.

Harry turned his phone off and dropped it to the floor beside the bed.

Then he turned back to her.

Still asleep.

Still tangled up in his clothes.

Still curled into him like she’d never done anything else.

He pulled her closer, kissed her temple.

Then let himself drift.

Into something softer.

Something warmer.

Something terrifyingly close to peace.

That’s where Harry had been when he finally drifted into the kind of sleep he didn’t get often. Deep. Dreamless. Unbothered. The kind of sleep you only find when your body knows, on some primal level, that it’s safe. Held.

But she woke first.

It was nearly dark outside—somewhere between late afternoon and early evening. The kind of Manhattan glow that washed the skyline in a dusky lavender and gold. The penthouse had taken on a stillness that felt sacred, like the city had slowed for them. For this.

She laid beside him.

Still warm, still curled up in his t-shirt, one sock covered foot brushing against his shin beneath the sheets.

Harry Castillo—this intimidating, brooding man who carried the weight of billion dollar deals and decades of grief in his shoulders—was fast asleep, mouth slightly parted, one hand curled around the edge of the blanket like he was holding on to something soft. Or someone.

She stared at him.

Took her time.

Traced every crease and wrinkle of his face with her eyes, memorizing the lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint furrow in his brow that remained even in rest. His jaw she itched to touch. His hair was rumpled. He looked younger like this, somehow—but also softer. Human. Undone.

She reached out and gently touched one of the small age spots on his shoulder. Then kissed it.

Then another.

Her lips skimmed the surface of his chest, lazy and reverent.

A breath caught in his throat.

He stirred.

His eyes opened slowly—warm, brown, still hazy with sleep—and landed on her.

“You’re staring,” he rasped, voice low and gravelly, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

She smiled. “You snore.”

His brow lifted slightly. “I do not.”

“You do.”

Harry exhaled, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re not supposed to be awake yet.”

“I didn’t want to waste the light.”

He blinked at her, amused. “It’s dinner time.”

“Still light.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then reached up and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered.

“You're wearing my socks,” he murmured.

She grinned. “You put them on me.”

“I was being a gentleman.”

“You were being a pain in the ass.”

Harry huffed a small laugh and leaned forward to kiss her. Slow. Soft. Lips brushing hers like he was still deciding whether this was a dream.

She let him.

Let him deepen the kiss until it turned languid, heat curling between them like it never left. His hand moved down to her waist, tugging her closer, bare legs tangling together under the covers.

They could’ve stayed like that all night.

But then—

“I want a bath,” she whispered against his mouth.

Harry leaned back slightly, one brow raised. “You could’ve just said that instead of seducing me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Seduction implies you resisted.”

He smirked, then sat up, stretching his arms above his head, back cracking slightly with the movement. “Fine. Come on.”

They padded through the penthouse quietly. The floor cold against their bare feet, the room lit only by the fading city light.

The bathroom, when Harry turned on the lights, glowed warm and soft. Marble countertops, gold fixtures, and the enormous tub that looked like it had never been used for anything but aesthetic.

She sat on the edge while Harry filled it, testing the water with his hand. When steam began to rise, he turned and reached for her, peeling off his shirt from her frame and tugging the sweats down her hips slowly.

His eyes never left hers.

“Get in,” he murmured.

She did.

The heat enveloped her instantly—muscles melting, breath catching.

Harry stepped in behind her, water sloshing gently as he settled down and pulled her back into his chest. She fit perfectly against him, back to his front, his arms wrapping around her waist beneath the surface.

They sat like that for a long moment.

The water kissed her skin. His breath kissed her neck.

And then—

His hand moved.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Sliding along her thigh beneath the water, fingers gliding between them until he found her heat.

She gasped softly.

“Relax,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“I am.”

“You will.”

His fingers pressed, slow and teasing, circling her clit beneath the water while his other hand smoothed across her stomach, grounding her against him.

She tilted her head back against his shoulder, lips parting as her breath grew heavier. The sound of the water, the flicker of candlelight he must’ve lit when she wasn’t paying attention, the quiet intimacy of it—it was all too much and not enough.

Harry kissed her neck as his fingers worked her slowly, lovingly.

“You’re so fucking soft,” he murmured, pressing his thumb tighter.

She whimpered.

“Let me take care of you.”

She nodded, too breathless to speak.

His fingers dipped inside her, two thick digits curling expertly, sliding in and out with slow, delicious rhythm. She clutched his arm, hips twitching slightly as he moved faster, thumb circling in tandem.

It was overwhelming.

The water. His breath. His hands.

The way he held her like something precious, even while he was making her fall apart.

“You’re beautiful when you let go,” he whispered, his voice wrecked and reverent. “You’re mine when you fall apart.”

That did it.

She shattered in his arms, body going tight, then loose, heat rushing up her spine as she moaned, head falling back against his chest.

He held her through it.

Whispered praise against her skin.

Didn’t stop touching her until she squirmed from the overstimulation.

Even then—he kept his hands on her.

Gently stroking her thighs.

His lips pressing kisses to her temple.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She nodded.

He turned her gently in the tub, facing him now, her legs wrapped around his waist. The water sloshed but neither of them cared.

She traced his chest, fingers gliding over the soft curve of his stomach, the line of dark hair leading beneath the surface.

Then—her fingers wrapped around him.

Harry’s breath caught.

He was hard.

Thick. Heavy in her hand.

She stroked him slowly, teasingly.

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, jaw clenching.

“You’re going to kill me,” he muttered.

She leaned in, kissing the hollow of his throat. “Let me.”

And then—she sank down onto him.

The water made it slow, slick, endless.

She gasped.

So did he.

Her hands clutched his shoulders, his hands grasping her waist as she moved—rising and falling, the water rippling around them.

Every thrust was deep. Intimate.

His eyes never left hers.

“You feel…” he groaned, “Christ, you feel perfect.”

She moaned, hands sliding into his hair, pulling him in for a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and desperate need.

They rocked together in the water, soft splashes echoing off marble, steam rising around them like a fog. The room felt suspended in time. The entire city didn’t exist outside these walls.

Only this.

Only him.

Only her.

Their age didn’t matter.

The years between them, the decades of difference—they melted away with each thrust, each groan, each whispered name and bitten lip.

But still—it came up.

“You like fucking older men?” Harry growled against her throat, one hand gripping her ass to help her ride him harder.

She moaned. “I like fucking you.”

He grinned darkly. “I’m fifty four.”

She rocked harder. “I’m twenty six.”

He thrust up into her, making her gasp.

“Still want me?” he asked.

She kissed him fiercely. “More than anyone.”

That undid him.

He gripped her hips tight, buried his face in her neck, and fucked her through it—slow, hard thrusts that built and built until the pressure was unbearable.

“Harry—” she cried out, nails digging into his back.

“Let go for me again,” he begged, voice wrecked.

And she did.

She came around him, pulsing and shaking, body spasming in his arms.

He followed seconds later, groaning her name into her mouth, warmth flooding her in thick waves as he held her, trembling slightly from the force of it.

They clung to each other in the water, breathless, wrecked.

And when the tremors faded, when the air settled around them again, Harry pressed a kiss to her forehead and whispered, “Come here.”

She curled against him.

They stayed in the bath until the water went lukewarm.

Until the outside world started knocking again.

But neither of them answered.

Because in that moment—there was nowhere else to be.

And for the first time in his entire adult life, Harry Castillo didn’t feel alone.

He didn’t say it aloud.

Didn’t have to.

It lived in his breath as it slowed. In the way he still held her, even after their bodies had stilled, his arms curled tight around her waist beneath the water, as if afraid she might dissolve.

They stayed like that in the cooling bath. The only sound was the occasional slosh of water against marble, the soft shift of her limbs tangled with his.

Harry finally exhaled against her damp shoulder.

His nose brushed along the curve of her neck. “We should get out before we start to prune.”

She hummed sleepily, arms still looped around his neck. “Maybe I like being pruny.”

He chuckled. A soft, breath warmed sound she didn’t know she’d been craving until she heard it.

“I’m serious,” he murmured. “If we stay in here any longer, you’re going to turn into a raisin.”

She tilted her head back, smirking. “And what if I do?”

“Then I’ll have to keep you in a jewelry box.” He kissed her collarbone. “With the other precious things.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. She grinned.

Harry shifted slightly beneath her, lifting her by the waist with a strength that felt effortless. His hands cradled her as he slowly slid out of her. The sensation made her hiss quietly—she was sensitive now, raw and swollen, and the loss of him felt like a small ache.

Harry noticed.

His gaze flicked up, warm and apologetic. “Sorry.”

She shook her head. “Not sorry. Just…tender.”

That made something flicker in his chest.

He nodded once, kissed her shoulder again, and then gently guided her forward so she sat between his legs, her back to his chest.

She expected him to move. To get out and offer her a towel. Maybe hand her something to dry off with.

But he didn’t.

Instead—

He reached for a bottle of shampoo on the edge of the tub. His shampoo.

Something expensive, of course—subtle and masculine, faint notes of bergamot and amber.

He poured a dollop into his palm and began working it into her hair without a word.

His fingers were gentle.

He took his time, massaging her scalp like she was made of glass. She sighed, leaning into it.

“You ever done this before?” she asked quietly.

“Done what?”

“Washed someone else’s hair.”

Harry paused, thoughtful. “Not since I was a kid. My little sister. Before she left for college.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “You have a sister?”

“I did.” He hesitated. “We don’t talk much anymore.”

She didn’t push.

Just reached for his hand and laced their fingers together briefly before letting go.

He kissed the side of her head, and then rinsed the soap from her hair, his hand cupping the water. He shielded her eyes with his empty hand as he brings the water over her scalp, careful, focused.

Then came the soap.

Body wash from a matte black bottle.

He lathered it between his hands and touched her with more reverence than she’d ever been touched with before. Like every inch of her deserved its own moment of devotion.

His palms smoothed over her shoulders.

Her arms.

Her chest—lingering there for a moment longer, fingers gliding over her breasts with a kind of worship that had her biting her lip.

Then down to her ribs, her hips.

He turned her slightly to face him, hand bracing her back, and ran the soap down her thighs.

“You’re spoiling me,” she whispered.

Harry gave her a look that was almost a smile. “I plan on making it a habit.”

By the time he rinsed the last of the suds from her skin, the water had gone warm again, but they both knew it was time to get out.

He stood first.

Taller than she expected, broader when wet—his hair curling, water running down the planes of his chest, dripping from the soft patch of hair beneath his navel.

She stared.

He noticed.

But didn’t say anything.

He just grabbed a towel and wrapped her in it the moment she stepped out, like she was something to protect. Something to keep warm. He dried her slowly, carefully patting her down, not rubbing. Like touching her too roughly would wake him from a dream.

He even knelt to dry her legs.

Pressed a kiss to her shin when he reached it.

And then—

He dried her hair.

Used a second towel for it.

Ran his fingers through the tangled strands, gentle and quiet, humming low in his throat as he worked through a knot.

Once she was dry, he dressed her again.

A new shirt from his drawer. Soft cotton, worn in, probably older than her.

Then another pair of his sweats, these ones even looser than the last, tied with a ribboned knot at the front.

She laughed when he stepped into his own pair of briefs, then a fresh pair of joggers and a long sleeved shirt that still looked vaguely custom made.

“You look like a dad,” she teased.

He smirked. “You’re lucky I didn’t wear the robe.”

“You mean my robe.”

“Touché.”

He didn’t stop there.

He brushed her hair.

Actually brushed it.

Sat her down on the edge of the bed and carefully, slowly, began detangling the strands with his wide toothed comb before switching to a brush. Then—almost shyly—he began braiding.

It wasn’t perfect.

A little messy.

But it was so absurdly, painfully tender she nearly cried.

“I’m not used to this,” she admitted quietly.

Harry paused behind her. “Used to what?”

“Being… looked after.”

His hands stilled.

Then resumed the braid.

“You deserve it,” he said softly. “Whether you’re used to it or not.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

He tied off the end of the braid with a twist tie and kissed the back of her head.

They climbed into bed again, the sheets warm from earlier.

Harry pressed a button on the wall.

With a low mechanical hum, a flat screen TV descended slowly from the ceiling, positioning itself at the perfect angle for lazy watching in bed.

Her eyes widened. “Okay, that’s ridiculous.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s convenient.”

She snorted. “It’s dystopian.”

He handed her the remote. “Pick something.”

“You’re not gonna pick?”

“I don’t watch much TV.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re one of those people.”

He smirked. “I prefer books.”

“But not art,” she teased, climbing under the comforter beside him.

“Let it go.”

She didn’t.

Instead, she spent the next twenty minutes scrolling through every streaming service he had—which was all of them—looking at show after show, movie after movie, never landing on one.

Harry just watched her.

Watched the way her eyes lit up when she saw a trailer for a horror movie, or the way her nose scrunched when a rom-com looked too cheesy.

Watched the way she pulled the blanket higher up her body, cold toes pressing into his calves like she’d been doing it for years.

Eventually—

Her stomach growled.

Audibly.

Harry lifted a brow.

“I heard that.”

She groaned. “Shut up.”

“No. Let’s feed the creature.”

She laughed, sitting up as he grabbed his laptop from the bedside table.

“Okay,” he said, booting it up. “Tell me what you’re craving.”

“Something warm. Cheesy. But not pizza.”

“Pasta?”

“...Don’t say it like that.”

“You want pasta,” he grinned.

“No, I—”

He turned the screen toward her, scrolling through a restaurant’s online menu. Sleek. Minimalist.

Then they saw it.

A photo of handmade tagliatelle with truffle cream sauce, cracked pepper, and parmesan.

Her stomach growled again.

Harry didn’t even blink.

He clicked Add to cart.

“Wait—what if I wanted something else?”

He scrolled down. “You hesitated.”

She scowled. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re hungry.”

He added garlic bread, a side of grilled broccolini, and a second pasta—this one with short rib ragu.

Then glanced up at her.

“What?”

He smirked. “I like seeing you full.”

“Jesus.”

“What? You ate nothing last night after a ten-hour shift.”

She didn’t argue.

Just watched him complete the order and close the laptop.

Then she leaned into him, curling up beneath his arm, cheek pressed to his chest.

And for a long, perfect moment, neither of them spoke.

The TV glowed.

The heater hummed.

And Harry held her like he was holding onto something he hadn’t even known he needed.

Not until now.

Not until her.

That thought—quiet but thunderous—was still echoing through Harry’s chest when his phone vibrated sharply on the nightstand.

He groaned, shifting slightly so as not to wake her completely. Her cheek was still pressed to his chest, lips parted, breath steady. Her braid had unraveled slightly, a few strands curled against her temple.

Harry wanted to ignore the phone.

Wanted to stay in bed with her, wanted this ridiculous little bubble they’d built between the sheets to last just a little longer.

But the vibration didn’t stop.

Persistent.

Insistent.

He sighed, grabbed the phone, and answered in a low voice.

“Yeah.”

The voice on the other end belonged to Greg, the front desk concierge. Greg never called unless it was serious.

“Mr. Castillo, I’m really sorry to bother you, sir, but…there’s a bit of confusion in the lobby.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “What kind of confusion?”

“Well, a delivery driver is here with food—says it’s for you—but security wouldn’t let him up. You, um…don’t usually order things yourself.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Sir, you’ve never ordered food before. We weren’t sure if it was a prank or some kind of breach of privacy, especially with everything that happened with Ms. Lucy—”

He closed his eyes, jaw tensing. “Greg.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I ordered the food.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause on the line.

Then—

“You…did?”

Harry’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Yes.”

Another pause. “Should I allow it up then?”

Harry exhaled, glancing down at her—still curled up against him, starting to stir now. Her lashes fluttered, brows twitching at the edge of sleep.

“No,” he said, slipping out from beneath her slowly. “Tell him I’ll be down.”

“You’re coming downstairs?”

“Yes. I’m coming downstairs.”

“Sir, are you—feeling well?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Goodbye, Greg.”

He ended the call and reached for a hoodie, pulling it over his head. Then he turned to the bed where she was blinking up at him, sleep laced and adorably confused.

“What’s happening?”

Harry leaned down and kissed her nose. “Apparently I shocked the entire building by ordering pasta.”

She frowned. “What?”

“They think it’s a trap.”

She blinked. “Is it?”

He grinned. “Only if they’re trying to poison us with truffle cream.”

She snorted, sitting up and stretching her arms above her head. “You’re going downstairs to get it?”

He nodded. “Want to come with me?”

She squinted. “Into society?”

“You can stay here.”

She yawned, slipping out of bed and reaching for her coat. “No, if you’re dragging yourself into public, I want to see it.”

The elevator ride was silent.

Harry stood beside her in his hoodie and joggers, hair still slightly damp from the bath. She looked equally undone—barefaced, his clothes swallowing her whole, socks mismatched. Together they looked like two people who'd spent the entire day in bed.

Which they had.

When the doors slid open, the entire lobby paused.

The desk concierge, the doorman, a security guard, and the delivery driver all turned to look at them.

It was the doorman, though—Lance—who looked the most shell shocked.

“Mr. Castillo,” he said slowly, as if confirming Harry was real. “You…came down.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “That’s what happens when you don’t let the driver up.”

Lance’s eyes flicked to her, then back to Harry. There was something hesitant in his expression. A flicker of confusion. Disbelief.

And then—

Recognition.

The wrong kind.

Harry saw it before it could settle on Lance’s face.

The comparison.

Lucy.

She wasn’t Lucy.

The girl beside him wasn’t perfectly polished. She wasn’t in heels. She wasn’t the kind of arm candy expected on a man like Harry Castillo.

She was real.

And Harry stood closer to her.

Not the way he used to stand next to Lucy—half turned away, distracted, scanning the room for exit strategies.

No.

He was grounded.

Present.

Protective.

Her shoulder brushed his hoodie.

The delivery driver fumbled to hand over the bag. “Uh—two pastas and a broccolini side?”

Harry took it with one hand, nodding. “Thank you.”

He handed the man a tip in cash, despite the man’s hands shaking slightly. “Appreciate it.”

And just when they were turning to leave—

Click.

Harry’s head snapped up.

A camera flash.

A woman in the corner of the lobby had her phone out. Her body was angled perfectly for a stealth shot. She wasn’t staff. Wasn’t a resident either. A visitor, maybe.

Harry’s hand was still holding the bag—but her hand was now clenching his.

Tight.

He looked down.

She was frozen.

Eyes wide.

Breath caught in her chest.

Fuck.

She was panicking—but silently. Internally. He could see it in the way her fingers trembled around his, how she didn’t say a word, didn’t even blink.

His jaw locked.

“Stay here,” he said, already stepping away.

She blinked. “Harry��”

But he was already moving.

The woman had turned, phone raised to her ear.

“I just got a shot of Harry Castillo with a woman who is not Lucy. Yes. At his building. No, she’s not famous. She’s wearing his clothes—yes, I swear—”

Harry stopped in front of her, voice low and lethal.

“Delete it.”

She jumped.

Spun around.

Eyes wide.

“Mr. Castillo, I—”

“Now.”

She hesitated. “I’m with the New York Times, and this is—”

“I don’t give a fuck if you’re with God himself.” His voice didn’t rise, but it sharpened like a blade. “You don’t get to blindside someone in their home.”

“It’s a public lobby—”

“She didn’t consent to a photo.”

The reporter’s mouth opened, ready with another rebuttal.

But Harry took a step forward.

And that was enough.

She swallowed.

Flinched slightly.

And unlocked her phone.

“Deleted,” she said. “Happy?”

Harry stared at her for a beat too long.

Then, with a voice that could’ve frozen fire, he added, “If I see that image anywhere, you’ll be dealing with more than just my legal team.”

He turned.

Walked back.

She was still standing near the front desk, arms crossed, her face blank—but her body was tense.

Harry reached her and slid a hand behind her back, guiding her gently toward the elevator.

“Hey,” he said softly, once the doors closed. “You okay?”

She nodded once. Then again. “Yeah. I just—I don’t like that.”

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s over. She won’t use it.”

She let out a shaky breath. “It just... caught me off guard.”

“I know.”

He reached down and laced their fingers again.

And this time, she squeezed back.

But it wasn’t just a squeeze.

Not really.

It was a silent plea.

A question.

A trembling whisper beneath the surface that she wasn’t sure how to say aloud. Not yet.

Harry felt it.

He didn’t push.

Didn’t speak again until they were back in the elevator, the doors sliding shut behind them like the city hadn’t just clawed a piece of her peace away.

She looked down at her hands—still curled inside the sleeves of his hoodie, fingers stiff from tension.

Harry reached out.

Softly.

Gently.

His knuckles brushed hers, then slid up until he could curl his entire hand around hers again. He squeezed once. Then again.

She stayed quiet.

“Darlin',” he said softly, voice a low hum. “Talk to me.”

She shook her head.

Not in a “no”—but in a not yet.

He gave her that.

The elevator rose in silence.

When they reached the penthouse and stepped inside, she walked ahead of him for the first time all night. Straight toward the bedroom. Not angry. Not retreating. Just… needing a moment.

Harry set the food down on the kitchen counter, then followed. Not too close. Just enough to be there if she needed him.

When he reached the doorframe, she was sitting at the edge of the bed, her head in her hands.

“People are going to know who I am now,” she murmured.

Harry stepped in. Slow. “No one knows anything yet. That photo’s gone.”

She looked up at him, brow furrowed, lips parted slightly in frustration—or maybe something deeper.

“You can’t control everything, Harry.”

“I can try,” he said, and meant it.

That made her smile. Barely.

But it didn’t last.

Her eyes flicked away.

Then back.

And finally—

“Am I a rebound?”

His chest went still.

It was a whisper. So quiet he might’ve missed it if he hadn’t been standing close enough to hear her heartbeat.

But he heard it.

And it hit him harder than any camera flash ever could.

He moved, then.

Sat down beside her.

Not touching her yet. Just there.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t need to.

Because she felt his presence in every inch of the room. His heat. His attention. His silence.

“I’m not going to insult you by pretending Lucy doesn’t exist,” he said, after a long beat.

She closed her eyes.

“I loved her. I thought I was going to marry her.”

Her jaw tightened, just slightly.

“But,” Harry continued, turning now—really turning—to face her, “Lucy never saw me.”

She blinked.

He went on, voice softer now.

“She saw what I represented. A future. Money. Control. She saw the suit, not the man wearing it.”

“You’re saying I see you?” she said quietly.

Harry leaned forward.

Rested his elbows on his knees. Hands clasped between them.

“You talked back to me on the steps of the Met. You rolled your eyes at me in front of a crowd. You wear my clothes and steal my socks and talk with your mouth full and look at me like I’m not this...billionaire asshole people tiptoe around.”

He turned his head, eyes locking with hers.

“You see me.”

She stared at him.

And Harry did something she wasn’t expecting.

He got up.

Walked out of the room.

She frowned.

Then—

He returned with the food bag in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

Two glasses balanced between his fingers.

Without a word, he kicked off his shoes, set everything on the nightstand, and began unpacking the food.

He didn’t ask if she was hungry.

He didn’t make her talk again.

He just uncorked the wine, poured two glasses, handed her one, and slid the tray of pasta between them as he crawled up onto the bed.

“I’m gonna feed you now,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

“I’m annoying like that,” he smirked, twirling a forkful of pasta and holding it out.

She hesitated.

Then took the bite.

Exactly what she needed.

She moaned—again—and Harry closed his eyes.

“Every time,” he murmured.

She swallowed. “What?”

“Every time you make that noise, I forget how to breathe.”

She flushed, biting her lip as he twirled another forkful and offered it to her.

“I can feed myself,” she mumbled.

“I know,” he said. “But let me.”

So she let him.

They sat cross legged on the bed, plates balanced between them, their bodies pressed close. He fed her bites of tagliatelle and broccolini, offering sips of wine in between.

She fed him too.

Not as neatly.

At one point, a strand of pasta landed on his chest.

“Oops,” she said, completely unbothered.

Harry looked down, then grinned. “You did that on purpose.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said sweetly.

He leaned in.

Nose brushing hers.

Voice soft.

“I’d let you ruin every shirt I own.”

She stilled.

Harry reached for her hand again, thumb brushing the back of it slowly.

“Everything about this is new,” he said, quieter now. “I don’t know what we are yet. But I know how I feel when I look at you. I know what it meant when you walked downstairs with me. When you reached for my hand.”

She didn’t answer.

So he kept going.

“I’m not looking for a rebound,” he said. “I’m looking at the first person in years who makes me feel like I might want to start over.”

A pause.

“Not to get over Lucy. But to get to you.”

Her heart cracked open.

Just a little.

Just enough.

She leaned forward.

Kissed him.

Not rushed.

Not passionate.

Just…present.

Like she was finally meeting him at the edge of something real.

While across state lines...

Lucy wanted peonies.

Specifically, pale pink ones with feathered petals, soft enough to match the shade of the bridesmaids’ dresses she had not yet chosen and delicate enough to photograph well against the backdrop of a Cape Cod marina wedding.

She did not want roses.

“I think the peonies say soft luxury,” she said, flipping her hair behind her ear with just the right amount of dismissiveness, “and the roses feel…desperate.”

“Babe, roses are literally the symbol of love,” John offered, dragging a finger across a glossy floral mood board.

Lucy shot him a look like he’d just offered to serve frozen shrimp cocktail at their rehearsal dinner.

“They’re pedestrian, John.”

John blinked. “I—I like shrimp cocktail.”

The florist, a woman named Erika with a clipboard made of anxiety, smiled nervously and cleared her throat. “We can source the peonies, but they’re out of season, so it would be—uh—an elevated price point.”

Lucy raised a brow. “Elevated how?”

“Per stem?”

“Yes.”

“Twenty-three.”

Lucy smiled tightly. “That’s fine.”

John coughed. “Per stem?” He turned to the florist, switching into what Lucy privately called his humble bartering voice, which made her want to evaporate into a vase. “Hey, is there like… a bundle option or—”

Erika blinked. “A bundle…?”

“Yeah, like if we get a bunch of peonies, can we do, I don’t know, like...a florist’s dozen?”

Lucy closed her eyes.

Jesus Christ.

She could feel the blood drain from her face.

Erika glanced toward Lucy like you invited this man into your life. 

Lucy inhaled sharply. “Excuse me. I need to take this.”

Her phone was vibrating in her lap.

CARRIE ROTH flashing across the screen in smug little letters.

Carrie had always been one of those women who smelled like Diptyque and journalistic chaos. They met during a Vogue hosted gala in Manhattan seven years ago and bonded over a shared hatred for mutual acquaintances. Since then, Carrie had moved to The New York Times , Lucy had moved to Boston, and the friendship had dulled into one of those semi-occasional connections fueled by gossip, envy, and transactional curiosity.

She stepped out into the hallway of the floral studio, smoothing down her coat.

“Carrie,” Lucy answered, voice clipped. “Kind of in the middle of something.”

“Well,” Carrie said, tone syrupy, “then this won’t take long.”

Lucy sighed. “What?”

There was a pause.

And then—

“I saw him.”

Lucy froze.

“…Him?”

“Don’t make me say his name, it’ll make you twitch.”

Lucy’s jaw tightened. “Harry.”

“Harry fucking Castillo,” Carrie confirmed, practically purring. “I saw him in the flesh, at his building, and babe he wasn’t alone.”

Lucy’s stomach turned.

She stayed quiet.

Carrie went on, delighted.

“He was with a woman. ”

Another pause.

And then—

“She was wearing his clothes.”

Lucy felt something sharp twist in her chest.

She exhaled through her nose. “So? He’s allowed to date.”

Carrie hummed. “Sure, yeah. Absolutely. But don’t you think it’s a little soon?”

“He’s not mine anymore.”

“Oh please, don’t be noble. You were supposed to marry him. This is fascinating.”

Lucy’s throat felt tight.

She hated the way her skin prickled. Hated the flicker of something ugly curling in her chest. Not jealousy. Not really. Just…the unfamiliar discomfort of knowing Harry wasn’t still pining. Of realizing he might be okay.

And she wasn’t ready for that.

“Did you take a photo?” she asked, already regretting the question.

“I did,” Carrie chirped. “He made me delete it.”

Lucy blinked. “He what? ”

“Marched across the lobby and threatened me with a lawsuit unless I wiped it. It was hot, honestly. He had his hand around her back like she was something worth protecting.”

Lucy’s stomach flipped.

She swallowed. “So…you don’t have it?”

“Oh honey,” Carrie laughed. “Please. This is me. I AirDropped it to my editor before he even reached me.”

Lucy closed her eyes.

“I’m writing a piece.”

Lucy’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

Carrie was already rolling.

“It’s about Harry. About how the most untouchable man in New York is suddenly—poof—off the market again. The mystery girl, the penthouse delivery  incident, the whole ‘is this a real relationship or a well timed distraction’ angle. I’m thinking Castillo’s Comeback! A Billionaire’s Return to Romance. What do we think?”

“I think it’s tacky.”

Carrie laughed. “That’s why I called. I want a quote.”

Lucy blinked. “You want me to give you a quote? For an article about my ex and his replacement?”

“Well when you put it like that…”

“Jesus, Carrie.”

“Come on. Just one line. It’ll make the piece.”

Lucy opened her mouth. Then shut it.

Carrie waited.

“Well?” she pressed.

Lucy stared out the window of the hallway. At the crisp Boston afternoon sun spilling through the panes. At the rows of orchids dying in a glass case nearby. At the reflection of herself—still elegant, still perfectly poised, but not untouched.

And for the first time, she realized she might’ve miscalculated.

She thought Harry would wait.

She thought he’d hurt longer.

Lucy swallowed.

Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke.

“I’ll give you a quote.”

Carrie perked up. “Go on.”

“But it has to be anonymous.”

A beat.

Then—

Carrie practically purred, “Off the record attribution, got it.”

Lucy exhaled slowly.

“She won’t last.”

Carrie chuckled. “Ooh.”

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet. How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to. She’s not built for it.”

“Mm.”

“She’ll realize eventually,” Lucy said, mouth flat, voice sharper now. “It’s a facade. All of it. He doesn’t do warm. Not really.”

Carrie’s smile was audible. “So…source close to the ex?”

“Make it sound smarter.”

Carrie grinned. “Done.”

Then the line clicked off.

Lucy stood frozen in the hallway, phone still pressed to her cheek.

Behind her, John called out from the showroom.

“Babe? Do you think if I offer to DJ the wedding myself we can get the deposit waived?”

Lucy didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

She just stood there—

Still.

Silent.

And suddenly not so sure that leaving Harry Castillo had been the power move she once believed it to be.

[thydungeongal]

I find the sentiment of "Any game I play turns into a queer game" frankly insulting. Like, okay, I understand it doesn't come from that kind of place: it is ultimately not borne of "I want to undermine the efforts of actual queer creators who are actually making textually queer games." The chain of cause and effect is usually just reversed: people don't flock to D&D, the most popular game on the market, out of a sense of a need to "queer it," they flock to it because it is the most popular game on the market and then decide that they need to queer it.

It is ultimately cope borne out of individualism, a sleight of hand where they hope that people will buy their framing of playing the world's most popular RPG as somehow revolutionary because they have the gay Midas touch to turn any game they touch queer.

And like don't get me wrong it is also hostile to actual game design: the idea that an individual can simply transform a game that doesn't interface with queerness in any meaningful way into a queer game simply by association kind of implicitly states that game designers actively working to insert themes of queerness and marginalization into their games are doing a bunch of work for nothing. Don't those idiots realize that you don't actually have to game design these things? You can just play D&D and it'll turn queer!

And ultimately there is very little I, an individual trans woman writing words on a blog, can do to get people to stop playing D&D. Goodness knows I've tried, but sadly the mind control doesn't seem to be working. But I would like us to practice some intellectual honesty: I would like people to consider for a moment whether D&D, the game of some dragons in some dungeons, actually has anything meaningful to say about the queer experience or whether you just projected that meaning onto it, and that it might be actually better to elevate games made by queer and marginalized people than try to delude ourselves into thinking that the game made by a huge capitalist corporation "belongs" to the queer and marginalized folks now.

[woso-story]

Better Boyfriend Than Him - Part Ten

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

The drive to your old apartment felt like an eternity.

Mapi was at the wheel, her grip tight as she navigated the streets of Barcelona, while Alexia sat beside you in the back. Your stomach twisted into knots, your hands cold and clammy in your lap. You didn’t want to do this. You didn’t want to see him.

Alexia must have noticed your anxiety because, without a word, she reached for your hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

You looked over at her, surprised by the warmth of her touch. She offered you a small, reassuring smile, mouthing, Everything will be okay. You’re not alone.

You swallowed hard and nodded.

When you arrived, you forced yourself out of the car and up the stairs. Every step felt heavier than the last. Your hands shook so badly that you struggled to get the key into the lock.

Mapi sighed, taking the key from your grasp and opening the door herself.

The moment it swung open, you heard footsteps. And then, there he was.

Luis.

He stepped around the corner, his expression shifting from confusion to anger as his eyes flickered between you and the two women beside you.

“What are they doing here?” he asked, his voice sharp.

You straightened your spine, trying to sound stronger than you felt. “They’re here to help me get my things.”

Luis’s jaw tightened as he stepped toward you. “What do you mean, getting your things?”

You inhaled sharply. “It’s over, Luis. I’m moving out.”

His eyes darkened. “That’s not your decision to make,” he snapped. “You’re overreacting. It wasn’t serious. She wasn’t serious. We just need to talk, and everything will be fine again.”

Tears burned in your eyes. How could he say that? How could he act like it was nothing?

Before you could respond, Mapi stepped forward. “That’s enough. We’re getting her things, and then we’re out of here.”

Luis shook his head, refusing to accept it. Just as you tried to slip past him, his hand shot out, gripping your arm tightly.

“No,” he muttered. “I won’t accept this.”

Your breath caught in your throat as panic surged through you. You looked up at him, your heart racing—

And then his grip was gone.

Alexia had yanked him away from you, stepping between you and him. Her voice was firm, steady. “Step away from her,” she warned. “Leave her alone.”

Luis let out a bitter laugh. “This is all your fault, isn’t it?” His eyes flickered toward Alexia with resentment. “You moved on quickly, huh?” He turned back to you, his expression twisted with something unreadable. “You know what? Just go. I don’t need you. I don’t want you. You were nothing to me. I never really loved you.”

Something inside you cracked.

But you didn’t let him see it.

You just shook your head and walked past him, straight into the bedroom.

Mapi and Alexia followed silently, and moments later, you heard the front door slam.

You finally exhaled.

With their help, it didn’t take long to pack your things. Thankfully, most of your belongings were still at your parents’ house in Zaragoza, so there wasn’t much to take. Within half an hour, you were back in the car, your entire life packed into a couple of suitcases.

The drive to Alexia’s place was quiet.

You stared out the window, lost in thought.

A week ago, you had a loving partner. A home. You were happy.

And now?

Now, you were sitting in your childhood best friend’s car, heading to the apartment of a woman who had annoyed you since the day you met her. A woman you wanted to kiss two days ago.

How was this even going to work?

You didn’t know Alexia. Not really. And she didn’t know you. Yet here she was, letting you live with her.

It felt surreal. The entire situation felt surreal.

Before you knew it, you had arrived.

Mapi and Alexia helped you move your things into the guest room, and once everything was inside, Mapi pulled you into a tight hug.

“Call me if you need anything,” she said.

You nodded, grateful. “Thank you.”

Mapi gave Alexia a knowing look before leaving, and suddenly, you found yourself alone in the hallway with your new… roommate.

Alexia held out a key. “For you.”

You hesitated before taking it. “Thanks.”

She shifted her weight slightly. “You need help unpacking?”

You shook your head. “I think I just need sleep.”

She nodded in understanding. “Okay. If you need anything, just let me know.”

Half an hour later, you were in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Your mind wouldn’t shut off, replaying the events of the day over and over again. But exhaustion eventually won, and before you knew it, you were asleep.

---

When you woke up again, the room was dark.

You checked your phone—1 AM.

Your stomach growled, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Sighing, you got up and made your way to the kitchen, hoping Alexia wouldn’t mind if you took something small from her fridge.

But when you opened it, you froze.

There was a container with leftovers inside—and a sticky note with your name on it.

Alexia had left food for you.

Something about that made your chest tighten.

You heated up the meal and ate in silence, the apartment peaceful around you.

You were thankful for her. For her thoughtfulness.

Soon after, you were back in bed, falling asleep almost instantly.

[blxxmingrose]

hans remembered the first time he saw sunny. she was a tiny little thing, barely weighing anything in his arms when he first held her, barely registering who was holding her. but when he first saw those eyes open with recognition, knowing that she was with someone who loved her dearly, unconditionally, it made hans’ heart flutter. this was what being important meant, he thought. 

and as june slowly opened his eyes, hans’ heart fluttered too. it’s not exactly the same feeling, but it was definitely close. it was that feeling that those eyes would look for him in a crowd, or in a room where he was the only other pair of eyes to see. it was the feeling that he mattered, that he was wanted. 

and the smile that adorned his lips was his reply back.

“good morning,” he whispered, not daring to raise his voice in this sleepy morning that held so many promises yet to be discovered. “you looked so peaceful in your sleep.” the slightest movement of june’s hand felt more like instinct that gave hans permission to hold his hand tighter, to check that this morning was, in fact, real. that hans wasn’t still dreaming.  

“big day ahead.” he inched just slightly closer, barely moving his head, but turning it ever so slightly that he could see june’s eyes better, see how they returned to focus after a night of sleep. feel how he had missed seeing them looking back at him. “i hope you’re ready.” 

it wasn’t just about their plans—hans felt like it was a brand new day in all ways. he was not just waking up the same hans as before. he was waking up with this newfound feeling, this—sense of belonging that had carried him to this bed and helped him fall asleep beside june without any worries. that in his own space, he had come home. 

he couldn’t exactly say how the day would go, but he was ready. he was so ready for whatever it brought—

but maybe, not just yet. “i don’t want to get up just yet, though.” he grinned, his thumb grazing over june’s skin. “this feels right.”  

june hadn’t slept this deeply in a long time.

he was usually a light sleeper — too aware of his surroundings, too conditioned to wake at the slightest shift of movement. but here, in this bed, wrapped in the quietness of morning, he had fallen into something deeper, something that felt safe.

it was that safety that allowed him to stir slowly rather than jolt awake, his body easing into consciousness at its own pace. he felt warm. not just from the blanket or the soft rays of sunlight filtering through the trees, but from something more. something steadier. something that lingered even before his mind fully caught up with the reality of where he was.

his first awareness was of weight. not heavy, not restricting, but there. a presence besides him, something solid and real. then— heat. a warmth radiating so close it felt like it had sunk into his skin overnight, like he had absorbed it without even realizing. and finally, touch.

june’s fingers twitched slightly, brushing against something firm yet familiar, and it was only then that he realized he was still holding hans’ hand.

that realization alone almost made him tense, but the stillness of the morning, the quiet hum of peace in the air, kept him from pulling away. instead, he let his grip slacken just slightly, his thumb moving the barest amount as he exhaled a breath, deep and slow. his eyes blinked open, lashes fluttering against the faint morning light, and the first thing he saw wasn’t the room, wasn’t the unfamiliar yet oddly comforting ceiling or walls — it was hans. hans, who was already awake.

hans, who was watching him with an expression so soft, so full of something unspoken, that june almost had to look away, but he didn’t.

instead, he just let himself take in the sight of him — the way his hair was still tousled from sleep, the slow, easy curve of a smile playing at his lips, thr gaze that made something inside june’s chest ache in a way he didn’t know how to name.

there was something incredibly intimate about waking up to someone like this. not in a rushed, startled kind of way, but in a slow moment of realization. that they had spent the night together in his bed. that they had shared warmth and space and something unspoken that still lingered in the air between them.

june swallowed, feeling the dryness in his throat, but he didn’t move away. he didn’t break the moment, even if he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“…morning,” he finally murmured, his voice still rough from sleep, softer than he intended. his fingers, without thinking, curled just slightly where they still rested against hans’. it wasn’t an intentional move. it was small, barely anything at all, but it was there.

just like hans was.

[22ayla21]

I know you don't accept requests at the moment but I would like you to keep this idea in mind for a future post and I would really enjoy reading it. My idea was the following, partly related to what you already posted, that MC wanted to play a joke on her husband by going to kiss him and then leaving him wanting more and so they go after her. Well my idea is this: And this time the wife makes want/craving the husband, want to do "that" (you know what I'm talking about. Which involves using the bed and intimacy) showing off in a lingerie set ❤️‍🔥(To avoid inconvenience, it is better if the children are not at home at that time)

I can't wait to see how will mydei, Anaxa and Phainon react 🤭

Test of Patience

The wife decided to test her husband's patience by sending the children to visit friends.

The day began as usual. Mydei, as always, was busy with his affairs, and his wife with hers. However, from the very morning there was something in the air... special.

She was near him more often than usual, casually touching his arm, his shoulder, the back of his head. Her smile was soft, but there was a barely noticeable light in her eyes. As he read, she leaned over him, and her breath slid down his neck. She did not say a word, just lingered for a moment and left, leaving him with a barely noticeable tension in his body.

At breakfast, she ran her fingers along the rim of her cup, looking at him with an expression that made his throat dry. Then, as if by accident, she settled down next to him, pulling the hem of her dress a little higher than usual, showing off her smooth skin.

As the day went on, things only got worse. She appeared and disappeared, leaving behind a light scent of her perfume. Several times she passed him in new lingerie - lacy, thin, so seductive that his own self-control began to crack at the seams. She did not say anything directly, but her look said more than any words.

Mydei tried to concentrate on his work, but it was useless. Each time she appeared, it was a test. He felt a fire flare up in his chest, his hands clenched into fists every time she passed by, touching him completely innocently, but in such a way that his patience faded.

In the evening, she made the final blow - she came up to him, slowly ran her fingers along his shoulder, leaned towards his ear and whispered something barely audible, but so provocative that his body trembled.

Patience snapped.

He grabbed her wrist, pulled her towards him, pressing her to himself with strong arms. She just smiled, satisfied with his reaction, knowing that she had achieved her goal.

The house was theirs. The children were staying with friends.

This night belonged only to them.

His wife was especially playful today. In the morning, as soon as she entered the kitchen, her gaze was full of daring hints, as if she knew that the day would be full of intrigue. She gently touched his shoulder, saying with a light laugh that "today will not be an easy day." With every word and movement, she seemed to draw him into an invisible trap, leaving his thoughts confused and scattered.

When he was just getting ready for work, she, without looking up from her cup of coffee, approached him, almost imperceptibly sliding her hand along his back, then her fingers played on his neck. She looked innocent, but her look said a lot. Stroking turned into a light touch, and he could no longer focus on anything except her touch.

Throughout the day, her behavior only became more daring. She joked that maybe in the evening she would arrange a "present" for him. And the way she raised an eyebrow when, brushing against him, she accidentally touched his shoulder, and her hand gently stroked his arm. Every look, every step she took left a tension in the air that made it increasingly difficult to control herself.

But the most exquisite moment was when she returned to their bedroom and opened the closet doors. Easily, almost by accident, she showed him her new underwear. Delicate lace and seductive fabrics that left little to the imagination. She almost held it out to him, smiling her sly smile, as if to say: "Is this what you want?"

Anaxa clenched his teeth. He could feel his patience melting with each of her gestures. She had long known how to flirt with him without giving a final answer, playing with his desires. And now, when she slipped past again, his gaze became so sharp that she, feeling his tension, sat down slightly.

When the children left, the house became their personal territory. All these little hints, her words and looks left him no chance. He could no longer stand her playfulness, and as soon as she was in front of him, without even having time to utter another impudent remark, he could not stand it. The thin line between patience and passion was finally crossed. She did not even have time to understand what was happening, as he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her towards him. All her playful phrases, gestures and hints finally led to the fact that he could no longer hide his desire. She was like his riddle, which he solved - and she gave him everything he dreamed of for so long.

She knew what she was doing. From the first glance in the morning, from the light touch of her fingers on his shoulder, from a fleeting smile that promised more than it should have. It was one of those days when she wanted to play. Phainon felt it from the first minute, but he still had no idea what exactly he was getting himself into.

As he sat at the table, immersed in reading some documents, she, as if by accident, came closer, leaned towards him, touching his cheek with her hair. The warmth of her breath touched his neck, and her voice sounded soft, almost innocent:

— You are so tense... Maybe you should take a break?

He looked up at her, and a spark of mischief flashed in her eyes. She quickly turned and left, leaving behind a faint scent of perfume.

The whole day passed exactly like that. She passed by him, leaving light touches - sometimes sliding her fingers along his wrist, sometimes lingering a little longer than necessary. At one point he caught her pretending to casually adjust her stocking, exposing her thigh too ostentatiously. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

She laughed to herself, knowing that she was building up his tension. She deliberately lingered in front of him a little longer than necessary, or pretended to accidentally brush his foot under the table.

By evening, she had finally finished him off.

When he entered the bedroom, she was standing at the mirror, trying on new underwear. The dark blue lace lay perfectly on her skin, emphasizing all the lines that he loved so much. She looked at him through the reflection in the mirror, slowly turning, allowing him to examine her from all sides.

“Do you like it?” she asked, as if not noticing how he froze. Phainon felt something break inside him. All the self-control he had been trying to maintain all day crumbled in one moment.

He took a step forward. Then another. She didn't move, only raised an eyebrow, waiting.

And the next moment he had her pressed against the wall, his breathing heavy, hot, his eyes full of desire. She only had time to laugh hoarsely before he leaned in to take the last of her teasing grin with a kiss.

[bangchangbinnie]

A Love Not Recalled 2 l.mh

After an argument that should have never happened, Minho is left regretful, not realizing he’d need a lot more than apologies to fix the pain

Genre: Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Since this was heavily requested (thank you all for enjoying the original part) I have decided to make a part 2!! Thank you all for reading! ❤️

-

The door shut behind him with a quiet click, but the sound felt deafening in the sterile silence of the hospital.

Lee Know’s hands trembled at his sides, his legs heavy as if they were filled with lead. His heartbeat was erratic, his breath shallow, chest rising and falling as though he had run miles just to get here.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the way you looked at him, or for the way you didn’t look at him.

Your eyes—once so full of warmth, of recognition, of love—held none of it. Just distant confusion, like he was a stranger, someone who didn’t belong there.

The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating, unbearable, and now, as he stepped out of the hospital room, it felt like the walls were closing in, the air in the hallway thick and stifling. He could still hear your voice, that soft, uncertain apology.

“I don’t remember you.”

The words echoed, over and over, clawing at his insides, hollowing him out.

He barely noticed Chan and a few of the others sitting in the waiting room down the hall, their hushed voices coming to a stop the moment they saw him.

Minho stopped in his tracks. His entire body felt numb, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Chan was the first to stand. “Minho…” said man didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond.

His throat was tight, his mind spiraling into places he didn’t want it to go. His nails dug into his palms as he swallowed back the lump forming in his throat.

Hyunjin and Seungmin exchanged a glance from where they sat, both looking unsure of what to say. The room was too quiet, too heavy, the tension suffocating.

Chan took a step closer. “Minho, talk to me.”

Minho opened his mouth, but no words came out. He stared at Chan, at the way concern etched into his features, at the way their friends sat with quiet unease, waiting for him to say something.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t form a single sentence.

What was he supposed to say? That he had walked into that hospital room expecting to make things right? He had spent the past two days convincing himself that you were just being stubborn—only to find out that you didn’t even know who he was anymore?

That the woman he loved, the woman he had pushed away, had forgotten him completely?

His breath hitched. His fingers twitched at his sides. Chan’s gaze softened. “Minho…”

That was all it took.

Minho’s body gave out, his knees buckling as he staggered back against the wall. He barely registered Chan stepping forward, catching his arm, steadying him. His head fell forward, his shoulders shaking as a ragged breath tore from his lips.

His chest ached, raw and open, as he sucked in another breath—only for it to come out in a harsh, broken sob.

“She doesn’t remember me,” he choked out, barely recognizing his own voice. “She doesn’t… she doesn’t know who I am.”

Chan’s grip on him tightened. “Minho—”

“I let her leave.” His voice was barely above a whisper, his vision blurring as he looked down at his trembling hands. “I let her walk out. I didn’t call. I didn’t—” His breath caught again, a wave of nausea washing over him. “I thought she was just mad, I thought she’d come back, I—”

Another sob wracked through his chest.

Hyunjin stood from his seat, his expression unreadable. “Minho—”

“I did this,” he whispered, his voice strangled. “She was upset. She left because of me. If I hadn’t—”

His knees threatened to buckle again. The guilt was crushing, unbearable, suffocating.

‘Maybe you’re not enough.’

The words he had thrown at you that night, so carelessly, so cruelly, came rushing back.

And now? Now, he wasn’t enough. Even if he stood right in front of you, you would never look at him the same way again.

A sharp, broken sound escaped him, his hands gripping his hair as his chest caved in. Chan exhaled slowly before wrapping a firm arm around Lee Know’s shoulders, steadying him as he finally, completely shattered.

And in that cold, sterile hallway, for the first time in years—

He cried.

-

The hallway was quiet again.

Almost an hour had passed and the storm inside him hadn’t fully calmed—but it had dulled, settled into a low, aching throb in his chest that never quite stopped. He sat alone now in the hospital’s waiting area, staring blankly at the floor, his hands clasped together tightly, as if holding himself together was the only thing keeping him from falling apart again.

Chan had stepped away, giving him space. The others had quietly left one by one, their concerned glances lingering as they faded down the corridor. No one said it, but they all knew—

He had broken something that couldn’t be fixed. Yet, here he was. Still hoping. Still hurting.

He came back with trembling hands and a small paper bag crinkling softly at his side. Inside was your favorite drink from the café near your apartment—a stupidly sweet latte with whipped cream and cinnamon. You always made fun of him for remembering how specific your order was, and he used to pretend to be annoyed by it.

Now he clung to that memory like it was the last thread tethering him to you.

-

A day later, Minho stood outside your hospital room door for a moment, silently composing himself, repeating in his head: Don’t cry. Not again. Don’t scare her.

When he walked in, you were sitting upright, flipping idly through a magazine someone had left on your bedside table. Your eyes met his. And for a moment—just a fraction of a second—his heart dared to hope.

But then came the same look of confusion. Kind. Polite, but distant.

“Hi,” you said with a small, uncertain smile. “You’re Minho, right?” He swallowed hard, the knot in his throat thick and unrelenting, and nodded slowly, every step he took into the room feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. His hands shook slightly as he held out a paper cup, fingers tightening instinctively around it like it was the only thing grounding him.

His voice came out softer than he intended—tender, raw, like something fragile wrapped in layers of guilt. “Yeah… Um… I thought you might want this.”

He placed the cup carefully on the tray beside your bed, not trusting himself to hand it to you directly. He couldn’t look at you as he said it. Not when you were gazing up at him like he was just another visitor. A stranger.

“It’s from that café on the corner near your apartment. You used to go there every Thursday morning before work. You’d always get this, even though you complained every time about how overpriced it was.”

A faint smile touched his lips—bittersweet and barely there. “But you liked how they did the whipped cream. Said it made the whole day better.” He finally looked up, his eyes searching yours. For a flicker of recognition. A spark. A twitch of memory.

But there was nothing. Just polite surprise. You blinked, accepting the cup with a small, hesitant smile. “That’s… really specific.”

He laughed under his breath, hollow and aching, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I guess I just remember the little things. You used to say it was the only thing keeping you alive during early mornings.”

A pause stretched between you, delicate and uncertain, filled only by the quiet beep of the heart monitor and the distant murmur of hospital staff beyond the door.

You looked down at the drink in your hands, fingers curling softly around the cup like it was something too delicate to hold too tightly. The whipped cream had begun to melt into the cinnamon, forming that messy swirl you always loved, but now you stared at it like it was someone else’s comfort.

Then you glanced up at him with a gentle, almost embarrassed smile. “That sounds like something I’d say.”

But there was no warmth behind your eyes. No flicker of memory, no spark of shared history. Only polite curiosity. Only the echo of what once was.

Minho’s chest tightened, the breath catching in his throat. He swallowed it down, forcing the grief to stay buried—for now—and eased into the chair beside your bed. The legs of the chair scraped softly against the floor, grounding him in the sterile silence of the room.

He sat with his hands clenched between his knees, knuckles white. He tried not to stare too long. Tried not to look at you like he was still in love with you. Like he still knew every inch of who you used to be.

His voice was quiet, steady, but it trembled just beneath the surface. “You, um… you liked to walk through the park near your building when it rained.” You tilted your head slightly, intrigued, listening.

“Said it helped clear your head. You liked how everything smelled different after the rain—the trees, the dirt, even the air. You’d always say it felt like the world got washed clean.” He paused, eyes misting. “You used to joke that rainy days were your reset button.”

You said nothing, but your gaze remained on him. Still no recognition. N warmth. Just a faint crease between your brows, like you were trying to imagine that version of yourself.

He pressed on, even though his voice was cracking at the edges. “And you always took your shoes off after. Said you hated the feeling of wet socks, but never remembered to bring an umbrella. I’d meet you at the edge of the park with a dry pair of shoes in a plastic bag. You’d act all surprised, even though I did it every time.”

He laughed, but it was hollow, fragile. “You thought I was sweet for it. I thought you were reckless.” Another pause. This one heavier.

You looked down at the cup again. You gave him a soft smile—a grateful smile—but it was the kind you gave someone kind on the bus. Someone thoughtful at a coffee shop. Not him.

Not your Minho. Not the boy you used to fall asleep beside. Not the one who memorized your routines, who kissed the top of your head when you were too tired to speak, who argued with you like the world was ending—and then held you like it never would.

Not anymore, but he didn’t say that. He just sat there. Quietly breaking, piece by piece.

You let out a soft laugh, the kind that was meant to ease tension, but it only tightened something deep in his chest. “That’s weirdly specific too.”

Minho smiled automatically, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It never did anymore. His face held the expression of someone trying to pretend the ground wasn’t crumbling beneath his feet.

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. Trying to read him like a book written in a language you no longer spoke. “So… were we close?”

He inhaled sharply. Just a breath—but it cut like a blade down his spine. His smile faltered. A beat passed. Then another. His gaze dropped to the floor, then slowly lifted to meet yours again, eyes glassy with everything he couldn’t say.

His voice came out low, cracked, barely more than a whisper. “We were everything.”

And there it was. The truth, bare and bleeding in his voice. You blinked, caught off guard by the weight of it.

Your eyes dropped to the blanket resting over your lap, your fingers beginning to pick at the seam. You shifted slightly, like the words had made you uncomfortable. Like their meaning was too heavy for your unfamiliar heart to carry.

You didn’t know what to say, because how could you? How could you answer something that didn’t exist for you anymore?

He watched your expression shift—kind, distant, confused—and it shattered him all over again, and still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

What was there left to say… when you didn’t even remember how much you loved him?

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the steady beeping of the heart monitor beside you. “I want to remember. I do.” And you meant it. He could hear it in the way your voice trembled—soft, unsure, but sincere. The way your eyes searched his, as if there was something inside him you should know. Something you should feel, but there was nothing. No spark of recognition. No flicker of the love that used to live there.

Just empty space.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of every unspoken word. “It’s not your fault.”

And it wasn’t. God, it wasn’t.

It was his.

For every harsh word, every shut door, every night he chose silence over softness. Every time he let pride win instead of love.

A thick silence settled between you like fog—dense, cold, and impossible to ignore. The kind of silence that says more than either of you could bear to put into words.

Then, slowly, you looked back up at him, your fingers curling around the edges of the blanket. Your expression was fragile—carefully constructed calm sitting atop a sea of questions you didn’t know how to ask.

“My mom told me what happened,” you said, the words deliberate, hesitant. “That I got into an accident after… after a fight. She said you were upset too.”

Minho closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again, his jaw tightening as guilt washed over him like a wave. He nodded slowly, staring at the floor. “I was.” His voice was barely above a breath. “I didn’t mean to be. But I was.”

What he wanted to say was—‘I wasn’t just upset. I was cruel. I told you things I didn’t mean, just to make you hurt. And now… now you don’t even remember the sound of my voice when I wasn’t breaking you.’

He stayed quiet instead.

You hesitated then, visibly piecing things together in your mind like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of your hospital blanket, your knuckles pale.

“She also said…” You looked at him again, but there was hesitation in your voice now, and something unreadable in your eyes. “She said you were my boyfriend.”

His heart stopped. The word—boyfriend—felt foreign on your lips. As if it belonged to someone else. You said it like you were talking about a stranger. Like you were being told a story that didn’t belong to you, and he—he couldn’t speak. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. His throat burned, and his vision blurred at the edges.

He was. He is.

He wanted to scream yes, to beg you to remember how it felt to love him. To wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest when the world felt too loud. To laugh until you cried over stupid inside jokes. To whisper his name in the dark like it was your favorite secret.

Now? You only knew him as the man who brought your coffee and looked at you like you were made of glass.

So he just sat there. Silent.

You reached for the cup again, fingers curling around it like it gave you something to hold onto—something more solid than the weight of his gaze. You kept your eyes on the drink, unable to meet the way he was looking at you.

“I think…” You hesitated, your voice soft, as though you were afraid the truth would hurt him more than the accident ever could. “It might be best if you don’t come so often.”

The words struck him like a knife to the chest. Clean. Quiet. Devastating.

He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Just stared at you as your words settled like ash in the air.

You looked up at him gently, your expression full of kindness—too much kindness. It made it worse somehow. You were trying to protect him, but you were only burying the blade deeper.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” you added quickly, carefully. “I swear I’m not. It’s just… right now, I don’t feel… safe.” The word twisted in his chest. Safe.

Not in a bad way, you were quick to explain, your tone softening. “Not like I’m scared of you or anything. You’ve been kind, and patient. I can feel that. But I don’t… know you.”

Minho blinked hard, trying to hold himself together. But each word, though gentle, chipped away at him, until the cracks were visible even in the way he sat—stiff, hollow, quiet.

“And if I keep trying to force something… something I don’t remember…” Your eyes flicked back down to the cup. “I think I might only push the memories further away.” He felt his lungs collapsing, his chest hollowing out with every syllable. You were right.

Every time he looked at you, he did so with the weight of everything you’d shared. Every laugh, every fight, every whispered ‘I love you’ in the middle of the night, bt to you, he was just a name someone gave you. Just a presence you couldn’t place, and it was hurting you.

“I understand,” he said finally, though the words scraped his throat on the way out, raw and torn. They tasted like ash. Like goodbye.

You looked up at him again and offered a small, sad smile—the kind people gave to mourners at funerals. The kind that said I’m sorry you lost something, even though you were the one holding the pieces.

“Maybe one day I’ll remember,” you said softly, and that hope—no matter how faint—should’ve comforted him.

It didn’t, because you didn’t say you will. You said maybe, and you meant it.

“But for now…” you whispered, voice trailing off like a breeze slipping under a door, “I need time to find myself first. Not the version people say I was. Just… me.” Minho realized, in that moment, that he wasn’t part of that version anymore. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

He stood slowly, quietly, afraid to make any sudden movements—like if he moved too fast, he’d wake up and find that none of this had ever been real, but it was.

It was.

And as he looked at you one last time—still sitting in that bed, bruised, blank, smiling like a stranger—he realized something that shattered what little was left of him. He had spent so long trying to get you to stay.

And now, the only thing he could do for you was… leave.

-

He made it to the hallway before the tears came again.

The door shut behind him with a soft click, but it echoed like a gunshot in his ears. Every step he took away from your room felt like betrayal—like he was abandoning you, when all he wanted was to stay. But your words were still ringing in his ears, delicate but firm, kind but absolute.

‘I think it might be best if you don’t come so often.’

So he walked. Slowly. Hollowly. The second his back hit the wall, all the air rushed from his lungs.

He slid down the cold surface like his body couldn’t carry the weight of his own grief anymore, limbs folding beneath him as he curled into himself right there on the hospital floor. He didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care who passed. Didn’t care if the nurses glanced at him with pity or confusion.

Nothing—absolutely nothing—could compare to the ache consuming him from the inside out.

Tears slipped silently down his face at first, hot and unrelenting. Then came the sharp, broken breaths, the ones that made his chest convulse, made his throat raw, made his heart scream.

‘She doesn’t remember me.’ The words played on repeat in his mind, circling like a cruel melody he couldn’t silence.

She doesn’t remember me.

Not the way he held you like you were fragile when you were sick. Not the late-night walks, the stolen kisses, the way he whispered your name like a prayer when you were asleep beside him. Not the fights, or the apologies or the love.

All of it—gone. Erased. Like it had never existed. His fingers curled into his sleeves, nails digging into the fabric, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

And somewhere deep inside, through the overwhelming sorrow and guilt, a quiet voice emerged. A voice he tried to ignore. A voice he didn’t want to believe.

‘Maybe she shouldn’t remember.’

Because what would she even be remembering? The yelling? The silence? The way he pushed her away when she reached for him? The cold in his voice when all she wanted was his warmth?

Maybe it was better she didn’t remember the boy who broke her heart the night she crashed her car. Maybe it was better she didn’t remember the man who let his pride speak louder than his love.

‘Maybe she shouldn’t.’

That gut-wrenching, soul-destroying thought hurt more than anything he had ever felt. It meant that this wasn’t just the end of a relationship. It was the erasure of something sacred. Something he would remember every day for the rest of his life. While you, the love of his life, had already forgotten.

-

‘Maybe she shouldn’t’

That sentence carved itself into Lee Know’s mind like a wound that refused to close. It followed him home. It echoed in his apartment—your apartment—where your toothbrush still sat beside his, where your favorite hoodie still hung over the back of the couch, untouched since the day you left.

The silence was louder there than anywhere else, yet he still showed up. Not every day. Not like before. He came quietly. Carefully. On days when he knew you had therapy. On mornings when he figured you might want someone to sit with, even if you didn’t ask.

He didn’t always go in. Sometimes, he stood outside your hospital room, peering through the narrow glass window just to catch a glimpse of you reading, or napping, or laughing with a nurse. On the days he did walk through the door, he didn’t bring flowers or coffee anymore. Just himself. Just stories.

He told stories about you. About him. About the way you used to be—woven delicately into quiet, early morning visits where the air felt still and heavy, like the universe was holding its breath for something to click.

He never forced them. Never said, ‘Do you remember?’ because the answer had always been no. Instead, he spoke with a kind of reverence, as if recounting tales from another lifetime, a dream only he still remembered.

He told you about the time you made pancakes at midnight, and they turned out terrible—burnt on the outside, raw in the middle—but you still made him eat three. How he pretended they were good just to see you laugh.

He told you about the movie you used to rewatch every month, how you cried at the same part each time, even though you knew it was coming. How he used to tease you for it, only to tear up beside you when you weren’t looking.

He told you about your favorite spot in the city—the little bench near the river, tucked behind a bookshop—where you’d sit with him for hours, sometimes talking, sometimes just existing. No noise, no expectations. Just breath and warmth and the comfort of someone who understood you down to your bones.

Sometimes you listened, your head tilted slightly, lips parted like you were waiting for something to awaken inside you.

Sometimes you asked questions.

“Did I really say that?”

“Was I always like that?”

“What did I love most?”

And each time, he answered with a smile, eyes flickering with the ghosts of the past. “Yes,” he’d say. Or, “Only you would say something like that.” And sometimes, “Me. I think… you loved me most.”

You wouldn’t respond to that one. Not with words, but sometimes—in those rare, fleeting moments—you would stare at him a little too long, like you were searching for something in his face. Something buried under the pain and patience.

And in those moments, his breath would catch. In those moments, you didn’t look at him like a stranger. You looked at him like something inside you almost remembered.

Like your soul was leaning toward his, out of instinct and some echo of you still lived inside your chest, banging on the walls, trying to remind you: him. it’s him though you never said it. Never once claimed to know him—

There were seconds, just seconds, where your eyes softened like they used to. Where the world bent in the way it had when it was just the two of you, tangled in quiet understanding.

For Minho, those moments—however fleeting—were enough to keep coming back.

Maybe your mind had forgotten him, but your heart hadn’t. Not completely. Nothing ever came, though. Not a spark, nor a memory, and still—he showed up.

⸻

It had been nearly a month when the nurse finally told him.

“She’s being discharged tomorrow,” she said softly, her voice laced with something gentle—pity, maybe. Understanding. She didn’t look him in the eye as she handed over the clipboard with your updated discharge papers. “She’ll be going home with her mom.”

His fingers curled slowly around the edges of the clipboard, and for a moment, he didn’t move. The world didn’t either.

His heart stuttered in his chest, missing a beat like it forgot how to function. “Home,” he echoed, but the word tasted wrong in his mouth.

Not your home.Not the place where two mugs sat permanently on the kitchen counter. Where your favorite blanket was still tossed on the couch. Where your toothbrush still waited beside his like nothing had changed.

No—this was something else entirely.

This was a reset. A rewind. A return to a version of you that existed before him. A version that didn’t know what it meant to love him.

Didn’t know how he smiled when he was tired. Know the sound of his laugh in the middle of the night when you’d whisper something stupid into the dark just to make him grin. The boy who held your hand through anxiety attacks or danced with you in the living room when the power went out.

This version of you didn’t know Minho at all, and tomorrow, she would walk out of this hospital into a life that no longer had room for him in it.

He blinked down at the clipboard, the words blurring slightly as the weight of it all settled like a stone in his chest. He tried to breathe around it, but the air felt thick, sharp.

“Thanks,” he said at last, the word brittle in his throat. His voice came out tight, almost too low to hear, but the nurse gave him a soft smile anyway before stepping away.

He stood there for a long moment, the hallway around him quiet and still, as if the entire world was giving him a second to come to terms with it.

But no second would ever be enough. This wasn’t just a discharge. It was goodbye to the life they built. To the person you were when you still remembered him. The quiet, sacred space between you that had been filled with years of love and laughter and pain.

He had known this day would come, but knowing it and living it were two different things entirely, and now that it was here, all he could do was stand in the middle of this sterile, cold hallway—still loving you more than anything—while the version of you that loved him was already gone.

He bought you flowers anyway. A soft bouquet—nothing extravagant, just the kind he knew you liked. Pale pinks and creamy whites, delicate petals that reminded him of Sunday mornings spent tangled in sheets and sleepy laughter.

He showed up just before your discharge, stepping through the doorway like someone who didn’t know where he stood anymore.

You were already dressed, a bag at your feet, your mom at your side. You looked up at the sound of his voice, and for a moment—just a flicker—your face softened.

“Hey,” you said, offering him a small smile. He held out the flowers with both hands, almost awkwardly. “For you. Thought you might want something nice to bring home.”

You accepted them with a quiet “thank you,” eyes lingering on the bouquet as if trying to decide what it meant.

Your mom gave them space, stepping out into the hallway with a knowing look. She hadn’t said much to Minho in the past weeks, but the sympathy in her eyes was undeniable.

“I guess this is… goodbye for now,” you said after a pause, shifting the flowers gently in your hands.

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I guess it is.” There were a thousand things he wanted to say.

I miss you.

I love you.

Please don’t forget again. Or please, remember me now.

But he didn’t say any of them.

Instead, he just looked at you—really looked—and tried to memorize the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled, even if that smile wasn’t for the same reasons anymore.

“If you ever… remember anything,” he said quietly, “or even if you don’t, but you want to talk, or just… hear more stories—I’ll be around.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Then gave a soft nod. “I think I’d like that. Maybe… someday.”

And just like that, you left with your mother, and Lee Know stood in the hallway, holding the memory of a love you didn’t carry anymore.

-

The first thing Minho noticed was how different everything felt without you.

It wasn’t loud, the absence of you—it wasn’t a crashing kind of loss. It was a quiet, creeping thing. A ghost that lingered in the corners of his apartment, in the spaces you used to fill.

Your shoes were still by the door. Your favorite mug sat in the sink. Your blanket was still draped over the couch, untouched.

He thought about putting it all away—boxing up the remnants of you that still existed in this place. But he couldn’t. Not yet. So instead, he lived in the aftershocks. You were gone, but he still saw you everywhere.

At the café where you used to order that ridiculous, overpriced latte. He caught himself glancing at the menu, almost asking for your usual before remembering you weren’t beside him anymore.

At the park where you used to take your shoes off after it rained. He stood there one evening, hands in his pockets, staring at the empty bench where you used to sit.

At home, where your presence was stitched into every little detail—the playlist you made still queued up in his phone, the way he automatically set aside extra food before remembering you wouldn’t be there to eat it.

Some nights, he dreamed of you. Of the way you used to say his name. Of the feeling of your hand in his. Of laughter that felt like warmth pressed against his skin.

Then he’d wake up to a world where you didn’t know him anymore. It hurt. Every single time.

Still, he held onto the words you left him with.

“Maybe… someday.”

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t certainty, but it was enough to keep him waiting.

-

Meanwhile, you were trying to piece together a life you no longer recognized.

The days blurred together in a strange haze of familiarity and foreignness. Nothing felt quite right, yet nothing felt entirely wrong either. It was like stepping into a house you’d once lived in as a child—walls that should’ve held memories, rooms that should’ve felt safe. And yet, every corner felt untouched, as if it had belonged to someone else.

Living with your mom wasn’t bad.

She was patient, kind, careful with her words when she spoke about before. She didn’t push you, didn’t flood you with too much information at once. Instead, she let you rediscover things at your own pace, watching you with soft eyes whenever you hesitated before picking up something you used to love.

She made your favorite foods—not because you asked, but because she knew. Because even if you didn’t remember, she did. And maybe, in some small way, she hoped the taste of something warm, something familiar, would bring back the pieces of yourself that felt so far away.

But even in the quiet safety of her home, there was something inside you that felt… off, like something was missing. Like there was an empty space in your chest that you didn’t know how to fill.

You went through the motions—woke up, ate, walked through your old routines as best as you could. Your mother told you bits and pieces. About your job, your friends, the things you used to love. She never overwhelmed you, never bombarded you with too much at once, but no matter how many stories she told, no matter how many childhood memories she shared, there was a disconnect. It was like hearing about someone else’s life, not your own.

Some things made sense—your favorite childhood toy, the way you hated the sound of balloons popping, how you’d always been a night owl. Those little details felt like facts rather than memories, familiar but distant.

Then there were the gaps. The moments where she hesitated, where she seemed to be choosing her words carefully. Almost as if she was stepping around something fragile, or someone.

She never spoke his name unless you asked. She handed you old photographs, smiling softly as you flipped through them, waiting—hoping—for recognition to spark. Some faces felt familiar. Others didn’t.

Then there were the pictures of him.

A man with dark eyes and a sharp smile, standing just slightly too close to you in every frame. His arm around your waist, your head on his shoulder, your fingers interlocked like a habit neither of you had to think about. The man who brought you flowers the day you left the hospital.The man who looked at you with a sadness so deep it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. The man you had once called your boyfriend.

Minho

You should’ve recognized him. You should’ve felt something when you saw the way he looked at you in those photos—like you were the only person in the world, but instead, you just stared.

The longer you looked, the heavier the silence grew. Your mother didn’t push, didn’t say his name, just let you turn the page when you were ready.

You could feel it.

Even if you didn’t remember him, even if your mind refused to recall a single moment with him. Something deep inside you ached when you saw his face, and you didn’t know why.

No matter how hard you tried to remember, your mind refused to give him back to you. The memories remained out of reach, locked away behind a door that wouldn’t budge no matter how many times you knocked. Yet, he lingered in ways you couldn’t understand.

A song would play on the radio, and a strange tightness would settle in your chest, like an echo of something that had once meant everything. At a restaurant, your fingers would hover over a particular dish on the menu, drawn to it by instinct alone, though you had no idea why.

On rainy afternoons, you’d catch yourself standing by your bedroom window, staring at the wet pavement below, toes curling against the hardwood floor. The pull to step outside, to feel the rain against your skin, to abandon your shoes entirely—it was there, an impulse with no explanation.

Then there was your name. The way it sounded when he said it. There was something in the way his voice wrapped around the syllables, something that made your stomach flip and your heart hesitate. It felt different coming from him—softer, heavier, as if it belonged to him as much as it did to you.

You couldn’t place it, couldn’t grasp it. But whatever it was, it refused to fade.

One evening, nearly two months after the accident, you found his number in your phone.

It had been there all along—tucked between names you barely recognized, untouched and waiting. You had scrolled past it dozens of times, always lingering for a second too long before looking away. You hadn’t touched it. Hadn’t dared, but tonight, something was different.

The house was quiet, the hum of the television muffled from the other room where your mother sat, half-watching some drama you didn’t have the heart to follow. Rain pattered softly against the windowpane, a steady rhythm that should have been soothing. But it wasn’t.

You stared at the screen, your name in his contacts staring back at you, unspoken history woven into a few simple digits.

Your fingers hovered just above the glass, unmoving.

You thought about the way he looked at you when you said goodbye—how his expression had been unreadable, but his eyes, dark and aching, had spoken volumes.

You thought about the hesitation in his voice when he said, “If you ever want to talk… I’ll be around.”

There had been something final in the way he stood there, yet not quite. As if he had accepted the distance between you but refused to completely let go.

Your heart beat a little faster.

It had been weeks since you last saw him. Weeks of trying to fit yourself into a life that no longer felt like yours, of filling the empty spaces with distractions that never quite worked.

Yet, he still lingered.

Not in memories—you had none of those—but in the way your body sometimes reacted to things before your mind could process why. In the way your fingers twitched toward certain choices, certain places, as if remembering something you couldn’t see. Now, in this moment, in the quiet weight of the evening, his name felt heavier than it ever had before.

You swallowed hard, fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the call button. It would be so easy to close the app. To pretend you never saw it, but for the first time in two months, the urge to reach out was stronger than the fear of what you might—or might not—find.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you pressed call. As the line began to ring, you held your breath—because for reasons you couldn’t explain, it felt like something was about to change.

-

On the other side of the city, Minho’s phone rang.

It was late, the kind of quiet hour where the world slowed down, where exhaustion sat heavy in his bones. He had been half-asleep on the couch, a forgotten show playing in the background, his mind drifting somewhere between consciousness and dreams.

the second his phone lit up, the moment he sees your name flash across the screen—he was awake. His breath caught, heart slamming against his ribs as time seemed to freeze.

For a split second, he thought he was imagining it. That his sleep-deprived mind had conjured up something cruel, something hopeful, something impossible.

But no. It was real. You were calling him. His fingers trembled as he reached for the phone, hesitant in a way that terrified him.

This was what he had been waiting for. Hoping for. Even when he told himself not to. Even when he forced himself to move through life as if he wasn’t still waiting for a version of you that might never return.

He had prepared himself for silence. For never hearing your voice directed at him again.

Now, you were right here.

Maybe someday had come sooner than he thought. With one deep, steadying breath, he pressed answer.

“…Hello?”

His voice came out quieter than he intended, barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might scare you away.

After what felt like an eternity—

“…Minho?”

Just his name. Just one word. It unraveled something deep inside him, something he hadn’t realized he was still holding onto, because for the first time in months, you had reached for him.

-

🏷️ : @slutformyloveleeminho @kochothehoe @piscesrising01 @mbioooo0000 @justagoofylittleclown @havenwithleeknow @yeast-ken23 @zelianlop @hungryhobbit815 @vive-la-v-i-d-a @delulumel @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @mysterysold @jiniretsleftear @lycxee

[dix0nspretty]

Ours

Summary: Your boyfriends get jealous when the soldiers on base get overzealous and prove who you belong to.

Task Force 141 x GN!Reader, 1.3k words.

Era: MW2-ish

TW: Polyamory, jealousy, marking (hickeys), the 141 being grumbly assholes. Unwanted advances (not 141), Ghost being ghostly. AFAB genitalia.

Can you believe it's only one more week of TCoD? I don't want to let her go :((

Day 25 of my bastardized version of Russian Roulette Febuwhump/Kinktober for March that I'm affectionately calling Trinket's Cause of Death. It's basically 50/50 whump/kink where I generate a number corresponding to a prompt. This first whump prompt!

Day 25: Hickeys with the 141 (kink)

It goes without saying that any good thing a 141 member manages to get their hands on is shared between the four men. Price’s fancy bottle of bourbon is split with Simon first before the Sergeants are allowed their tastes. Despite Soap’s bitching and moaning about all of his food being eaten, he’ll always bring enough leftovers from home to feed his lovers.

Ghost shares his cigarettes and his bed, glimpses of the face under the mask and the gentleness he tries to smother into nothing. Gaz frets after his teammates like a mother hen- using every bandage and suture in his kit before he even thinks of patching himself up.

So when you make your way onto the team, it’s a matter of who got to you first. If Gaz would charm you with his perfect white teeth and admirable loyalty. Maybe Johnny with incessant flirting or his infectious rambunctiousness. Or maybe you were a little cracked, with a sex drive driven by a need for praise and an insatiable daddy kink only Price could fix.

No one expected you to latch onto Simon first- the person least happy to have you joining the team and interrupting the perfectly balanced polycule. These are his lovers, his group that he reluctantly let into his scarred, traumatized heart and gave access to the most vulnerable parts of him. Then you show up and throw a wrench in everything.

Debriefs lose their touch of intimacy, meals feel almost formal again. There’s not as much touching and contact because no one knows how to introduce the very-against-regulations romantic situation that you aren’t a part of yet. Simon didn’t want you or the change in routine you brought along. Losing his frequency of physical contact that he only just got back after decades nearly killed him.

He wants his Johnny, his Gaz and his Cap, but you’re fucking everywhere, looking at him with those big eyes and the slightest pout on your pink lips that he can’t decide whether he wants to slap or kiss you.

The latter eventually happens, tensions boiling over during a late-night training exercise until it’s all teeth and tongue and spit. You’re not trusted enough to catch more than the smallest glimpse of his mouth, the balaclava rolled up to sit right above his eyes and a flash of pale skin before spit and sloppy kisses turn to rough thrusts into the gym mat and scraping bites to your throat, intent on leaving a claim.

When you stumble into the 141 wing over an hour later than normal, limping and covered in blossoming hickeys with the worst sex hair known to man as you trail after Ghost like a dazed puppy, that’s all the rest of the team needs to know.

You’re theirs and they’re yours, even if it takes you a while to catch on. Soap shoves his tongue down Ghost’s face right in front of you just to watch you bristle, but the second your eyes turn wet with hurt and confusion about how the Lieutenant you’re screwing is kissing someone else, they’re falling over themselves to explain the situation to you. They can’t have their newest love crying, after all.

Once things are explained and your tears soothed, you melt into the polycule and everything finally feels right. The four-person relationship felt perfect before you, but now it feels complete. Like there was a piece missing they were unaware of until the space was suddenly filled. Now they share everything with you, too.

Slowly, you start gaining attention from men on the base. Your lovers can hardly blame them- you’re fucking stunning with the perfect body, the brightest smile, the kindest heart they’ve ever seen. Who wouldn’t look at you as if you’re the sun when you shine as bright as one?

But then one of the soldiers becomes overzealous, corners you in the weapons locker while you’re cleaning guns and gets handsy. All it takes is Price seeing how flustered and nervous you are when you crash into his chest to know something happened. You’re avoiding his eyes the way you did before you knew him as a lover, how you always show submission to a superior.

That won’t do.

“Come on, pet,” John’s task is forgotten immediately, his arm winding around your waist to tug you into his side as he walks you to Soap’s quarters- he knows for a fact the Sergeants are in there, having heard the noises as he passed earlier. He would’ve stopped but he had work to do… except now you’re flustered and quiet and something needs to be done about it. He knows without checking the security footage that one of the many Sergeants and Privates that have had their eyes on you finally crossed the line. “Let’s go see your boys, hm?”

He doesn’t bother knocking when he gets to Soap’s quarters, instead opening the door and ushering you in even as Gaz and Soap startle. The two Sergeants are scrambling to cover naked flesh before they realize it’s just you and John and settle. “Steamin’ Jesus Cap, give a warning next time. Gaz was going tae…”

Soap trails off, brows furrowing unhappily when he sees the way you’re acting. Like a shy little kitten, avoiding eye contact and picking at your shirt. “What’s wrong, bon?”

“One of the men got too close,” Price speaks for you. Your head snaps up, startled that he knew considering you didn’t say a word about it, but he continues with nothing more than a kiss to your hair. “About time we let base know the pet’s taken.”

“C’mere, love.”

Gaz emerges from the sheets, pretty cock bobbing as he steps close and wraps you in his arms to press kiss after kiss to your face. He leads you slowly to the bed, leaving Price behind to undress as he kisses your brow, your nose, cheekbone, chin.

Soap gently eases you into the sweat-dampened sheets as Gaz’s mouth latches onto your throat, suckling a mark onto the skin and drawing a quiet whine of pleasure into the air. “There’s my love. Sweet as always.”

Gentle hands undo your clothes, slowly stripping you until you’re just as bare as the others. The bed dips when Price crawls in. You don’t notice how he leaves the door unlocked, undoubtedly for the ghostly Lieutenant to slip in when he deems it time. You’ve never been quiet when melting under their touches.

It's hard to tell who’s where, three sets of hands working through hair and caressing over soft skin, a calloused finger swiping through your arousal to make you whimper. Someone shushes you before ever so gently feeding your weeping cunt two fingers, curling unhurriedly and caressing that perfect spot. No matter what’s being touched, two mouths are coating you in marks that’ll undoubtedly bruise onto every inch of skin.

You mewl at the first nip of teeth against that sensitive spot on your pulse point and your first orgasm unravels so softly it’s nearly soothing even in its intensity.

No one hears Simon approach except for Price, greeting him with a murmured “There you are…” from where he’s busy leaving beard burn between your thighs, eating you out as you cum on his tongue repeatedly. John’s always been a munch.

Simon smells like blood, but you know better than to ask. Someone messed with a 141 member, so he acted according to his own ethics.

“Not enough hickeys,” He critiques in the soft tone reserved only for the people in this room, nipping at your bottom lip in a rough but not unloving manner. “That won’t do.”

By the time your lovers finally let up, you can’t remember your own name or the year, much less the irrelevant Private healing in medbay for daring to touch 141 property. “You’re ours…” Price whispers as you all doze together in the bed, sated and spent to the ends of your reserves.

[cameronsbabydoll]

THE PRINCE’S PRIZE — CHAPTER ONE

WARNINGS — sorta implied that rafe had sex with her while she was sleeping if that make sense, non-con, written from rafe’s perspective — i kinda hate it but oh well

“She’s still there, y’know.

The old man took a slow drag from his pipe, exhaling the words like a secret meant to be forgotten. The fire crackled between them, casting flickering light across the circle of men gathered at the inn.

Rafe sat among them, half-listening, his drink untouched as he watched the way the others leaned in, hungry for more. He had heard the tale before—every man in this town had.

“Still untouched,” another muttered, voice thick with ale. “Still as perfect as the day she closed her eyes.”

Rafe arched a brow, feigning disinterest. “You expect me to believe a girl’s been lying in some rotting castle for years and hasn’t withered away?”

The old man grinned, teeth yellowed with time. “Not a girl, boy. A princess. And believe what you want, but she’s there. Cursed. Frozen in time.” He tapped his pipe against the wooden table, shaking his head. “Some say she was meant to be woken by a kiss. Others say she was put there for a reason—kept away so no man could ever have her.”

The words lingered in the smoky air, thick with something unspoken.

Rafe rolled his glass between his fingers, considering.

A girl. Hidden away. Untouched.

The thought stirred something deep in his gut.

Something primal.

He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the worn floorboards. “Sounds like a fairytale,” he muttered. But when he left the inn that night, he rode toward the woods instead of home to his castle.

Towards her.

The journey was treacherous, the path overgrown with thick brambles that clawed at his arms as he pushed through. The further he went, the quieter the world became, as if even the birds knew better than to disturb this place.

And then he saw it.

A castle, swallowed by time. Vines crept up its crumbling walls, twisting like fingers desperate to reclaim their prize. The air was thick with the scent of dust and roses, sickly sweet and cloying.

Rafe dismounted, his boots crunching against the dead leaves as he approached the entrance. The heavy wooden doors groaned as he pushed them open, revealing a grand hall frozen in decay. Cobwebs hung from chandeliers, the remains of a feast rotting on a long-abandoned table.

But none of it mattered.

Because he knew where to find her.

He ascended the spiral staircase, each step echoing through the hollow corridors. The door at the top was different from the rest—preserved. The brass handle gleamed as if someone had polished it just yesterday.

He pressed it open.

And there she was.

The stories had not lied.

She laid on a grand bed, silken sheets still smooth beneath her, untouched by the dust that covered the rest of the castle. Her hair spilled around her like golden thread, her lips parted ever so slightly, chest rising and falling with the softest breaths.

A sleeping princess.

A treasure, hidden away from the world.

His fingers twitched.

She was not dead. Not ruined. Not rotted away like she should have been.

She was perfect.

His throat went dry as he stepped closer, the room suffocating in its stillness. His pulse hammered, his mind already spinning with the possibilities.

How long had she been waiting? How long had she belonged to no one?

The others in town—they spoke of kissing her awake. Of breaking the spell with something as foolish as love.

But Rafe had never been a believer in love.

He believed in taking.

He reached out, brushing a gloved finger along her jaw, his touch featherlight. She didn’t stir. Didn’t react. She was soft beneath his hands, her skin untouched by time or by any man.

His.

She was his.

A slow smirk pulled at his lips as he exhaled, leaning down until his breath ghosted over her throat.

“They left you here, didn’t they, princess?” he murmured. “Kept you locked away… kept you all to yourself.”

His hand trailed lower, slipping beneath the delicate fabric of her dress. His palm flattened against her stomach, feeling the warmth of her beneath the layers. Still, she did not wake.

“They were fools.”

His mouth brushed against her collarbone, tracing his claim.

“They should’ve known—”

His fingers slipped lower, curling possessively.

“—someone was always going to find you.”

And tonight, she would no longer be untouched.

Tonight, he would make her his.

[plethorawrites]

Okay, first of all, I genuinely love your blog, your writing, everything, it's so great

Second, would you be willing to do a Jason todd x reader where it's basically a boxing au and Jason got injured, so reader is taking care of him and they end up sleeping together? It can be anything else you want, just thought this would be cute

Love you (platonically, you and your blog are just really amazing)

Boxer Jason would be AMAZING, I think. Especially if it's after he came back from the dead.

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---_

He'd be angry, rightfully so, after climbing out of the Lazarus pit. Feeling shunned, it wouldn't surprise me at all if he needed an outlet for that rage and since Bruce's golden rule of never killing stuck in his head too deep to forget it, he had to find something less violent. Not by a lot, of course.

Boxing was good.

At first, at least. He'd go to a gym, get a decent amount of his anger and frustration out. Not enough though. He needed to hit something that wasn't moving.

So, despite not entirely trusting himself, he signed up for a few fights. He was good. Stupidly good. To the point the owner asked him if he'd want to get paid for it. Originally he'd been doing it just to blow off some steam, but this was Gotham, so of course there was something darker and more illegal nearby.

An underground boxing ring wasn't all that surprising to him, neither was the number of people who took bets.

Really, the only thing that surprised him was you. The owner's kid, who... really didn't seem to belong in a place so dirty or gritty. You were always dressed so much nicer than the creeps that were crowded around the ring, yelling and screaming. He'd watch you get hit on time and time again only shut down any advances or have your father do it for you.

He'd see you, sometimes, in the gym on your own at night when no one was around, just boxing for fun or to destress. Not the way he fought, which was typically to maim someone. He was good at that. Always had been. It took a lot for him to lose.

But watching you in the crowd, as some guy you clearly didn't want to be near tried to grab your ass, that caught his attention long enough to get pummeled. It wasn't the first fight he'd lost (even if it was rare) but it was the worst.

That's why you were sitting with him, in the empty, dim gym after everyone left, pressing a towel to his busted face. It burned as you wiped the blood from his brow, but at the same time you were so damn sweet about it he almost felt the cavities forming when you smiled.

He couldn't say he wasn't attracted to you, because he obviously was. It seemed most people were. But you were off limits according to your dad and since he paid Jason's check every fight.... he'd try to listen.

It wasn't easy though, and that little voice in his head telling him to back off grew weaker and weaker the longer he felt your soft hands on him, listening to your steady breathing as you gently wrapped bandages around his wrists.

"What happened?" You asked, slowly pulling at the gauze. "You're never caught off guard." Overpowered? Occasionally. But never distracted.

He didn't want to admit the truth, that he'd been so caught up in watching you that he forgot about the fact that someone was about to punch him. But you were impossible to lie to. "I just...saw some guy harassing you," he confessed quietly, resisting the urge to ask if you were alright from it.

"Oh." Your voice was equally quiet as you tucked the bandage in and picked up the towel again as his lip started to bleed once more from how hard it got hit. "So... I'm the reason you're bleeding."

He could tell you felt guilty, not only because he lost but because he was hurt and you were the cause of it. He shook his head as you pressed the rag firmly against the corner of his mouth. "No, no I just- I had a bad night. They happen."

He could see you thinking through his words, reluctantly nodding as you pulled the towel away and ran your thumb over the edge of his lip. "I'm sorry," you whispered, suddenly very aware of how his hand fell on your knee after you'd finished bandaging it. "I wish I could make it better."

You meant that, truly. You cared about him in more ways than one, even if you'd never told him that before.

His heart beat felt a bit faster as he felt you touching his lip and he hesitated, the voice in his head shouting at him to pull away, gather his stuff, and go home. But he couldn't help but lean in a bit closer.

"Maybe...maybe you could," he breathed, his breath warm on your lips which were closer to his than ever.

Your mouth fell open for a second, before it met his, kissing him gently out of fear that one of you would stop or that you might hurt him. When neither seemed to be the case, the towel fell from your grasp, and you wrapped your hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

His hand squeezed your thigh, the other finding your waist, digging his fingers into your skin as it moved back and forth trying to find the best grip possible.

Out of breath, you pulled back, resting your forehead against his. "My father is going to kill me," you muttered, fussing with the hair on the nape of his neck.

Despite your words, there was little regret behind them. In fact, none.

Jason knew that he was probably out of a job now, but if he was going to lose his source of income, it wouldn't be over one damn kiss. "That's not worth killing you over," he replied, his hand tugging at your shirt, seeking approval. "This could be."

You knew as well as he did that it was a bad idea, but you'd liked him since he first stepped foot in the gym, since you saw how passionate he was and watched his tired, lonely eyes every night he tended to his own injuries.

Bad idea or not, you wanted it. Wanted him.

You didn't resist when he pulled your shirt off, just reached back to hold him again as soon as it was off. With your arms around his neck, his large hands roamed your ribs and waist for a moment before pulling you off the bench and kissing you again as you walked backwards towards the ring.

"So unhygienic," you mumbled as he lifted you with ease until you were sitting on the edge of it, laying back as your head fell below the ropes. He lifted one, ducking under it as he always did.

"You're in an illegal boxing ring," he reminded you, his hands wrapping around your wrists as he pinned you down gently, his lips near your ear. "Nothing about this place is clean."

Least of all what you were doing.

But that didn't seem to matter nearly as much as the feeling of his lips on your jaw, peppering kisses along it as he held you down, his weight settled on you as his legs rested on either side of your hips.

"Guess not," you agreed, a breathy sigh falling from your lips and you closed your eyes, reveling in the feeling of his touch. Perhaps the only gentleman to ever exist in this place.

The place was dark, dirty, violent. So was he, in a lot of ways. But the boxing ring you always considered so grotesque seemed much more beautiful when you were in it with him.

[fangdokja]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙟𝙤𝙠𝙚

Sukuna knows he's not your type.

Never was, never will be.

Your type is the quiet, kind guy. The soft one who pulls out your chair, buys you flowers, texts you goodnight with some corny little heart emoji. You’re not the type to say it, but he sees the way your eyes linger on romance movies, the way your fingers brush over book covers with blushing heroines and their perfect, gentle love interests.

You want that.

And you’re never gonna get it.

Because you got him instead.

And Sukuna doesn’t do soft.

"You look like you wanna cry," he sneers, gripping your wrist as you try—again—to pull away from him. “What, did you really think I’d change?”

You didn’t. You know exactly who he is. The violent, cocky bastard who forced his way into your life, who doesn't care that you're miserable, who likes when you fight back just so he can break you down.

But sometimes, sometimes, you wonder.

If he ever could be something else.

If he could love you the way you want to be loved.

Sukuna scoffs, yanking you forward until you stumble into his chest. “That’s cute, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low, taunting. “Bet you’d kill for some fairy tale shit, huh? Some prince on a white horse—" His fingers thread through your hair before yanking back, baring your throat to him. "Too bad.”

You whimper, fingers clawing at his wrist. “Sukuna, let—”

He doesn’t.

He shoves you down onto the bed, crawling over you, knees pinning your thighs apart. His grin is sharp, mocking as he watches you struggle.

“This is the only kinda love you get, baby,” he purrs, palming your thigh. “You want a man who kisses your forehead and whispers sweet shit?” His fingers shove your panties aside, cupping you roughly. “Tough fucking luck.”

You whimper when he sinks two fingers inside, curling them deep, forcing your body to react, to betray you.

“You get me,” he growls, voice low, dangerous. “And I don’t do love.”

He pulls his fingers out, shoves them in your mouth, making you taste yourself.

Then he’s undoing his belt.

The leather snaps as he yanks it free, shoving his jeans down just enough to free his cock—thick, heavy, already leaking.

You don’t even get a second to breathe before he’s pressing inside.

You cry out, nails digging into his arms, trying to push him away, but he’s too big, too strong. His cock forces your body open, stretching you painfully, stuffing you full of something that doesn’t belong.

He groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “Yeah, that’s it, babe,” he pants, slamming deep. “Nice and tight—”

His teeth sink into your throat as he fucks you into the mattress.

Love?

Love is a joke.

But this?

This is real.

Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles

Test-Phase TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @imnotabot28 , @han11dh

[calebsangelbby]

・❥ CALEBS FAVORITE KINKS !!!

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ rundown :: a list of what i think are calebs top 5 kinks !

WARNINGS :: NSFW! 18+, incest , oral sex , bondage , collaring , orgasm denial , porn w/ no plot

a/n :: these are not in order !! :)

1. INCEST :: now, this might seem a little bit overboard , but to caleb ? it's nothing new . after knowing you for so long ... growing up together , living in the same house , sharing everything with each other .. it's like a normal thing to him. so normal to the point where he'll call you his 'sissy' during different times of day . " sissy , could you grab my water from the table for me ? thank you, love . " it just rolls of the tongue !! especially during your alone time, too . it slips out more than you or him could count . when he first moaned it he never even payed attention to it , thinking of it as nothing . it was only when you gave him a look that he couldn't quite read did he notice what he accidentally said . "o-oh my god pips im.. im so sorry. that was fucking weird and i shouldnt have said it... im a damn pervert." shame flooded his face ... but he knew it would happen again , whether he could control it or not .

2. BONDAGE :: listen , he doesnt want to be tied up because hes horny , it's because he trusts you so much ... and that kind of turns him on . the fact he can willingly submit to you and trust you without having to worry about what you're doing . although he likes to be restrained , he'd never do it to you .. only if you asked him . he'd do anything you asked for (within reason) , whether thats strapping you to the bed with ropes , chains , a belt (his) , cuffs .. whatever you please . all he's worried about is them scuffing up those pretty wrists of yours . "nono wait baby .. your skin, it's red . do you need me to stop ? i'll stop right now for you , you look like you're in pain . let me kiss it better pips .." is what he'd say on any other occasion .. but the times when you didnt look so in pain , thats when his freak comes out . "you cant run away silly .. stop trying to run from me . i wont allow it , and neither will those restraints you begged me to use on you . i actually quite like the way you look right now... all tied up and cute for me ."

3. COLLARING :: i feel like this is the most canon you could ever get . he'd seriously be into making you wear a collar for him , wanting everyone to know who you belong to & to not try with his girl ! also , he'd want one with a bell .. just so you couldnt escape without being noisy ;) . buuuut he's up for wearing one for you as well , he also wants to let people know who he belongs to . i think he'd get one for the both of you regardless of you wanting one or not , his need to get people off of you is too strong, as he is alarmingly obsessed with you . the collar isn't just used as man repellent , it turns him on so fucking much . knowing that you're practically his property gets his dick hard to the point of ache , he'd definitely make you wear it during sex . mumbling incoherent sentences about how much he loves the way it looks on your gorgeous neck .. how he never wants you to take it off . "as long as you're here, with me, you aren't touching it . fuck , you're so good for me .."

4. ORGASM DENIAL :: hear me out . it's late at night and he notices your location isnt on ... he texts and calls you multiple times without an answer . eventually , he tracks you down and confronts you about going out without his knowledge / consent . after he's done scolding you , that night , he'd drag you into his car as soon as he could & not let you cum . he would adore hearing you beg for him , solely because it feeds into his desire for you to need him as much as he does you . he wouldnt be too fond if you ended up doing it to him ... maybe as revenge or something , but nonetheless , he would be in pieces . pleading , begging , writhing , all of the above just to feel your perfect cunt squeeze around him one more time so he can cum . he would never put his hands on you , but he would just get so desperate ... he might have to move you himself !! at that point , all he would manage were whimpers and prayers . "ohmygod pips please .. im sorry! okay! im sorry .. i can't take this anymore baby , i need to cum . i need it so fucking bad ."

5. FACE SITTING :: caleb takes "the best way to die is by thigh" way too seriously . he would happily pass away while in between your thighs ... he loves eating you out so much it's kind of concerning . the moment his lips are on your core hes not letting up until you've cum over and over again on his face .. hes addicted to the taste of you . his deep obsession with your juices is so bad that he has to have you suffocating him , almost breaking his nose , using his face as a toy ... he can't get enough . i think this roots from the fact that he jerks off to your voice all the time & that makes him so attached to all your moans . especially when you call out his name while you cum .. he thinks about those moments way too often .

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ in conclusion :: caleb would really do whatever you asked , aka hes into anything , but these are the ones he really enjoys . <3