#i remembered too late that this was an *expression* challenge | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

unconventional-lawnchair · 3 months ago

Note

"god I'm supposed to hate you, why don't i hate you?" with barty and potter! reader? 👀 the recent fic got me thinking sjdjkdkf

I Might Still Hate You

Barty Crouch Jr. x Potter!Reader

AN: I couldn't sleep last night, I'm blaming this. ANY excuse to write Barty x Potter reader tbh

Summary: An unexpected guest shows up at your house late at night.

WC: ~3k

CW: Small bit of cussing, implied child abuse

You couldn’t remember a single time Bartemius Crouch Jr had ever said something kind to you.

It was likely because he never had.

From the very beginning, you and Barty had been locked in a mutual loathing. Whether it was academic rivalry, dueling matches, or sheer social standing, the two of you couldn’t seem to share a room without bristling at the other’s presence. Maybe it was the way you refused to bow under his threats, meeting his sharp words with sharper ones of your own. Or the way he matched your challenges like a game he was desperate to win, his smirk always daring you to push him further.

But really, it was probably your name.

"Potter."He never just said it- he delivered it, each syllable like a whip crack, leaving something raw behind. You hated the way he said it, how his voice dipped just slightly when he drew it out, like it was a secret he wasn’t supposed to know but delighted in exposing anyway.

“You know, it suits you.” He had told you once, a wicked grin slashing across his face as you squared off in yet another argument. “All that self-righteousness. It clings to you, like perfume.”

Your glare had only made his grin widen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re exactly what everyone expects a Potter to be. And isn’t that exhausting for you? Always pretending you’re better than everyone else?”

“I don’t need to pretend, Crouch.” You had shot back, stepping closer, challenging him as you always did, smirking. “But maybe you should stop pretending you’re not desperate to prove yourself to me. ‘Clings to be like perfume’? Give me some room, maybe you wouldn't be so wrapped in it.”

That grin faltered just slightly, his eyes narrowing. For a moment- just a moment, you thought you saw something flicker behind his bravado. But then it was gone, replaced by his usual venom. Giving you an expression he saved just for you- unbridled hatred.

“You’re insufferable.” He glared down at you before slowly smirking himself. As if his lip didn't twitch into a frown at your remark.

“And you’re pathetic.” You drawled, running your quill along the bridge of your nose.

Barty had a way of getting under your skin. You told yourself it was just the rivalry. Just the mutual hatred that kept him in your thoughts, his voice echoing far too clearly in your head.

But you hated how sometimes, when he was close, your pulse raced for reasons you couldn’t quite name. How his cologne reminded you of your best days, because he was never far behind you.

Everything considered, everything he's done and said to you, there was nothing that prepared you for this.

A sharp knock echoed through the quiet halls of Potter Manor, startling you from your thoughts. It was late, too late for visitors. The rain outside battered against the windows like an unwelcome intruder. You hesitated for a moment before making your way to the front door, curiosity piqued and wand subtly gripped just in case.

Pulling open the heavy oak door, you were met with a sight that made you question if you'd somehow drifted into a dream or perhaps a nightmare.

"Crouch?" You uttered, eyes widening as you took in his disheveled appearance. His usually pristine hair was plastered to his forehead, rainwater dripping down his face and soaking his clothes. A dark bruise was forming around his left eye, the skin swollen and tender-looking. His nose was red, and whether from the cold or something else, it was clear he'd been through quite an ordeal.

He blinked at you, seeming just as surprised to find himself on your doorstep. "Potter.” He mumbled, but the usual sneer in his voice was absent. Instead, it sounded almost... defeated.

"What are you doing here?" You asked, a mix of concern and confusion lacing your tone.

He glanced away, jaw tightening. "Didn't realize where I was going," He shrugged. "Just walking."

"In the pouring rain? With a black eye?" You raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident.

"Brilliant observation, as always," He shot back, but the retort lacked his typical bite.

You sighed, stepping aside. "Well, don't just stand there. Come inside before you catch pneumonia."

He hesitated, pride warring with practicality, but the chill of the rain seemed to make the decision for him. He stepped over the threshold, dripping water onto the polished wooden floor. You closed the door behind him, the sound of the storm muffled but the tension between you both as palpable as ever.

You closed the door softly, turning to face him with a sigh. Barty stood there, dripping rainwater onto the polished floor, his gaze avoiding yours. Your mother was going to kill you. There was something unnervingly quiet about him, something unspoken weighing heavily in the space between you.

"If my brother sees you, he’s going to lose his mind.” You muttered, already thinking through how to avoid that particular disaster.

Barty snorted, the sound bitter but faint. "Wouldn’t be the first time a Potter tried to hex me."

"Well, I’m not in the mood to hear James shouting at two in the morning, so we’re going to avoid that, alright?" Without waiting for his reply, you grabbed his arm and began pulling him toward the stairs.

He stiffened. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you.” You hissed. "Now, shut up and follow me."

He opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it, instead allowing you to lead him up the staircase. The house creaked softly underfoot, the storm outside muffling your steps as you tiptoed toward your room. You couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder every few seconds, half-expecting James to come barreling out of his room with Sirius in a righteous fury.

When you finally reached your door, you pushed it open and gestured him inside. Barty hesitated, his eyes narrowing. "Your room?"

"Yes, my room.” You replied a bit snappily, exasperated. "Unless you’d prefer I dump you in the hall for James to find?"

He stepped inside without another word, though his posture was tense, his gaze darting around the space as though expecting a trap. You shut the door quietly behind you, casting a silencing charm for good measure.

"Sit.” You ordered, gesturing to the small chair near your desk.

Barty sat reluctantly, his wet clothes clinging to him and dripping onto the carpet. You grimaced. "You’re ruining my mum’s rug."

"Your concern is touching.” He drawled, though the usual venom was missing. He looked utterly miserable, and the bruise on his face seemed darker in the soft glow of the room’s light.

Ignoring his sarcasm, you rummaged through your wardrobe for a spare towel and tossed it at him. "Dry off. I’ll find something for you to wear so you’re not freezing to death."

He caught the towel with a raised brow. "I didn’t realize Potter hospitality came with wardrobe changes."

"Do you ever stop talking?" You shot back, digging through a drawer until you found an old jumper Sirius gave you and a pair of sweatpants James had ‘lost’. "Here. They're my brothers, but it’s better than sitting around in wet clothes."

He muttered something you didn’t quite catch, taking the clothes from you with a begrudging nod. You turned away, giving him privacy as he changed, though you couldn’t help but feel the tension in the air grow thicker with every passing moment.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter. "Why are you doing this?"

You glanced over your shoulder, finding him standing there in the oversized jumper, his wet hair pushed back from his face. Without the rain and the usual sneer to hide behind, he looked... different. Tired. Vulnerable, even.

"You showed up on my doorstep looking like you’d been through hell.” You shrugged. "I couldn’t just leave you out there."

He scoffed lightly, but there was no real bite to it. "You’re a strange one, Potter."

"And you’re still unbearable," You mumbled, crossing your arms. "But here we are."

Silence fell between you, the storm outside filling the quiet. Barty’s eyes flicked to the window, then back to you. "Your brother-”

"Will stay asleep if you keep your voice down.” You interrupted. "I’ll deal with James or Sirius if it comes to that. For now, just... sit down and rest. I’ll grab some ice for your eye."

He didn’t argue, which was strange enough in itself, sinking back into the chair and watching you as you slipped out of the room. When you returned with a cold cloth, he accepted it without a word, holding it gingerly to his swollen eye.

"Thanks.” He mused after a moment, the word sounding foreign in his mouth.

You sat down on the edge of your bed, studying him carefully. "Who hit you?"

"Does it matter?" His tone was dismissive, but you caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched.

"It does if you’re going to keep showing up like this.. was it your father, Junior?”

He didn’t respond, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. You sighed, leaning back on your hands. "You don’t have to tell me. But you’re not going anywhere until you’re steady on your feet, alright?"

"Afraid I’ll collapse in the rain?" He snarked, his usual smirk making a brief appearance.

"I’m afraid you’ll collapse on my doorstep and make me explain to my father why a random boy is here," You shot back.

The room settled into a fragile quiet, the storm outside providing a constant backdrop. Barty sat there, pressing the cold cloth to his eye, his face obscured by shadows and bruises. You leaned forward, elbows resting on your knees, watching him carefully. He was always so quick with a retort, so quick to lash out, and yet now he seemed... hollow, his usual sharp edges dulled by whatever had led him to your doorstep tonight.

"You’re staring.” He muttered, his voice breaking the silence.

"You’re in my room.” You countered, refusing to back down.

He huffed a faint laugh, his lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. "Fair enough, Potter. I didn’t exactly plan this, you know."

"You don’t say?" You deadpanned, tilting your head. "Because you seem like the type to storm through rain-soaked nights and show up unannounced."

"Better than staying where I was." The words slipped out before he could stop them, and his face darkened immediately, his jaw clenching as he turned his attention to the cloth in his hands.

You didn’t push him. Not yet. Instead, you sat back, letting the silence stretch just long enough to ease the tension in the air. When he finally looked up, his eyes met yours, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of malice in his gaze. Just exhaustion.

"I don’t understand you, Potter.” He scoffed softly, almost as if to himself. "Why are you doing this?"

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "You keep asking that. Do you really not get it?"

His brow furrowed. "We hate each other. Isn’t that the whole point of us? This... thing?"

"This thing? You mean our rivalry?" You huffed, raising an eyebrow. "It’s not like it’s my whole identity, Crouch. Believe it or not, I’m capable of basic human decency."

"Decency?" He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "You don’t owe me anything, Potter. Especially not that."

"No, I don’t.” You shrugged, leaning forward. "But you showed up here, soaked to the bone and bruised. I’m supposed to hate you, sure, but..." You hesitated, the words catching in your throat before you forced them out. "I don’t hate you right now."

His head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as if he was trying to find the trap in your words. "Why not?"

"Merlin, Crouch.” You muttered, exasperated. "I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you look like a stray Kneazle someone kicked into a gutter."

His lips twitched at that, and for a brief moment, you thought he might smile. Instead, he leaned back in the chair, his expression guarded but less harsh. "Don’t pity me, Potter. That’s worse than hate."

"I’m not pitying you.” You snapped back. "But I am trying to figure out why you’re so determined to make everyone hate you, including me."

"Maybe I deserve it." His voice was so quiet you almost didn’t catch it. His usual bravado cracked further as he glanced away, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the towel.

You softened at that, the sharp edge of your retort fading before it could form. "Maybe you don’t.” You coaxed gently. "You ever think of that?"

He didn’t answer, but his silence spoke volumes. He looked like he wanted to say something, anything, but couldn’t bring himself to let the words out. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting back to you.

"You’re annoying, you know that?" he finally muttered, shaking his head. "You’re supposed to be this... untouchable, perfect Potter. And yet here you are, making it impossible for me to hate you."

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. The air between you felt heavier, charged with something unspoken.

"You hate me just fine most of the time.” You rolled your eyes, your voice quieter now.

He laughed, but it was a hollow sound, one that didn’t reach his eyes. "Do I? Or is that just easier than... this?"

"This?" You echoed, your heart pounding as the word lingered in the air between you.

He didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes said enough. Vulnerability mixed with defiance, like he hated himself for letting you see even a glimpse of what lay beneath his carefully crafted exterior. You opened your mouth to say something, anything but the words tangled on your tongue.

"I should go.” He said suddenly, standing up and tossing the towel onto the chair. "This was a mistake."

You were on your feet before you even realized it. "Don’t be an idiot, Crouch. You’re not going anywhere like this."

"I’m fine.” He snapped, but his voice cracked, betraying him.

"You’re not fine.” You shot back, stepping closer. "And you don’t have to be."

His jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "You think you know me, Potter? You don’t. You can’t just... fix me with a towel and some kind words."

"I’m not trying to fix you.” You scoffed but your voice strained, soft but firm. "I’m just trying to remind you that you don’t have to do this alone."

For a moment, it looked like he might argue again, but then his shoulders slumped, and he let out a shaky breath. "Why are you doing this?" He asked one last time, his voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t have an answer, not really. All you could do was reach out, resting a hand on his arm. "Because I don’t hate you.” You said finally. "And maybe I never did."

His eyes met yours, and for a fleeting moment, the storm outside seemed to quiet.

“I hate you.” He whispered softly. Testing the words on his tongue.

“That's okay.”

“I hate you.” He spoke again, more determined as his brows furrowed at you in frustration.

“I can live with that, Junior.”

“I hate you.” He spoke in his normal tone, before his shoulders fell and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I'm supposed to hate you. Why don't I hate you?”

Your heart thudded painfully at his words. His voice, usually laced with arrogance and venom, was raw now, trembling with something unspoken. It wasn’t a question meant for you. It wasn’t even a question meant for him, not really. It hung in the air, heavy with everything he couldn’t say and everything you couldn’t answer.

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way his words carved into you, settling in places you didn’t want to acknowledge. "Maybe you’re not as good at hating as you think," you whispered softly, your voice barely cutting through the silence.

Barty let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Oh, I’m very good at hating, Potter. Comes naturally to a Crouch. You should know- you’ve been on the receiving end often enough."

"Then what’s stopping you now?" You challenged, stepping closer, the space between you shrinking to something almost unbearable. "What’s so different this time?"

His eyes flickered to yours, narrowing as though he was trying to figure you out, to dissect every word and find its weakness. "You’re insufferable," He muttered, but his voice lacked conviction. "Always so damn persistent."

"Stop deflecting, Crouch." You didn’t give him the satisfaction of backing down, standing your ground even as his walls threatened to rebuild. "Why don’t you hate me?"

"Because I-" He stopped himself, his jaw clenching, the frustration in his expression cracking further. He turned away from you, raking a hand through his damp hair. "I don’t know, alright? I don’t know. I’ve hated you since the first day I met you, but now-" He broke off again, his shoulders tense, his fists clenching at his sides.

"But now what?" You pressed gently, your tone softer this time.

"But now it’s harder.” He admitted finally, his voice so quiet you barely caught the words. He turned back to face you, his eyes meeting yours, and for the first time, he looked completely, heartbreakingly vulnerable. "I don’t know what to do with that."

Your chest tightened, the weight of his admission settling heavily between you. "Maybe you don’t have to do anything.” You took another step closer. "Maybe it’s okay to just... stop fighting it."

His lips twitched, not quite a smirk but not a smile either. "And what exactly am I supposed to do instead?"

"You could start by letting yourself be honest.” You replied. "For once."

Barty studied you for a long moment, his gaze searching yours like he was looking for an answer he didn’t want to find. Then, almost imperceptibly, he took a step closer, the tension between you reaching a breaking point.

"Honest, huh?" He murmured, his voice low. "Alright, Potter. Here’s some honesty for you- I hate the way you do your hair. I hate the way you hold a room. I hate the way you can wipe me across the floor in a duel and still challenge me in a classroom. I hate how you never stop talking- I hate how you make me feel. I hate that you make it impossible to look at you without... without wanting something I’m not supposed to want."

Your breath hitched, his words sending a jolt through you. The room felt smaller, the storm outside nothing compared to the one brewing between you.

"Then stop pretending you hate me.” You slipped your hands into your cardigan pockets, your voice steady despite the way your pulse raced. "Because we both know you don’t."

For a moment, he didn’t move, his expression unreadable. Then, with a frustrated growl, he reached out, his hand cupping your jaw as he pulled you closer. His lips hovered just a breath away from yours, his gaze locked on yours.

"You’re infuriating," he murmured, his voice rough, almost broken. "And I don’t know if I hate you or if I-"

He didn’t finish the thought, but he didn’t need to. The space between you disappeared, the storm outside fading into nothing as his lips crashed against yours. It wasn’t soft or sweet- it was raw and desperate, filled with all the unspoken words and tangled emotions you’d both been avoiding for far too long.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "I still might hate you.” He mused, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"That’s fine.” Your voice was breathless but steady. "I might still hate you, too."

But the way your hand lingered on his, and the way his grip on you didn’t falter but tightened, told a different story entirely.

#harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #bartemius crouch junior #bartemius crouch jr #barty crouch jr #barty x reader #barty crouch jr fanfic #barty crouch fanfic #barty crouch x reader #barty crouch jr x you #barty crouch jr x reader #barty jr #barty crouch junior

653 notes · View notes

theonottsbxtch · 5 months ago

Note

hiiii i loved ur CL fics sm I was wondering if you could write angst of LN inspired by the song Casual by chappel roan?😭 feel free to ignore this req though!!💕 love u

CASUAL | LN4

an: this is TOTALLY not based off personal experience and TOTALLY didn't make me cry writing it, i poured two years worth of bullshit into this i hope you enjoy it. one of these scenes actually happened try and guess which one AND TO MAKE IT WORST I WAS THE JOURNALIST AND HE WAS THE SPORTS PLAYER ANYWAY

wc: 10.2k

Present Time

The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked window of the sleek black cab, each droplet a reminder of how tonight had unravelled into something far too complicated. She sat back against the worn leather seat, her fingers unconsciously tapping the small notebook resting in her lap. She hadn’t written a word.

She shouldn’t have agreed to this interview. That much was clear now. But when her editor had mentioned his name, her chest had tightened. It had been a year—no, closer to two—since the last time she’d seen him in person. But when you cover Formula 1, you don’t escape the shadow of Lando Norris for long. Especially this season. And here she was, his shadow pulling her back in, as if those tangled months had never happened.

The cab slowed, pulling up to a luxury hotel that had never seemed like Lando’s style—until it did. The polished, impersonal grandeur, the kind that screamed you were too famous, too fast to belong anywhere at all. The driver mumbled something about rain, but she barely heard him. She was too busy staring at the figure that had just appeared through the entrance. Tall, broad-shouldered, and effortlessly leaning against a pillar, Lando’s expression was hard to read, even from here. His trademark black leather jacket hung off him like a second skin. She remembered that jacket. She remembered far too much.

He spotted her through the rain, those piercing green eyes locking onto hers with the same intensity that had once sent her world spinning. For a moment, time seemed to slip backward, to late nights and whispered arguments, to hotel rooms where neither of them had belonged.

She swallowed hard and pushed the car door open. She wasn’t here for that. This was just work now. An interview, a piece for tomorrow’s newspaper. Nothing more. Lando had made it clear a long time ago that they were nothing more.

She stepped out into the rain, the cool drops on her skin grounding her just enough. Lando didn’t move, but his gaze followed her like a predator’s, waiting to strike.

"Long time no see," he called out as she approached, his voice low and edged with something she couldn’t quite place.

She flinched at his voice, directed towards her. Like it had all been some fleeting game, some disposable moment. The thing was, she had been the one who’d tried to keep it light, who’d pretended she didn’t care. But Lando had always seen through her. And now, she wondered if he could still see what a mess she was beneath the practised professionalism.

"Yeah," she forced a tight smile, trying to pretend that his voice didn’t sting. "Just work, Lando. Let’s keep it that way."

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk curling the corner of his lips. “If you say so.” He said it like a challenge, like they both knew this wasn’t just a story for either of them.

She held her breath, her heart pounding far too hard for someone who had promised herself she was over this. Over him.

But deep down, she already knew the truth: there was nothing casual about Lando Norris. There never had been.

Two Years Ago

It had been a suffocatingly hot afternoon at the Austin Grand Prix. The sun hung heavy in the sky, the smell of burning rubber thick in the air as engines roared, and tension crackled around the circuit. But none of that had mattered when she was with Lando.

Just minutes before, she’d been in his driver’s room, his body tangled with hers, skin still warm from the way their desperation had collided. It had been fast, rough—like all the moments they’d stolen in between races. And for a fleeting second, she had believed that maybe this time was different. Maybe this time, he’d let her in.

But as she stepped into the paddock, adjusting her shirt and fixing her hair, she heard his voice, sharp and careless, coming from around the corner. She should have walked away. But curiosity, or maybe the sick need to hear, pulled her closer.

"I don't know, man," Lando’s laugh broke through the air like glass. "It’s casual. She’s just another girl. You know how it is."

She froze, her breath catching in her throat. She pressed herself against the wall, just out of sight, the words slicing through her. Just another girl.

She heard the other driver—was it Pierre? Or maybe Charles—murmur something back, his voice muffled, like it didn’t matter. Nothing anyone else said mattered after that.

All she could focus on was Lando. The way he spoke about her as if the last hour hadn’t happened. As if they hadn’t just been in his room, their bodies and hearts closer than they had ever dared admit out loud.

Her stomach twisted violently, shame and anger rising in her chest. How could he act like that? Like none of it meant anything? Like she didn’t mean anything?

She pushed herself off the wall, her heart hammering. She had to leave, get out of here before the flood of emotions swallowed her whole. But just as she turned the corner, she came face-to-face with someone who could unravel her even more.

Lando’s mother, Cisca Norris, stood in front of her, a soft smile breaking across her face the second she saw her .

“Darling, it’s been too long,” Cisca’s voice was warm, so achingly kind, as she pulled her into an embrace.

She wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to run, but instead, she wrapped her arms around Cisca and tried not to let the tears fall. Cisca held her like she was more than just another journalist, more than just another girl passing through Lando’s life. The woman had always been good to her, always treated her with affection that felt too close to motherly.

She couldn’t break now. Not in front of Cisca.

“Yeah, it has,” she managed, her voice thin as she pulled back and forced a smile. Her chest was burning, her throat tight. Cisca’s eyes searched her face with that kind of intuition only mothers had. She must’ve known something was wrong, but she didn’t ask.

“You should come by later,” Cisca continued, still holding her hands in hers. “Dinner with the family. It’ll be nice.”

She nodded, her vision blurring as she made some excuse, something about needing to finish a story. Cisca finally released her, her touch lingering as if she could sense the storm brewing inside her.

The second Cisca was gone, her composure cracked. She made her way to the bathroom, her legs unsteady as the pain crashed over her in waves. She locked herself in a stall, her back pressed against the cold tile wall, and finally let out the breath she had been holding.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to erase the image of Lando’s smirk, the sound of his voice when he had so casually discarded her like she was nothing.

She had always known it couldn’t last, that Lando wasn’t the kind of man to settle down, least of all with someone like her. But hearing it like that—hearing him reduce everything they had been to something so meaningless—tore something inside her she hadn’t even known was fragile.

She thought of Cisca, of the warmth in her embrace, and it only made the ache worse. There was no pretending now, no saving face. The line between Lando’s world and her own was more jagged than ever. She didn’t belong, not here, not with him.

She had barely pieced herself together by the time she left the bathroom stall. Her reflection in the mirror looked foreign, hollow-eyed and shaky, her hands gripping the counter as if the world beneath her feet might give way. But she didn’t have time to fall apart. Not here. Not now.

The media pen was bustling with the usual post-qualifying chaos—drivers weaving between journalists, cameras pointed in every direction, reporters asking the same rehearsed questions. She’d done this a hundred times, and today should have been no different. But today, every movement felt like it was being held together by string, and she was one breath away from snapping.

As soon as she arrived, her producer, Mark, waved her over, holding up the microphone with a nod. She forced a smile, plastering on the face she always wore when the cameras were rolling. She could do this. She had to do this.

Lando was already there, standing with a few other journalists, casually leaning against the fence like he hadn’t just torn her heart in half an hour ago. He looked almost too relaxed, that signature smirk playing on his lips. When his eyes met hers, something in them flickered—like he knew. Like he could see how fragile she was, and he wasn’t about to make it any easier.

"Hey," Lando drawled as she approached, his voice low and smooth. He flashed her a grin, the one that used to make her stomach flip. Now, it only twisted the knife.

She kept her face neutral, gripping the microphone a little tighter. "Lando," she said, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside. "You had a solid qualifying. What are your thoughts heading into tomorrow’s race?"

He tilted his head, his gaze never leaving hers. "Oh, you know," he said, his tone almost playful. "Feeling good. Always do when I’ve got the right motivation." He winked, just subtle enough that the cameras wouldn’t pick it up, but she caught it. And she hated that her heart still skipped at the sight.

She fought to keep her composure, swallowing hard as she moved on to the next question, doing her best to keep it professional. But every answer Lando gave was laced with innuendo, his eyes lingering on her in ways that felt too personal. Too raw. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him to stop playing games, to stop acting like everything between them was fine when she was barely holding it together.

"Alright, thanks for your time," she said, ending the interview with a tight smile as the camera finally cut. Her hand was shaking, the adrenaline rushing through her veins like fire. She needed to get out of here. Fast.

But before she could move, Lando stepped closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Sweetheart," he murmured, his voice so quiet no one else could hear. "I'll meet you at the hotel later?"

She stiffened, her entire body tensing. She turned to look at him, her eyes wide, disbelief flooding her chest. How could he be so casual, so careless? Did he really think she’d just meet him after what she overheard? After the way he’d reduced her to nothing?

Lando’s fingers brushed against hers, and for a split second, he took her hand, bringing it to his lips. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through her, just like it always did. He kissed her hand gently, like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t just broken her in two.

She yanked her hand away, her breath catching as the pain clawed at her chest. She couldn't do this. Not again. She forced a small, tight-lipped smile, nodding as if she was agreeing, but inside, her heart was shattering all over again.

"I’ve got to—" she started, her voice cracking slightly as she turned back to Mark, her producer. "I need to go. Tell them I’ll be back later."

Mark frowned, concerned. "You alright?"

"Yeah, I’m fine," she lied, her throat tightening as she backed away, already feeling the tears pressing against her eyes. "Just… something came up."

Without waiting for his reply, she slipped through the crowd, moving faster now, desperate to get out of the media pen, away from the cameras, away from him. She barely made it around the corner before the sob hit her, choking her breath, her chest heaving as she pressed her back against the wall, her hands trembling.

She couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears spilled over, hot and heavy, her body shaking as she gasped for air. How could he do this to her? How could he look at her like that, touch her like that, after treating her like she meant nothing?

She tried to steady herself, wiping furiously at her face, but the more she tried to hold it together, the more everything crumbled.

"Is that you?" A familiar voice cut through the fog, and she looked up, blinking through her tears to see Oscar standing just a few feet away. His brow furrowed in concern, his normally playful demeanour replaced by something much more serious.

"Oscar," she croaked, her voice barely a whisper. She tried to pull herself together, to stand up straighter, but it was no use. The floodgates had opened, and there was no stopping it now.

He stepped closer, his expression softening as he realised what was happening. "Hey, hey, it’s okay," Oscar said gently, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Come on, let’s get you out of here."

She shook her head, embarrassed, ashamed that anyone had to see her like this. "I’m fine, I just—"

"You’re not fine," Oscar cut her off, his voice kind but firm. "Let’s get you somewhere quiet, okay? You don’t have to pretend with me."

She nodded, her vision still blurred with tears as Oscar guided her away from the chaos of the paddock, his arm around her shoulders, his presence steady and warm. She didn’t have the strength to protest, not now.

For once, she didn’t have to hold it all together. And maybe, just for a moment, that was enough.

Oscar’s arm was strong around her shoulders, a steadying force as he led her away from the paddock, away from the media pen, and away from the chaos of her unravelling thoughts. She didn’t resist, couldn’t find the energy to argue, not with the weight of everything crashing down around her. She was barely holding herself together, her body trembling, her breath hitching with every step.

They walked in silence through the back corridors of the paddock, Oscar casting glances at her every few moments, his brow furrowed with concern but not pushing her to speak. When they reached the quiet of his driver’s room, he opened the door without a word, guiding her inside gently.

She wiped at her face again, trying to compose herself, but the tears wouldn’t stop. She felt exposed, like her heart was laid bare for anyone to see, and the shame of it was almost as painful as the heartbreak itself.

“Sit down,” Oscar said softly, leading her to the small couch in the corner of the room. “You don’t have to talk. Just breathe, okay?”

She nodded, sinking into the couch, her hands still trembling in her lap. Oscar crouched down in front of her, his gaze soft and full of something like understanding.

Before either of them could speak, the door to the room opened again, and she looked up to see Oscar’s girlfriend, Lily, stepping inside. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene—her tear-streaked face, Oscar’s protective stance—and immediately crossed the room to join them.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Lily’s voice was full of sympathy as she sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "What happened?"

She shook her head, her throat tightening, unable to form the words. She didn’t want to say it out loud. Didn’t want to admit that Lando still had this kind of power over her.

Lily didn’t press her, just held her closer, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”

Oscar sat beside them now, his gaze serious as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Lando?” he asked quietly, and her silence was enough of an answer.

She sniffed, trying to hold back another sob, but the pain was too sharp, too fresh. She’d overheard Lando brush her off like she was nothing. And then he had the audacity to act like everything was fine, like they could just pick up where they left off—like it didn’t matter that she was breaking.

Lily exchanged a look with Oscar, her eyes narrowing in frustration. “Darling,” she said gently, turning toward her, “you can’t keep doing this to yourself. He’s… he’s not good for you.”

She swallowed hard, blinking back fresh tears. “I know,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

But knowing didn’t make it any easier. Knowing didn’t stop her heart from racing every time she saw him, didn’t stop the ache she felt when he touched her, when he looked at her with that smug confidence that twisted her insides. She had told herself so many times that she needed to stop. But every time she tried to pull away, she got sucked back in—into the whirlwind that was Lando Norris.

Oscar sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s using you, mate. You deserve better than this. Better than him.”

She flinched at the words. She had thought, once, that Lando could be more than what everyone said he was. She had thought, in those stolen moments between races, when it was just the two of them, that he felt something for her, too. But she couldn’t ignore it any longer. He didn’t. Not the way she wanted him to.

Lily squeezed her hand gently. “You need to end it,” she said softly but firmly. “For good. Before he hurts you any more than he already has.”

She knew they were right. Oscar and Lily had always been kind to her, more like family than colleagues. They had seen it from the outside—the way Lando toyed with her emotions, the way he pulled her close only to push her away when it suited him.

She inhaled shakily, her heart still aching, but there was a flicker of something else now. A quiet, growing resolve. She couldn’t keep letting Lando tear her apart, not like this. She couldn’t keep waiting for him to change, for him to see her the way she wanted to be seen.

“He’s not worth this,” Oscar added, his voice gentle but firm. “I know he’s my teammate but you deserve someone who’s actually going to be there for you. Not someone who makes you feel like you have to hide how much you care.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting their words sink in. She knew they were right. She had known for a long time, but it was easier to lie to herself, to believe that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. That Lando would show up for her, the way she had always shown up for him.

Lily’s arm tightened around her shoulders, her voice soft but steady. “Darling, you don’t have to do this alone. We’ve got you.”

She nodded, her throat tightening again, but this time it wasn’t from the heartbreak. It was from the quiet understanding, the sense that maybe, for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t as alone as she had felt.

She sat there for a while, letting Lily and Oscar’s presence anchor her. They didn’t push her to talk more, didn’t force her to explain everything. They just let her breathe, let her fall apart without judgement.

And for a moment, she felt the weight on her chest lift just enough to see things clearly.

She knew she shouldn’t go meet him in that hotel room. She knew it had to end. For good.

But she went back.

She went back to the hotel room, even though every part of her knew she shouldn’t. She told herself she was just going to tell him it was over, that she couldn’t do this anymore. She told herself that she wasn’t going to let him pull her back in.

But the second she walked through the door and saw Lando standing there, leaning casually against the desk with that damn smile—like he’d been waiting for her, like she was exactly what he wanted—her resolve crumbled.

“Hey, you,” he said softly, his voice warm in that way it always was when they were alone. He pushed off the desk and crossed the room in a few easy strides, pulling her into his arms before she could even think about saying no. “Missed you.”

She froze for a moment, her body tense in his arms. She wanted to believe him, wanted to sink into the comfort of his touch. But her mind was screaming at her to remember, to think of what she had overheard in the paddock. She’s just another girl. His voice echoed in her head, sharp and cruel, even as he held her close now, as if she was anything but.

“I thought about you all day,” Lando murmured against her hair, his lips brushing her forehead. His hands slid down her back, pulling her closer, and she couldn’t help but shiver under his touch. He had always known how to touch her, how to make her forget everything else.

She wished it was enough.

He tilted her chin up, his green eyes searching hers, and for a second, she saw something there—something real, something that made her heart ache with the hope that maybe, just maybe, he meant it this time.

But then the words he’d said to his mates resurfaced, slicing through her like a knife. It’s casual. She’s just another girl.

Her throat tightened, but she forced a small smile. She had come this far, hadn’t she? Why couldn’t she just leave now?

Because you want him to care, a voice in her head whispered. You want to believe he’s different when it’s just the two of you.

Lando pressed his lips to hers, slow and sweet, like he wasn’t in a hurry, like he could take all the time in the world with her. And for a moment, she kissed him back, letting herself get lost in it, letting herself pretend that maybe the things he said didn’t matter. That maybe this was the real Lando—the one who held her close, the one who kissed her like she was the only thing that mattered.

But the more he kissed her, the harder it was to silence the voice in her head. The harder it was to ignore the truth that was gnawing at her.

You’re just another girl. It’s casual.

His hands slid under her shirt, fingers tracing soft patterns on her skin, and she shivered again, but this time it wasn’t just from his touch. She couldn’t stop thinking about how he had reduced her to nothing more than a fleeting moment in his life, something disposable. It didn’t matter how tender he was being now. It didn’t matter how much she wanted to believe that this was something real.

“Lando,” she whispered, pulling back slightly, her chest tightening. She didn’t know what she was going to say, but she knew she needed to say something—anything—to stop herself from falling deeper.

He smiled at her, that lazy, cocky grin that always made her knees weak. “What is it, baby?” he asked, his hands never leaving her, like he couldn’t bear the distance between them for even a second.

She wanted to ask him. She wanted to confront him, to make him explain why he could hold her like this but talk about her like she was nothing when she wasn’t around. But the words stuck in her throat, too heavy, too painful.

Instead, she let out a shaky breath and shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Lando’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, like he was trying to read her, but then he kissed her again, deeper this time, and any chance she had of stopping this slipped away. His hands slid down to her hips, pulling her flush against him, his breath hot against her neck as his lips moved lower, kissing along her jaw, her collarbone.

And for a second, she let herself get lost in it, let herself drown in the sensation of his touch, the way his hands felt on her skin, the way he knew exactly where to kiss her to make her forget everything else.

But the words kept creeping back in, no matter how hard she tried to push them away.

Just another girl.

Lando’s hands were working their way under her shirt, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her waist, and her heart pounded in her chest, but not in the way it used to. Now, it was pounding with fear, with the knowledge that this would never be enough.

He was whispering something against her skin, something low and sweet, but she couldn’t hear it over the roar of her own thoughts. She felt his hands tugging at the hem of her shirt, and she let him pull it over her head, let him kiss her again, harder this time, like he couldn’t get enough of her.

But she wasn’t really there. Not fully.

In her mind, she was back in the paddock, hearing his laugh, hearing him reduce her to nothing. The way he talked to his friends—so casual, so careless.

Her body responded to him, the way it always did, but her mind was miles away. She was too distracted, too hurt to fully give herself to him the way she always had before. She wanted to be here, wanted to feel that connection again, but it wasn’t working. Not this time.

Lando didn’t notice. He never noticed when she was pulling away, not really. He was too focused on what he wanted, too caught up in the moment to see the cracks forming in her resolve.

As he pushed her back onto the bed, his lips trailing down her stomach, her heart twisted painfully. She should stop this. She should say something. But she didn’t.

Because as much as she hated it, as much as it hurt, part of her still wanted to believe in the version of Lando that was in front of her right now. The version that kissed her like she was the only girl in the world.

Even if she knew it was a lie.

The hours passed in a blur, a mixture of whispered words, shared breaths, and touches that felt both familiar and distant at the same time. She lay beside Lando afterward, her body nestled against his, her head resting on his chest as his arm wrapped lazily around her. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, like this was where she belonged. Like nothing outside this room mattered.

But it did.

The silence between them felt heavier now, thick with unspoken truths and the weight of everything she wasn’t letting herself say. She listened to the steady rhythm of Lando’s heartbeat under her ear, trying to ground herself in the moment, trying to make it feel real. But her mind kept drifting back to his words—just another girl—and no matter how close he held her, it felt like he was slipping further and further away.

For a moment, it almost felt peaceful, lying there in the quiet of the hotel room, their legs tangled together under the sheets. Lando’s fingers traced absent-minded patterns on her arm, like it was second nature to him now. She wanted to hold onto that feeling, wanted to believe that this, at least, was real.

But then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, cutting through the stillness.

Lando sighed softly, shifting beside her as he reached for it. She felt the absence of his warmth immediately, and the hollow ache in her chest returned.

He glanced at the screen, his thumb swiping across it before he answered. "Hey, mate," he said, his voice low, casual. Like the moment they’d just shared didn’t change anything, like nothing had shifted.

She stared up at the ceiling, her breath catching in her throat as she listened to the one-sided conversation.

“Yeah, I’m at the hotel,” Lando continued, his tone easy, unconcerned. “What’s up?”

There was a pause, and she felt Lando shift again, his hand brushing absently against her bare skin of her hip as if he wasn’t even fully aware of her presence anymore.

"Alright, yeah," he said after a moment. "I’ll come down in a bit. Dinner sounds good." He laughed softly, the sound sending another pang through her chest. "Tell Max not to leave without me."

When he hung up, Lando turned his head to look at her, flashing her that easy, crooked smile. "That was the guys," he said, already starting to untangle himself from the sheets. "We’re heading out for dinner."

She forced a small smile, trying to keep her voice steady. "Right. Yeah. Sounds fun."

Lando leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before climbing out of bed. He moved with the same casual confidence he always did, completely unaware of the storm raging inside her.

"I won’t be long," he said as he pulled on his shirt. "Maybe I’ll bring you something back."

She just nodded, unable to find the words. She watched him button his jeans, the same knot of confusion and hurt tightening in her chest. How could he act like everything was so simple? Like she was just… there, waiting for him whenever he decided to come back.

Lando tossed a quick grin her way as he grabbed his jacket from the chair. "I’ll see you later, yeah?"

"Yeah," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "See you later."

And just like that, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. The room felt so much bigger without him in it, the space beside her cold and empty. She stayed there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, her thoughts spinning, trying to make sense of everything. But the more she tried to piece it together, the more it felt like everything was unravelling.

The sound of her phone vibrating on the nightstand snapped her out of her thoughts. She glanced over, her heart skipping a beat when she saw the name flash on the screen: Cisca Norris.

She hesitated for a moment before swiping open the message.

Hey, darling! We’re heading out for a little shopping trip tomorrow. Just me and Flo. Thought it might be fun to have some girl time—want to join us? xx

Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes stinging as she read the message. Cisca had always been so warm, so welcoming, treating her like she was part of the family. She had this way of making her feel like she belonged, like there was a place for her in Lando’s world.

But it only made everything harder now.

She could still hear Lando’s voice in her head, so clear, so dismissive. It’s casual. She’s just another girl.

Her hands trembled as she typed out a response, her fingers shaky on the keys.

Thanks, but I don’t think I can tomorrow. Hope you all have fun though xx

She hit send before she could change her mind, before she could give in to the crushing weight of guilt pressing down on her chest. She knew Cisca didn’t mean to make it harder, didn’t know what was really going on, but it felt like a cruel reminder of everything she wasn’t—a real part of his life. She was just someone he kept in the shadows, someone he could pretend to care about when it was convenient.

The tears came before she could stop them, hot and relentless, blurring her vision as she lay there, staring up at the ceiling. She’d tried so hard to hold it together, to convince herself that maybe, just maybe, things would be different this time. But it wasn’t different. It was the same as it always was.

Lando would leave, and she would be left behind.

She lay there, her body still against the cool sheets, the emptiness of the room pressing in on her. The tears wouldn’t stop. They spilled down her cheeks in silent waves, and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t even try to hold them back. The room felt too quiet without Lando’s presence, without the pretence of connection he so easily crafted when it suited him.

Her phone buzzed again, a small ping echoing in the quiet. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to face any more reminders of what she couldn’t have. But her gaze drifted toward it, her blurry vision focusing on the screen as a new message from Cisca popped up.

That’s a shame, sweetheart. Maybe next time? You’re always welcome with us. Big hugs xx

The kindness in the message felt like a punch to her gut. You’re always welcome. But how could she ever feel welcome in a world where Lando could say one thing to her face and another behind her back? How could she fit into the life of someone who treated her like she was disposable—like she was nothing special?

She clutched her phone in her hands, her knuckles white, as her tears continued to fall. Her mind replayed the moment in the paddock, hearing Lando laugh, hearing him reduce her to just another girl, nothing more than a casual fling. And yet, here she was—back in his hotel room, back in his bed—still hoping that maybe he would see her, really see her, the way she saw him.

Her chest tightened painfully as she stared up at the ceiling, the dull ache spreading through her like poison. She had tried so hard to be strong, to keep her distance, to protect herself from this exact feeling. But it was like Lando had a hold on her, one she couldn’t break no matter how much she knew she should.

She wiped at her face, trying to steady her breathing, but the sobs kept coming. She couldn’t stop thinking about the way Cisca treated her like family, like someone who belonged in their tight-knit circle. It was so different from how Lando treated her—warm and genuine. It made it worse, somehow, knowing that his family liked her, that they welcomed her, while he just kept her at arm’s length. It hurt in ways she hadn’t expected.

She curled up on her side, pulling the sheets tighter around her, as if they could shield her from the truth. She had been waiting for a moment like this, where Lando would be kind, where he would hold her, and she would feel safe. But no matter how close they were, she always felt that distance. He’d given her his body, sure, but nothing else. And she’d given him everything, every piece of herself, only to be left empty.

She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, trying to muffle the sobs that were choking her. Her body shook with the force of it all, the heartbreak, the shame, the overwhelming feeling of being used and discarded. She had always been so careful in her life, always kept her guard up, but Lando had slipped past her defences with such ease.

The minutes ticked by, the silence of the hotel room swallowing her whole. She stared at the ceiling, the tears finally slowing but leaving a hollow ache in their wake. Lando would be downstairs by now, laughing with his mates, carefree, as if none of this mattered. As if she didn’t matter.

Her phone buzzed again, and she flinched, afraid it might be him—afraid that any text from him would pull her deeper into this pit she was already drowning in. But when she looked, it wasn’t him. It was Lily.

Hey, just checking in. Everything okay? Xx

She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat making it impossible to answer right away. Lily had been so kind to her earlier, so gentle, and part of her wanted to reach out, to tell her the truth, to admit that she had come here even after she knew she shouldn’t.

But how could she explain this? How could she tell Lily that, even after everything, even after Lando had made it clear she didn’t mean anything to him, she had still come back? She had still fallen for his charm, for his soft touches, for his empty words.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, uncertain of what to say. The shame felt too heavy, too consuming. She didn’t want anyone to know how weak she felt, how much she had let Lando hurt her.

Instead, she typed a short reply.

I’m okay. Thanks for checking in xx

She hit send before she could second-guess herself, the lie sitting heavy in her chest. She wasn’t okay. She hadn’t been okay for a long time.

Another tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away quickly, frustrated with herself for still crying over someone like Lando. He wasn’t worth it. He never had been.

But knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

The bed felt cold without him, even though she knew his warmth was only temporary. That was the thing with Lando—it was always temporary, always fleeting. And she was tired of pretending it wasn’t.

She pulled her phone closer, her thumb hovering over Lando’s contact. She thought about sending him a message, thought about telling him that this was the last time, that she couldn’t do it anymore. But she knew that he wouldn’t care. He’d smile, maybe say something sweet, and she’d fall right back into his orbit, trapped by the promise of something that would never come.

With a shaky breath, she dropped the phone onto the nightstand, rolling onto her back once again. The tears had stopped, but the ache remained. She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, to forget, just for a few hours. But she knew that when morning came, the reality would still be there—Lando would still be Lando.

And she couldn’t keep doing this to herself.

She got out of bed and she tried.

She had tried to pack. She really had.

She had grabbed her suitcase, tossed in a few clothes, and told herself that it was over—that this would be the last time she’d let him do this to her.

But then she’d stopped, staring at the half-packed bag, her hands frozen mid-motion. She couldn’t bring herself to finish. The idea of leaving felt like admitting defeat, like walking away from the small, fragile hope she’d been clinging to. The hope that maybe, just maybe, Lando would change.

And so, she had left the suitcase open on the floor, unfinished, just like everything else between them.

The hours dragged by in painful silence. She sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes unfocused as she stared at the door. She should go. She should pick up her things and leave before Lando came back, before he could draw her in again with his soft smiles and casual charm.

But she stayed.

She stayed because part of her wanted him to come back. Wanted him to kiss her, hold her, make her feel like she wasn’t just another girl, like she actually meant something. Even though she knew it was a lie.

Her phone buzzed a few times on the nightstand, but she ignored it. She didn’t want to deal with anyone else right now—didn’t want to answer Lily’s worried texts or face the concern in her friends’ voices. They didn’t understand. They didn’t know what it felt like to be caught between wanting someone and knowing that they would never give you what you needed.

The sound of the door clicking open snapped her out of her thoughts, her heart jumping into her throat. Lando stepped into the room, the faint scent of alcohol and laughter clinging to him as he kicked off his shoes. He looked relaxed, like he’d had a good time, like the night out had done exactly what it was supposed to—take his mind off things.

“Hey, you,” he said with a smile as he spotted her still sitting on the bed. He held up a brown paper bag, a familiar logo stamped on the side. “Brought you something to eat. Thought you might be hungry.”

She stared at him, her stomach twisting at how easy it was for him. A quick thought passed her mind, wondering what he had said to his mates when he brought home some takeaway. He acted like nothing had happened, like everything was fine. She wanted to be angry, wanted to ask him how he could do this—how he could come back here, act so normal, after everything he’d said about her.

But she couldn’t. The anger was there, buried deep inside her, but it was swallowed by the familiar pull of Lando’s presence. She hated how he could disarm her with something as simple as a smile, hated how even now, after everything, part of her wanted to reach out and take the food he’d brought, to thank him, to let herself believe that maybe this was him showing that he cared, in his own way.

“Thanks,” she murmured, her voice hollow.

Lando crossed the room and set the bag on the nightstand before sitting down beside her on the bed. He leaned in, brushing a kiss against her temple, his hand resting on her knee as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her breath hitched at the contact, her heart betraying her as it fluttered in her chest. She thought of the highs, the way Lando could make her feel so alive, so wanted. She thought of the times when it was just the two of them, when he would hold her and everything else would disappear. Those were the moments that kept her here, that made her stay, even when she knew she shouldn’t.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice tinged with just enough concern to make her believe, for a second, that he might actually care.

She forced a smile, nodding even though she felt anything but okay. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m fine.”

Lando’s hand slid up her arm, his fingers gentle as they traced her skin. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her lips, slow and deliberate, as if he was trying to remind her of the connection they shared. And for a moment, she let herself get lost in it. She let herself believe that this was real, that Lando’s touch meant something more than just the physical.

“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” Lando said after a few seconds, pulling away with a lazy grin. “I won’t be long.”

She nodded, watching as he disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of the water starting up a moment later. She stayed where she was, her mind racing. The kiss had been warm, familiar, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the doubts, the pain that had been building inside her all night.

With a sigh, she glanced toward Lando’s phone, which he had tossed carelessly onto the bed before heading into the shower. The screen lit up with a notification, and despite herself, her eyes flicked over to it.

It was a text. From one of Lando’s friends.

You’re staying with her? Has she not got the hint yet?

Her blood turned to ice.

The air seemed to leave the room all at once, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe. The message stared back at her, mocking her, confirming everything she had been trying so desperately to ignore.

Has she not got the hint yet?

Her throat tightened, tears welling in her eyes again as the words sank in. Lando’s friend was in on it—on this twisted game Lando was playing. He knew. They all knew. And still, Lando had brought her back here, kissed her like she meant something, only to laugh about it with his mates behind her back.

Her hands trembled as she set Lando’s phone back down, her vision blurring with fresh tears. She couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t keep pretending that this was okay, that she was okay. Lando didn’t care about her. He never had.

The sound of the water running in the bathroom felt distant, like it was coming from another world, another life. She sat there, her mind numb, her heart breaking all over again. She should’ve left. She should’ve finished packing her bag and walked out of that door the moment Lando left for dinner. But she hadn’t.

And now she was paying the price.

Lando emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, his hair damp and tousled from the shower. Water still clung to his skin, the dim hotel light casting a glow across the muscles of his chest and arms. He looked every bit like the Lando that had drawn her in from the start—effortlessly attractive, with that air of confidence that always seemed to follow him.

She couldn’t deny it. He was beautiful. Anyone would fall for him at first glance, and she had. But now, as he stood there, looking every bit the part of the man she had once thought she could love, the attraction didn’t hold the same weight it used to.

Sure, he was magnetic, the kind of person who could pull you into his orbit with just a smile. But what had that really gotten her? A heart that was constantly breaking, and a life lived on the sidelines, waiting for scraps of affection. The price she paid for being with Lando wasn’t worth it anymore—not when every touch, every kiss, every whispered promise felt like it was laced with lies.

Her chest tightened as she picked up her phone from the nightstand, her fingers curling around it like it was her lifeline. She had to get out of here. She couldn’t sit here, pretending everything was okay, pretending that she didn’t see that message, didn’t know exactly what Lando’s friends thought of her. What he thought of her.

“I’m just going to get some cutlery from downstairs,” she said, her voice shaking slightly as she tried to move toward the door, away from him.

But Lando’s hand shot out, gently pulling her back before she could make her escape. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, and she could feel the warmth of his skin, the way his touch still made her heart stutter despite everything. His brows furrowed slightly, his eyes searching hers.

“You’ve been off lately,” he said, his tone soft but probing. “Is it work?”

Her heart raced, panic flooding her veins. He was looking at her like he was genuinely concerned, like he cared. But she knew better now. This was part of the game, part of the act he played so well. And she had to lie—because the truth would only expose just how far she’d fallen for him, how deep this had gone for her, and how little it had meant to him.

“Yeah,” she replied, forcing a weak smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Work’s just been a lot lately.”

Lando’s grip on her wrist loosened, but his eyes didn’t leave hers. He leaned in slightly, his voice soft, almost affectionate. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

She swallowed hard, her throat tight as she fought back the storm of emotions threatening to spill over. She wanted to scream at him, to ask him how he could ask her that after everything—after the lies, after the way he’d treated her like she was nothing more than a fleeting distraction.

But instead, she did what she always did. She lied.

“Of course I would,” she said, the words tasting bitter as they left her lips.

Lando’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he let go of her wrist, his hand dropping back to his side. He smiled, that same easy, careless smile he always wore, and for a second, it almost felt like he believed her.

“Good,” he murmured, brushing a quick kiss against her temple before stepping back. “I’m glad.”

She nodded, her heart heavy in her chest as she forced herself to stay calm, to not let the cracks show. “I’ll just be a minute,” she mumbled, slipping away from him and heading for the door before he could stop her again.

As she stepped into the hallway, the air felt cooler, sharper, like a small relief from the suffocating warmth of Lando’s presence. She leaned against the wall for a moment, her phone still clenched tightly in her hand, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her mind was spinning, her heart aching with the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

She had lied to him. Lied to protect herself, to protect whatever was left of her dignity. But deep down, she knew the truth. She couldn’t keep doing this.

Not anymore.

She didn’t make it far before the tears started. Her steps slowed as the pressure in her chest became too much, the weight of everything crashing down on her all at once. She turned a corner in the hallway, eyes blurry and throat tight, searching for somewhere—anywhere—she could hide.

She spotted a door slightly ajar, marked with a plain “Staff Only” sign. Without thinking, she slipped inside, closing it behind her. It was a cramped janitor’s cupboard, the air thick with the smell of cleaning supplies and stale mop water. But it was quiet, dark, and, most importantly, away from Lando.

Her back hit the wall, and she slid down to the floor, curling in on herself as the sobs broke free. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to muffle the sounds, but it was no use. The tears came in waves, the pain too raw, too overwhelming to control.

She hated herself for coming back, for believing, even for a moment, that things would be different. For letting him touch her, kiss her, knowing deep down that none of it meant what she wanted it to. And now, sitting alone in a janitor’s cupboard, hiding like a child, all she could think about was how foolish she’d been.

With shaking hands, she grabbed her phone, barely able to see the screen through the tears. She scrolled to Lily’s contact, hesitating for only a second before pressing the call button. It rang twice before Lily answered.

“Sweetheart?” Lily’s voice was soft but immediately laced with concern. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

The floodgates broke, and she couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out, her voice a broken, shaky whisper. “I hate myself,” she sobbed, choking on the words. “I hate that I let him do this to me. I keep going back, Lily. I hate it. I hate me.”

“Where are you?” Lily’s tone shifted, calm but urgent. “Tell me where you are. I’m coming to you right now.”

She swallowed hard, trying to catch her breath enough to speak. “I... I’m in some janitor’s cupboard. Down the hall from Lando’s room. I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

“I’m coming, okay? Just stay there. I’ll be right there.”

She nodded even though Lily couldn’t see her, clutching the phone to her chest as she waited, her sobs quieting but still leaving her body shaking. She felt so small, so utterly broken. The seconds felt like hours, each one dragging by in painful silence.

It wasn’t long before there was a soft knock on the door, and she heard Lily’s voice. “Darling? It’s me. Can I come in?”

She reached up, her hand trembling as she unlocked the door. Lily slipped inside, her face full of concern as she quickly closed the door behind her, blocking out the world. Without saying a word, she knelt down beside her, wrapping her arms around her tightly.

She broke all over again the moment Lily held her. She clung to her friend, burying her face in her shoulder as the sobs wracked her body. Lily didn’t say anything at first. She just held her, her hand gently stroking her hair, her presence a quiet reassurance in the small, dark space.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered through her tears. “I keep... I keep letting him hurt me, and I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t stop. I hate myself for it.”

“Hey, no,” Lily said softly, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes. “Don’t say that. You’re not the one who’s wrong here. He’s the one messing with your head, making you think this is normal. But it’s not your fault, okay? It’s not.”

She shook her head, the tears still falling. “I just feel so stupid. I saw a text from his friend... asking if I hadn’t gotten the hint yet. They know. They all know, and I’m still here, like some pathetic—”

“You’re not pathetic,” Lily interrupted, her voice firm but gentle. “You’re strong, darling. Stronger than you think. And I know it hurts right now, but you don’t deserve this. You deserve so much more than what Lando’s giving you.”

She tried to breathe, but her chest still felt tight, her mind spinning with shame and self-doubt. “I don’t know why I can’t just leave.”

Lily squeezed her hand, her eyes softening with understanding. “Because when someone gets into your head like that, it’s not easy to just walk away. He made you feel special, even if it was for the wrong reasons. But you’re not alone, darling. You’ve got me, you’ve got Oscar, and we’re not going anywhere. I’ll be here with you until you’re ready to leave, whenever that is.”

Her lip quivered, fresh tears welling in her eyes. She nodded, grateful but still lost in the ache that Lando had left behind. Lily’s words were like a balm, but the pain still sat heavy in her chest, raw and unresolved.

Lily leaned back, adjusting so that they were sitting side by side, their backs against the wall. She kept holding her hand, her thumb tracing soothing circles over her knuckles. “We can stay here as long as you need. You don’t have to face him right now. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

She let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes as she leaned against Lily, her body still trembling from the tears. “But he hasn’t done anything wrong,” she murmured, trying to convince herself, even as the words tasted bitter. “He just... he just doesn’t know how I feel.”

Lily pulled back slightly, her gaze intense as she looked into her eyes. “Yes, he has. Don’t lie to yourself, sweetheart. It’s not just about what he’s done; it’s about how he makes you feel. And right now, you’re hurting, and that’s not okay. You deserve someone who cares about you, not someone who’s playing games.”

She bit her lip, frustration mixing with sadness. “I know, but...”

“No buts.” Lily interrupted, her voice steady. “You’re worth more than this. You don’t have to keep accepting less than you deserve. You know that, right?”

She nodded, but the ache in her chest remained, a stubborn reminder of the tangled mess of emotions that Lando had stirred inside her. She felt like she was being pulled in two different directions: her heart yearned for the connection she had with Lando, while her mind screamed for her to walk away, to protect herself from more pain.

“What if I just... went and got my things?” she whispered, almost to herself. “I could just—”

Lily shook her head firmly. “You shouldn’t have to do that alone. I can call Oscar and ask him to pick up your stuff from Lando’s. He’s supportive, and I’m sure he’d be more than happy to help.”

“Are you sure?” she asked hesitantly, the thought of involving Oscar making her heart race. “I don’t want to make things weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Lily said, her voice soothing. “It’s what friends do. You need to take the first step in reclaiming your space. Let’s get your things, and then we can figure out the next steps together. You don’t have to face this alone, and you don’t have to keep putting yourself through this.”

She nodded again, feeling a flicker of gratitude for Lily’s unwavering support. It felt good to have someone in her corner, someone who believed she could do better, even when she struggled to believe it herself.

“Okay,” she finally said, her voice steadier now. “Let’s do that.”

“Good,” Lily replied, squeezing her hand tightly. “I’ll get Oscar to come over. And remember, you’re stronger than you think.”

Present Time

Now, standing in front of him in the rain-soaked street, she wondered if he even remembered that day. If he had any idea how much it had gutted her. The memory felt like a ghost, haunting her thoughts, each painful recollection mingling with the cold raindrops cascading down her cheeks.

“Should we get started?” she said, her voice a little too sharp. The rain was mixing with the ache in her chest, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand there, looking into those eyes that had once made her feel seen. Once. She hated that feeling of vulnerability he inspired, but even more, she hated the way it was fading.

Lando tilted his head, studying her with that signature smirk tugging at his lips. It was the same smirk that had once made her heart race, ignited her passion, and made her forget her own worth. But now, it only deepened the resolve she had built since their last encounter. There was a flint in his eyes, a spark that had once drawn her in, but she refused to let it affect her anymore. Those flames of desire he ignited had left her burnt before, and she wasn’t going to let it happen again.

“Yeah. Let’s get started,” he echoed, his voice smooth but tinged with a hint of something darker lurking beneath. She could sense it—an undercurrent of his charm that was both magnetic and dangerous.

They both knew this wasn’t just another interview. Not for him. Not for her.

But she wasn’t that girl anymore. She wouldn’t let him see her fall apart again. Not this time. Each raindrop felt like a reminder of her strength, a symbol of her resolve to stand firm against the tides of emotion that threatened to wash her away. She took a deep breath, grounding herself in the moment, and steeled her gaze against the storm brewing in her heart.

“Let’s talk about the last race,” she said, forcing her voice to steady. “You seemed to be struggling with the new tires. What do you think the team could do differently moving forward?”

Lando's brow furrowed, momentarily surprised by the shift in her tone. It was almost like he was used to her fawning over him, allowing his charisma to overshadow her professionalism. But not today. Not anymore.

He responded, launching into technical details, but she could see his focus drifting, his smirk slipping just a little as he searched her expression for any trace of the girl he had once known—the one who had been captivated by his every word. But he wouldn’t find her here, not today.

As he spoke, she fought to keep her expression neutral, not letting the echoes of their past seep into her demeanour. The way he moved, the way he gestured—there was still an effortless charm to him, but it was fading, like a sunset after a long day. She wasn’t here to be dazzled; she was here to reclaim her narrative, to make sure he understood that she had grown.

“Uh, sweeth-” he said suddenly, cutting himself off from finishing the per name she used to love, his tone shifting as he leaned closer, invading her personal space. “You seem… different. What’s going on?”

The intensity of his gaze was like a spotlight, and for a moment, she felt the familiar stir of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. But she clung to the memory of that cramped janitor’s cupboard, to the warmth of Lily’s embrace, and the strength it had given her. She wouldn’t let him in, wouldn’t let him see her falter.

“Just focusing on the questions, Lando,” she replied, her voice crisp and steady, eyes locked on his. “I’m here to do a job.”

He narrowed his eyes, clearly thrown by her tone. The playfulness he often relied on was nowhere to be found, and for the first time, she saw uncertainty flash across his face. It was intoxicating, seeing him taken aback. It reminded her that he wasn’t invincible.

“Fine,” he said, his tone shifting back to that of a confident driver. “I can handle a little professionalism. I admire it, actually.”

“Then let’s keep it professional,” she shot back, her heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and exhilaration. There was something liberating about standing her ground, about showing him that she wasn’t afraid to push back.

As they continued their exchange, a storm raged on outside—water pouring down in sheets, thunder rumbling in the distance. But here, away from the rain, she felt the weight of her past begin to lift. She wouldn’t allow Lando to pull her back into his world of uncertainty and heartache. She was building her own life now, with friendships that mattered, goals that fueled her, and a vision that didn’t include him.

With each word, she drew a line in the sand, reminding herself that this was her moment, not his. She had reclaimed her voice, and she was ready to use it.

the end.

434 notes · View notes

sun-kissy · 6 months ago

Text

okay | r.l.

a/n: for my academically burnt out girlies (can you tell i’m one of them😭)

tw: fluff

remus lupin x reader

Remus quietly padded down into the common room, unsurprised to find you seated at the table with parchments and books scattered around you.

There was a puddle of drool spreading from where your face rested against a book, fast asleep. Remus internally winced; there was no way that was a comfortable position for your neck.

He gently brushes the tips of his fingers against your hairline and you immediately jolt awake, almost knocking his arm in the process.

You raise your hands to rub your eyes with slowed movements, the exhaustion lining your features painfully obvious. You turn to him, befuddled, before realising who it is and softening.

You looked adorable, mussed up hair and wide-eyed. It had Remus thinking about how it would feel to wake up to the sight for the rest of his life. “How long have you been up for, dove?”

He flattens his palms onto your shoulder blades, needling pressure into the tense muscles with his thumbs. You melt under his touch, your shoulders slumping. “Not very long,” you lie.

“It’s 4am, baby. You’ve been studying all night, haven’t you?”

You draw your bottom lip between your teeth, letting out a soft sigh. “Yeah… I guess. But I have to, there’s still three more chapters I’m not done revising. I just need more coffee.”

“The last thing you need right now,” Remus mutters as he lets go of your shoulders and lowers himself into a chair beside you, “is coffee. You need to get some rest, sweetheart. You’re not gonna be able to remember anything when you’re this tired.”

He uses his foot to push your chair around till you’re facing him. You reach for him immediately, sleepy movements causing you to lay your arms, bundled up, in his lap. Bemusedly, he takes your hands and starts to rub circles into your wrists.

“But I’m not tired,” you argue, though your eyelids look like they’re physically weighing you down. You’re blinking so forcefully Remus thinks it would generate enough energy to power a light bulb. “I just took a power nap and I’m good now.”

“That’s not enough, dove. It’s late, and you’re gonna be fucked up tomorrow. You need proper rest.”

“Do I?”

“You do.”

Your face is lovably scrunched up now, and Remus can’t tell if you’re trying to challenge him or if your brain really is that fuzzy.

He moves to gather your materials and you make a small noise of protest, dazedly shaking your head. “I can’t rest now, I need to finish studying first.”

You seem hardly able to track his movements, eyelids drooping shut every few seconds. “You can study tomorrow, sweetheart. You’ve studied enough for tonight.”

You huff, stubbornly staying put in your chair. Remus rises to his feet, tucking the stack of books in one arm before firmly pulling you up with the other. You stay silent, obviously annoyed but too exhausted to fight back.

He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you into his side as he leads you up the staircase to his dorm. The anxiety in your features is palpable, and he feels bad for worsening it. But he knows you, he knows you would never feel like you’ve studied enough. You’d work yourself to the bone if you had it your way, so it was up to him to make sure you didn’t.

“You look exhausted, baby,” he murmurs as he bends down to press a kiss to your forehead. You visibly soften, your expression morphing into one less rigid. “I am exhausted.”

“I know,” he concedes, pushing you onto the bed until you’re properly laying down. “You’re gonna do better with rest, trust me. You’re gonna be okay.”

You hum weakly in response, eyes fluttering shut as soon as your head hits the pillow. Even in your dazed state, your arms extend towards him.

Remus lets out a soft chuckle and climbs into the bed next to you, pulling the covers over the both of you.

You shuffle towards him, seeking his warmth. He wraps an arm around your middle and tugs till you’re snugly pressed up against each other, pecking a kiss to the soft skin beneath your eye. “I meant what I said, alright? Don’t worry about the test. You’re gonna be okay.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and he feels that last bit of uncertainty you had melt away as you deflate. Your words come out muffled as you move impossibly closer, snuggling your face into his chest. “Okay. G’night.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

745 notes · View notes

romanteacism · 7 months ago

Text

Knight Aemond x Princess Reader Innocent Touch

Synopsis: You and Ser Aemond are starting to come into a routine and each other's good graces until it is rudely abrupted. Warnings: None (yet), Aemond growing fonder of his station, ¿infatuation?, Slight Jealousy PREVIOUS PART / NEXT PART

“Who is this from?” You asked as a squire handed you another bouquet of flowers. Aemond resisted rolling his eyes as he watched you toy with the petals. He stood behind you as you and your brother sat in the gardens. “Lord Triston, Your Highness,” The squire bowed as he left. “I did not know Lord Tristan was courting you,” Your brother frowned and reached forward to take hold of the scroll placed in the middle of the bouquet.

“This is the fifth one in three days; it’s quite excessive, is it not?” You pondered as you placed the bouquet on the side, not keen on the smell of roses. You turned to your brother, waiting for his response, but he was too busy reading the scroll— you would guess another poem that he had plagiarized from one of the great poets of the realm. “It’s quite a… bold poem he chose,” your brother frowned, and you shrugged, taking a bite of berries and cream cake. “Since when had he started courting you? I do not remember him asking for Father or I’s permission,” He stated, and you shrugged once more. “He began to send flowers, I believe, a week or so ago?” You said uncertain. “Do I recount right, Ser Aemond?” You turned to your knight for confirmation, slowly warming up to him once more as he had aided in a time of desperation.

“Yes, princess.” He nodded, and your brother turned his gaze upon your sworn protector, seeing his stoic expression severe into a scowl. “I think it best you keep your distance from Lord Tristan,” Your brother said, glancing over the flowers he sent as well as the rather forward poem he had given. “Very well then,” You agreed, not at all attracted to the young lord who was known for his reputation as a rake.

“See to it that the lord does not bother my sister, Ser Aemond,” Your brother commanded as he stood. “Of course, my prince,” Ser Aemond bowed, agreeing without question as he, too, was unsettled by the lord’s quite fervent attention towards you. He had been noticing lord Tristan trailing you for the past few days, even going as far as walking down the halls of your wing at night. Of course, Aemond always stood guard, ready to challenge the lord.

“I’ll see you at supper, sister,” your brother said, placing a chaste kiss on the top of your head before leaving. As he left, you placed a lemon tart onto a plate and raised it to offer to your knight. “No, thank you, princess. I had just eaten,” He said, and you nodded.

“Was lady Davenport present during the last tea party I held?” You questioned Ser Aemond as your memory seemed to fail you, but you had learned your knight had a rather sharp one. “I do not believe so, princess,” He replied, trailing his eye around the gardens as he noticed the distant figure of lord Tristan staring at you from above. “Hm, this is the second session she has missed… I noticed that she has been absent in court as of late,” You mussed, not expecting a reply from your knight as you thought out loud.

“I hear whispers that the lady Davenport is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress,” Your knight then said, making your eyes widen, and you turned your body to look at him from where he stood behind you. Aemond bit his tongue as he saw the expression on your face. He does not care for gossip, but he did find your reactions to it quite amusing. “But she is not set to marry until a fortnight.” Ser Aemond shrugged as he imparted the talk he heard from the maids. You let out a breath of a laugh. “I always thought her intended was quite the traditionalist,” you muttered, and Aemond smirked, pondering if he should share the next piece of information he had overheard. “He is… but his brother is proven not.” He quietly added and bit his lip. “No!” You gasped in disbelief, turning to Ser Aemond once more, only for him to shrug again. “Again, these are only whispers I hear, princess,” He said, and you narrowed your eyes as an amused smirk rose to his lips that he could not control as he spoke.

When Aemond removed his gaze from you, he noticed lord Tristan making his way towards your direction. “Princess, you are late for your meeting with your seamstress,” You turned towards the sun and saw that it was past its peak, “Oh, yes, of course,” You said and stood, going in the direction of your chambers and Aemond content as lord Tristan missed your presence.

Ser Aemond stood guard outside your chambers as you were fitted for your gowns, passing his gaze through the hall and watching intently all the passersby. He clenched his jaw as he saw lord Tristan standing at the end of the hall, observing the commissioned portraits of you that were made each year for your name day. Aemond resisted the urge to roll his eye as lord Tristan inched his way towards your chambers. Aemond wore his most formidable expression as he was met with the lord. “I wish to seek an audience with the princess,” He said, voice dismissive. “The princess does not wish to be disturbed.” Ser Aemond replied curtly.

He watched as the lord raised a pompous brow. “I do not believe you understood what I said— I seek an audience with the princess.” He gritted, and Aemond’s hold at the hilt of his sword tigtened. “I understand perfectly. It is you who does not comprehend that the princess does not wish to be disturbed.” Aemond resisted succumbing to his urges and showed great animosity towards the young lord.

The door to your chambers opened, hindering either man from speaking. Your seamstress exited, and Aemond was quick to hinder the lord, who seemed to forget any sense of manners as he tried to force himself into the sanctity of your chambers. “My lord?” You questioned and turned to Ser Aemond, who had a deep scowl on his face. “Princess— I wish to speak with you,” lord Tristan bowed and threw a glare at your knight. “Oh, I am not receiving company at the moment, my lord. I—I wish to be alone.” You say quietly. “Have you received the flowers I sent?” The lord ignored your words, and Aemond’s jaw ticked as you two locked eyes, seeing apprehension in your gaze. “I have, thank you, lord Tristan… but if you would excuse me,” You curtsied and moved to close your door. Leaving your knight and the rather audacious lord.

Aemond felt a pompous smirk rise to his lips as you shut and barred your door, the hopefulness in the lord’s eyes disappearing quickly. Aemond bit his lip as lord Tristan walked off in a huff. When you hear his departing footsteps, you unbarred your door and peeked your head out. “Is he gone?” You quietly asked your knight, staring up at him, “Yes, princess,” Aemond nodded, and you fully opened your chamber door. “He’s quite… boorish,” You muttered and took your kitten into your arms, cradling it as if it were a babe as you walked through the halls with your knight. “He certainly is, princess,” he agreed, looking towards the kitten who he had hidden days before. There was a glare in the feline’s eyes as Theodore was familiar with the man who had placed him in the confines of the mouth of a gargoyle.

You hear your little kitten suddenly hiss, making you frown and run your fingers soothingly through your pet’s fur. “What’s wrong, my darling?” You cooed, looking down at Theodore, who continued to hiss. You doubled your efforts in trying to calm him, unaware that the man beside you was the reason for the agitated state of your kitten. You placed a kiss on his little head, and that seemed to be effective. Theodore slowly calmed down. Aemond bit his lip as he feared that his desperate actions would be known by you— implausible since no one bore witness to his actions, but you would certainly question why your pet would be upset whenever in the presence of Aemond.

You were too distracted as you tried to soothe your kitten, growing unaware of your surroundings and where you walked. Aemond sighed as this was a frequent occurrence; he circled his arm around your waist and guided your way. He bit his tongue as he was enveloped with your scent. At your close proximity, Ser Aemond scowled at the continuation of whining from your kitten. Aemond led you to your solarium, arm growing cold as he removed his hold from your waist. He stood guard by the door and listened to you cooing at your kitten.

Ser Aemond stood straighter as he heard footsteps revealing your brother. “Is my sister in?” He questioned, and Aemond nodded curtly. “My prince,” He called before your brother entered. “Lord Tristan had been proved rather ungallant… just earlier today, he tried to force himself into the chambers of the princess to seek an audience with her even though he was told that she wishes to be alone.” Aemond had no trouble in tattling. He saw a severe frown on your brother’s face, and only when the prince frowned did Aemond finally see the resemblance between you and the prince. The prince hummed, thinking of a way to protect you further; it was silently known by the court that lord Tristan was persistent— stopping at nothing to acquire anything he wanted, and he usually resorts to ill ways to achieve it.

“My sister’s safety is of utmost importance, Ser Aemond,” Aemond nodded, “I know… and I agree, my prince,” He agreed. “I shall have no choice but to add another guard to her station,” Aemond stilled at the prince’s words. “My—my prince, I am fully capable of protecting the princess,” He said, almost defensively. Your brother’s eyes widened, fearing that he had offended the knight. “Yes, of course— I would not entrust my sister in your care if you are incapable, but with lord Tristan sniffing around her, I fear you would need aid.” Aemond bit back his tongue, not wanting to speak out of turn. “Ser Adam shall accompany you during the day as an added guard to my sister, so no more run-ins like earlier shall occur.” Aemond gritted his teeth and gave a reluctant nod before opening the door for the prince.

The following day, Aemond stood guard by your door and waited for you to start your morning. He stiffened at his spot as he heard the clank of armor and the image of Ser Adam taking his post on the other side of your door, a teasing smirk on his lips as he saw Aemond's annoyed face. “Ser Aemond,” He nodded in greeting, “Ser Adam,” Aemond gritted in reluctant courtesy. You opened your chamber doors, and two knights straightened their stances. You looked between your two guards, “Good morrow, Sers,” You greeted and walked off, your kitten in your arms and your two guards following you as you made your way to the gardens.

The once soothing clang of Ser Aemond’s armor as he walked now turned into an annoying bang as his steps were matched with Ser Adam's. You looked down upon your pet cat, who rested calmly in your arms, still drowsy from his sleep. Aemond noticed your attention was placed on your kitten was more and placed his hand on the small of your back to lead your way, as always. Aemond caught the gaze of Ser Adam, the secondary knight raising a quizzical brow at him, but Aemond did his best to ignore his presence, trying to pretend that it was only you and him, just like days before.

When in the gardens, Aemond moved to assist you to your chair, but Ser Adam beat him to it. He gritted his jaw as the kind ‘thanks’ that was meant to him was addressed to the other knight. As the day went on with Ser Adam accompanying the both of you— you offering him the same refreshments and chatter as Aemond and even gossiping with him, Aemond felt an odd twisting in his stomach that he did not care for. It was as if fire ants were crawling and biting at his skin, and some strong hand was twisting his gut and possibly even his heart.

“Good night, Ser Adam,” You smiled as the knight went to retire for the night, much to Aemond’s relief. You and your sworn protector walked the halls to your room, and you noticed that he had been rather rigged the whole day— nothing odd, but you did notice that he was starting to unclench the past few days. “You’re scowling.” You mused as you two turned a hallway; Aemond glanced at you who observed his expression. “Am I, princess?” He asked, knowing full well he was. Aemond feigned confused, as he did not want his annoyance to be revealed. “You are; you’ve had that line between your brows the whole day,” You say, and stood at the tip of your toes and trying to smoothen the furrow between his brows.

Aemond froze at your actions that were not mediated and thought about by yourself, forgetting your sensibilities as you invaded your knight’s personal space. You froze as you realized what you had done, quickly backing away, your cheeks heating at your actions, and felt embarrassment course through your veins. “I… I apologize,” you say, your voice just a squeak, and you hurriedly turn on your heels as you rush toward your chambers. Aemond battled through his shock and followed you through your chambers, the both of you uttering a quick and awkward ‘good night’ before you disappeared behind your door.

Aemond stood at his post, breathing ragged as his hand fingers went to where you left your soft and burning touch. Aemond tried to calm his breathing, dismayed by his reaction. It was just an innocent touch, nothing to fuss over about, is it not? He rested the back of his head on the cold stone and tried not to let his thoughts be consumed by you even more.

754 notes · View notes

azzifuddslover · 3 months ago

Text

༯ OFF THE COURT — CHAPTER FOUR 𝜗𝜚

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

themes: angst, pining, light jealousy

word count: 3.6k

tw: swearing, talks of alcohol use

a/n: very proud of myself for finishing this as quick as i did. ngl i was so giddy writing this chapter, it might be my favorite so far! please lemme know how y’all are liking it, enjoy! 🩷

paige wakes up in her bed, in the same clothes as the night before. her pounding headache is evident, and her memory is foggy. she recalls drinking far too much, but there’s still a gap in her mind regarding the last few hours. how did she end up in her dorm?

she came to the conclusion that nika or aubrey had brought her back home. i mean, they did witness her drinking more than she should on a thursday night, so it’s a solid assumption.

paige reaches for her phone; there’s three missed calls from nika, two from aubrey, and one message from coach auriemma. fuck. she’s late for practice.

the memory of azzi rejecting her floods her mind, which makes paige contempt staying in her bed for the remainder of practice.

as paige scrambles to get dressed and head out, she’s physically off balanced, still dizzy from all the alcohol she had consumed. she grabs an advil and quickly shallows out before throwing her basketball bag on and rushing out the door.

heads turn to look at paige as she strides through the gym door, already out of breath.

nika is the first to pull paige aside; “girl, where were you? are you good?” she questions, concerned.

paige fakes a smile, “i’m good nik. i just overslept.”

“you sure you’re okay? you were drinking a lot yesterday.”

“really, i’m okay.”

nika gives paige a reassuring squeeze on her shoulders, “alright. if you say so.”

paige begins to walk to the lockers rooms, purposefully avoiding coach, who calls her over anyway.

“where were you?” he asks, clearly furious at paige’s absence.

“i’m sorry coach, i overslept.”

“you should know better, paige,” he says firmly, “everyone, run 10 laps.”

loud groans come from each of the players. coach auriemma’s eyes widen in challenge, “don’t like that? make it 20.”

paige’s lips curl; she receives dirty looks from her teammates, annoyance bouncing off them. she desperately wants to run away, go anywhere but here, yet she sets her bag down and runs with her team.

practice is the slowest it’s ever been for paige. and the pounding headache she continues to have doesn’t help one bit. she remains out of sync, constantly missing easy layups and wide open 3 pointers. all she wants is for this damn practice to end so she can sleep the rest of the day away.

she’s been intentionally avoiding azzi, not meeting her eyes, building distance between the two, not even passing her the ball, regardless if she was open or not.

but when azzi throws a soft glance at paige does she meet her eye contact. azzi wears a concerned, light expression on her face, with an ounce of sadness in her gaze.

paige shoots a glare at the younger girl as she remembers the events of yesterday. azzi and paige’s bodies flush together. their lips inches apart. azzi’s rejection. azzi running away from her.

paige is first the break eye contact, going back to shooting. or atleast, attempting to shoot.

once practice comes to an end, everyone is eager to leave. it’s been a long day, and they all needed rest.

as azzi was about to exit out the gym door, paige pulls her into the locker room, quickly and swiftly.

“jesus, paige—“

paige places her hand on azzi’s forearm, “look, azzi. about yesterday,” she begins.

azzi’s cheeks flush, “paige—“

“listen, i was drunk out of my mind. i didn’t realize what i was doing or who i was doing it with. i hope you’d know i would never do that sober.”

pain hits azzi like a brick. she knew paige would regret it in the morning.

although azzi had been the one to pull away, it didn’t mean she didn’t want to kiss paige— she did. she desperately did. she still does.

“i.. okay,” azzi whispers, eyes flicking to the floor.

paige pulls her hand away from azzi’s arm, while continuing to look at the brunette.

“alright then,” she nods, “we good here?”

azzi opens her mouth, then shuts it and nods as well.

paige flings her bag over her shoulder and casually moves for the door. azzi’s not far behind her, placing her bag on her own shoulders and leaving the locker room.

the two girls walk in opposite directions, not bothering to glance back. paige closes her eyes as regret strikes her hard. she had lied to azzi. she wanted to kiss her yesterday, still wants to, but what else could she do? azzi pulled away. she pulled away. she had to at least try to act like it was a mistake.

later that evening, paige is in bed, with her phone in her hand. ever since practice earlier in the day, she had been completely worn out, still suffering from a terrible headache.

paige scrolls on tiktok for while, before switching over to her favorite app, instagram. she views her teammates stories and likes a few posts. she sees caroline posted a photo dump, and as she scrolls through the photos, observing each one, she notices azzi in the last photo.

it was a picture of her and caroline in one of their dorm rooms, arms around each other, and azzi’s lips on carol’s cheek, in a friendly manner. it doesn’t settle the blinding jealousy paige feels, though. her fingers tighten in her hands, causing marks on her palms.

god, azzi looks so good in that photo. her hair was loose at her shoulders; she had on a bright pink hoodie paired with black leggings. paige never wished more to be someone else in this given moment.

paige clicks on caroline’s photo, causing azzi’s instagram page to pop up. she quickly hits it to reveal lots of posts from throughout the years.

she scrolls through all her posts, way back to 2015, and she’s reminded of USA basketball days. when azzi dmed her about accidentally liking an old photo of hers. red covers her cheeks in embarrassment.

she views azzi’s most recent photo dump; it was a few pictures of her playing basketball and some with their teammates.

with a slip of a finger, paige likes the photo. again.

“god fucking dammit!” paige exclaims, shifting up in a sitting position while nerves stir in her stomach.

she shuts her phone off and tosses it on the bed. paige covers her face with both hands, shaking it head at her stupidity.

her phone buzzes against her bed; paige already knows what it’s going to be. and as expected, it’s an instagram dm.

i’m getting deja vu, it read. paige’s lips tilt up, somewhat pleased that azzi still remembers their interaction from years prior.

would u believe me if i say it was another glitch? paige texts.

anxiously waiting for azzi’s respond, paige fiddles with her fingers, a nervous habit of hers.

i’d say these glitches are awfully convenient, aren’t they?

a soft giggle escapes the older girl’s lips, as she swiftly replies.

they most definitely are, she sends.

after a couple minutes, azzi finally replies: sooo watcha doing?

paige arches an eyebrow, surprised to find azzi continuing the conversation.

laying in bed, what about u? she types almost instantly.

yeah same, i’m so bored, azzi’s message read.

an idea arises in her mind: same. wanna maybe come over? dorka isn’t here rn.

minutes pass without a respond from azzi. was that too much? does azzi not want to hang out with her? does azzi still hate her?

and do what? azzi finally sent.

paige tilts her head— what would they do? she hadn’t thought that far ahead.

not really sure. we could watch a movie or something, whatever you want.

seconds later azzi responds. sounds good, i’ll be there in 5.

paige scurries off her bed, frantically trying to make her room look somewhat presentable for the younger girl. not that she wanted to make an impression, or anything.

she stuffs dirty clothes in her bed, throws away old water bottles and miscellaneous wrappers before lowering the lighting to appear slightly darker.

as she replaces her current hoodie for a cuter one, she hears a quiet knock at the door. her head whips in that direction while nerves erupt in her stomach.

she opens the door to reveal a smiling azzi. she has on a simple white sweatshirt, baggy black sweatpants, with a pair of nike slides.

“hey,” azzi says, looking into paige’s eyes.

“hi,” paige replies, holding eye contact, “come on in.”

paige moves to the side, allowing azzi to enter her dorm room, cautiously. azzi observes her room better than she previously had when they were first in here alone, taking in the posters, books, decorations. it was all so paige.

paige gently shuts the door before going to sit back on her bed.

“you played really well yesterday, you know,” paige compliments.

azzi’s smile grows, revealing her dimples that paige loves a little too much, “thank you. that means a lot.”

blush reaches paige’s face, “yeah, of course. but i’m sure you already knew that.”

azzi arches a brow, “what do you mean?”

“how coach compliments your game all the time. you’re the team’s princess, practically,” paige notes.

“well, i wouldn’t—“

“not that i can blame him, though. your skills are undeniable, az,” paige cuts her off, the tips of her lips lifting.

azzi brings a hand up to cover her wide grin at paige’s compliment and the use of her nickname.

“getting soft on me, bueckers?”

paige playfully rolls her eyes, “you wish.”

paige shifts over on the bed, making enough room for azzi to sit as well. “you can come sit, y’know.”

azzi is hesitant, but regardless, walks over to paige’s bed and sits alongside the older girl. their thighs brush against each other’s, sending butterflies to azzi’s stomach.

the two girls settle on a movie, the notebook, to watch for the evening.

“want something to drink?” paige offers.

“um, water is fine, thanks,” azzi answers.

paige simply nods and walks out the bedroom, out to the small kitchen her and dorka share. while she’s gone for a quick moment, azzi decides to get more comfortable, allowing herself to lay out in paige’s medium sized bed.

paige comes back to the room and brings herself to a halt. god. azzi laying on her bed was not one she’d imagine actually happening, but is damn grateful it is.

“thought i’d get more comfortable for the movie,” azzi says, like the answer is obvious.

“that makes sense,” paige replies, breathlessly. she sets down azzi’s requested water and her own on the bedside table, while she carefully crawls in bed next to azzi, laying out as well.

the two girls bodies’ are side by side, full on touching one another’s. and paige couldn’t be happier.

“y’know, you’re a really great player too, paige,” azzi whispers, a couple minutes into the romantic film.

“thank you,” paige begins, “i thought i’d never hear those words come out of your mouth.”

azzi snorts, “yeah, well, me either to be honest. i’ve always hated you.”

paige’s lips turn slightly downward, yet is unsurprised at azzi’s comment. she knew azzi had hated her, ever since USA basketball. she hated azzi, too. well, tried to hate her.

“i hated you, too,” paige lies right through her teeth.

azzi turns her body to face paige, “do you still hate me?”

paige scoffs, because how could she, or anyone for that matter, ever hate someone like azzi? paige shifts her body, facing the brunette’s; “i don’t know, my opinion on you changes everyday,” she teases.

azzi smiles— her brown eyes roam paige’s face, then drop to her pink lips. she knows better; paige literally said mere hours ago she would never kiss azzi sober.

“i’m kidding. i don’t. i could never hate you,” paige mutters, barely loud enough for azzi to hear.

just as azzi’s about to respond, exhaustion washes over her, causing her to drift to sleep. in paige’s dorm. in her bed.

paige’s eyelids flutter open as the remnants of sleep faded. the warmth of her bed surrounds her as she was the first to wake. she glances at the body in front of her, taken aback at the sight of the curly headed brunette. her breathing is steady and peaceful, lips slightly ajar. paige lays motionless for a moment, listening to the gentle rhythm of her own heart, before carefully, slowly reaching around to grip her phone.

paige’s eyes widen as she views the current time— 3:01 am in the morning. they had been asleep for several hours at this point, right alongside of each other.

paige looks over at dorka’s empty bed and is surprised not to see her. she figures she’s staying at one of their teammates room.

paige sets her phone back on the bedside table, takes a swig of water, before returning to her laying position in front of azzi, who remains asleep. she slowly reaches her hand out to graze azzi’s cheek, then twirl a loose curl around her finger, careful not to wake the younger girl.

minutes later, with paige continuing to stare at azzi, her eyelids finally open. she stretches slightly, lets out a faint yawn, before making eye contact with the blonde.

“hi,” azzi whispers, still dazed from her long rest.

paige gently smirks, “hey.”

“we fell asleep?”

“guess so. i don’t think i watched past 10 minutes of the movie,” paige laughs.

“same,” azzi shares the laughter.

the two girls shift into a sitting position, not caring enough to move when they touch one another.

“pass me my water?” azzi asks.

paige nods, grabbing azzi’s water bottle, as well as her own.

“thanks,” azzi says once paige hands it to her. she downs the entire bottle as paige silently watches in admiration.

“thirsty?” paige teases.

“you have no idea,” azzi replies, out of breath, “can i have some of yours?”

paige’s eyebrows rise, kind of surprised at the question. “yeah, ‘course.”

she passes her water off the azzi, who gratefully takes it. she takes several sips.

“what time is it?” azzi questions the older girl.

“3 am,” paige replies.

azzi turns her head at paige in surprise, “are you joking? we slept for that long?”

“i know right,” paige says, equally as shocked.

“i should probably get going then,” azzi says, beginning to get off the bed.

paige turns her head to azzi, “what? you don’t have to. it’s the middle of the night, azzi.”

“you want me to stay?”

paige looks away, flustered, “um, i didn’t say that. i’m just saying you’re allowed to stay if you want to. dorka’s probably at one of the girls’ room, so we have enough space.”

“alright then,” azzi nods, “do you have a shirt i can borrow? i hate sleeping in sweatshirts.”

“didn’t seem to have a problem with it earlier,” paige notes, “but yeah, i do.”

the blonde rises off her bed, scrambles in her messy closet, blocking it with her body to avoid azzi seeing the clutter. she pulls out an old USA basketball t-shirt that she figures azzi would be fine with.

“this good?” paige questions.

glancing at the shirt, azzi’s lips turn up, “that’s great. thanks, paige.”

she throws the shirt to azzi, who also pushes herself off the bed, easily catching it. paige exits the room, going to get more waters for the two of them. azzi lifts off her sweatshirt, tosses it to the ground when paige quickly returns.

paige nearly drops the bottles of water at the sight of azzi’s bare back. her eyes widen, her breath hitches. she wasn’t wearing a bra this entire time?

azzi pulls on the t-shirt paige kindly let her borrow, before turning around, noticing paige staring at her with her jaw dropped.

“i— i’m sorry…” paige stammers, shaking her head at herself.

azzi’s heart is basically beating out of her goddamn chest. she smiles gently, “you’re fine.”

paige finally moves from her spot at the door and places the bottles down. she stares at azzi, wondering if they’d continue to share the bed or if one of them would move to dorka’s.

azzi stares back at the older girl, thinking the same think but not voicing it.

eventually, paige breaks the silence. “i can sleep on dorka’s bed.” she walks over to the empty, made bed, slightly disappointed azzi isn’t protesting against it.

panic soon sets in for azzi, “what? no, it’s your bed, paige. you should sleep it in.”

“really, it’s fine, i don’t mind,” she lowers herself on the bed.

“paige, cmon. i’m not making you sleep in a different bed,” azzi argues.

“okay then..” paige says, confusion setting in.

azzi plops back onto paige’s bed, moving over so there’s enough room for the older girl, “just come back over here.”

paige’s cheeks blush against her will, a smirk settling on her face. “if you insist.”

the two girls get comfortable on the bed, legs touching ever so slightly.

“night,” azzi whispers.

“night, az.”

azzi, this time, is first to wake. paige is much, much closer to her than she had been when they first fell asleep. azzi suddenly feels an arm wrapped tightly around her waist that has her pulled practically flushed against paige’s body. paige’s hand is underneath azzi’s shirt, on her bare back. azzi allows herself to admire a sleeping paige for a quick moment.

she checks her phone— 8:30 in the morning. azzi carefully takes paige’s arm and places it gently on the bed, then crawls out of the warm bed, trying her best not to disturb the blonde.

with her phone in her hand, she glances back at paige, and exits the room.

later that day, in the afternoon, the entire uconn women’s basketball team is scattered in paige and dorka’s room. there’s players on both beds, on the small couch, on the floor. azzi is planted against paige’s bed, while paige is seated on the couch.

the team had been chatting about a variety of things when kk comes up with an idea for the girls.

“guys, we should play spin the bottle!” kk announces, loudly.

“what are we, 10?” paige scoffs, rolling her eyes at the game idea.

“cmon, p, don’t be blame. plus, i’m so bored,” kk whines.

“i’m down,” nika agrees.

“same, why not,” jana says.

soon, each player agrees to a game of spin the bottle, even though paige is convinced it’s a stupid idea. they all sit in a circle, tight enough so they’re all touching, due to the size of the dorm. kk places a bottle in the middle of the circle and gives it a gentle spin.

it lands on aubrey and lou. nika lets out a soft chuckle, causing aubrey to laugh as well.

“pucker up, lou lou,” aubrey smiles before swiftly placing a kiss on lou’s lips, not lasting more than 2 seconds.

the bottle is once again spun, fast this time. it lands on nika and jana, who smirk and touch lips.

paige shifts in her seating, silently wondering if the bottle would ever land on her. she doubts it.

kk gives the bottle a good spin, making it travel faster than before. paige anxiously watches the bottle, fidgeting with her fingers as nerves take over her body.

the first spin lands on azzi. oh jesus. whoever this next spin lands on should consider themselves lucky, paige thinks. she then takes in account that azzi still is wearing her USA basketball shirt.

it’s azzi’s turn for nerves to overpower her. her heart quickens, palms begin to sweat in anticipation for whoever she’s about to kiss.

the next spin seems to last an eternity. paige swears it goes in slow motion. but eventually, it points directly at the blonde.

azzi’s eyes practically bulge out of socket. her jaw drops as she locks eyes with paige, who looks equally as surprised.

ignoring the o’s and ah’s she receives from her teammates, paige makes her way over to the curly headed brunette, careful not to show how nervous she is to kiss azzi.

the older girl settles comfortably in front of azzi. her gaze roams azzi’s flushed face, which causes paige to smirk knowingly.

there is a heavy silence, the air between them electric, both eager and tentative. slowly, paige places her hand on azzi’s hot cheek, and leans in. when their lips finally brush, it was gentle— hesitant at first— but the warmth between them quickly grew, the kiss only deepening as both hearts speed up. a soft, trembling sigh escapes azzi’s mouth while paige’s deepens the kiss even further. she slips her tongue into the younger girl’s mouth, swirling and testing the waters.

after what feels like forever but not nearly enough, paige pulls away, disconnecting their lips. she removes her hand off azzi’s waist— which uncontrollably moved there from her cheek— and crawls back to her original spot, besides dorka and jana.

she glances back at azzi, who’s lips are pluffy and a darker shade of pink, while her cheeks are a softer pink.

the room continued to buzz with energy, the laughter of her teammates echoing from the game, but all paige could hear is the steady of her own heart. her pulse quickens when azzi meets her gaze, heat and want in her lingering eyes. for a moment, the noise of their friends fade away, leaving only the weight of a shared silence between the two.

the blonde didn’t take her focus off azzi. she didn’t smile, didn’t do or say anything. just watched.

azzi clears her throat, trying to act as casual as possible, but her hands betray her, nervously fiddling in her lap. she quickly flicks her eyes to the ground, but not before noticing paige’s lips twitch softly, as she was fighting off a grin.

then, without a word, paige turns her attention back to the silly game her teammates were continuing to play, yet azzi couldn’t shake the warmth in her chest or the growing electricity still intensely present between them.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi #uconn wbb #nika muhl #uconn huskies #basketball #paige x azzi #fanfic #pazzi fics #paige buckets #fan fiction #uconn women’s basketball

271 notes · View notes

ktownshizzle · 2 months ago

Text

A Christmas Encore | Part 2 of 2

Part of A Holly, Jolly Holiday with Min Yun-Kay collab with @yooglefics

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: You never thought you’d see Min Yoongi again, not in this lifetime, not in this place. He left years ago with big dreams and bigger talent, trading snow-covered Seollim Hollow for the city lights of Seoul. But now, with the cultural center—the heart of your hometown—on the verge of being sold to a soulless corporation, you’ll do anything to save it.

When Yoongi appears on your doorstep, it feels like a miracle wrapped in regret. But as the two of you work together to save the center, old promises resurface, along with feelings you thought you’d left behind. Can you trust someone who was never meant to stay? Or will you just get hurt again?

✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Childhood Friends to Kinda Lovers to Kinda Strangers to Friends to Lovers (WHAT?! Yeah I got dizzy too) Second chances basically, Fluff, Smut, Mild Angst, Very Hallmark

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: MINORS DNI 18+ only. Cheesy, sometimes theatrical dialogue (just roll with it please), Christmas cliches, Yoongi at the Christmas concert is this right here), mild angst, cursing, minor mention of the pandemic, penetrative sex (wrap it before you tap it!), Yoongi's company/job is vague (it's fine!), did I say cheesy??

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: ~7k

✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting Date: January 13, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Hello ho ho. Sorry it took a while to get this out! I was being a little scrooge by the end of this (who knew Christmas fics can be super challenging?) I do hope you enjoy part 2 of my little Hallmark-inspired Holiday gift. Enjoy! 🫶🏼🎉

Part One | Part Two | Masterlist

Yoongi doesn’t make a big deal out of your first date, but it still feels perfect. He takes you to a quiet café just outside town, the kind of place you’d never think to visit but where the coffee is rich and the pastries are warm.

The conversation comes easy—too easy, maybe. You laugh more than you have in weeks, just like old times. As you talk about the coming concert, an idea pops in your head. It’s not that serious, if anything, you just want to tease him a bit. “Maybe you and Hobi should do a breakdance routine at the show!”

He slurps the final dredges of his coffee, blinks up once, before blatantly ignoring you.

“Oh, come on, you really don’t miss breakdancing?” you try again.

“I don’t miss it. Do you?” He raises a brow.

“Miss what?”

“Miss him.”

Suddenly, you’re the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland. “Oh, Yoongi…”

He averts his gaze, lip curving in the barest of ways before he looks down, poking the base of his glass with his straw. He’s a little embarrassed.

You sigh, endeared to no end as you see the tips of his ears growing red by the second. You decide to take him out of his misery. “No, Yoongi, I do not miss Hoseok that way. We’re really just friends.”

Yoongi groans, slouching back in his chair, and, not gonna lie, it makes you feel some typa way.

You wonder if he sees you now as some homie hopper slash town harlot, which fuck him if does so you ask. “Does it really bother you?”

Probably sensing the weight in your voice, he leans forward quickly and takes both your hands to reassure you. “Fuck, no. I’m just… shit I’m so bad at this.”

“At what?”

“You’re really gonna make me say it?”

You shrug.

Yoongi huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he leans back, but his gaze lingers on you, his expression softening. “I’m glad we’re finally doing this.”

“Yeah, it took us only all of a decade and a half,” you roll your eyes. “A literal pandemic had to happen.”

He’s quiet for a moment, looking at you again with his piercing stare—apologetic, maybe. “I’m not too late, right?”

You think you might just melt if it wasn’t below zero outside.

When Yoongi invites you back to his parents’ house that night, you don’t hesitate.

You head straight to his room and it instantly feels smaller than you remember, even if you were just there weeks ago. But it’s still so homey and familiar, full of little remnants of the boy you used to know—the boy you loved before you knew what it meant to really love someone.

And then he kisses you again, over and over, against the poster-covered wooden door, and all the years you spent apart fall away like snowflakes dissolving against your skin.

The way you make your way back to each other is slow and careful, but it doesn’t take long for the tension that’s been building for weeks to snap. His hands are warm against your skin, his lips soft and insistent, and when he pulls you onto the bed, it’s with a gentleness that leaves you breathless.

He sits by the headboard, guiding you towards his lap. He bites his lip as you situate yourself over him, grunting when you make contact against his crotch.

“Is Teenage Yoongi losing his mind right now?” You joke lightly, straddling his hips as you start unbuttoning your blouse, revealing your red lace bra.

He growls, actually growls. “Who cares about that loser,” he pulls you to capture your bottom lip while you shrug your blouse off. “Present Yoongi is so fucking hard right now, do somethin’ bout it…”

“Ohhh shit, Present Yoongi gets to make demands?” You plant both palms against his (apparently) really toned chest. Who knew?

“Present Yoongi hopes you’d do something about it,” he amends, taking one of your hands to kiss the inside of your wrist, once, twice, then leads your hand where your bodies are connecting.

He was not lying. In fact he may even be underselling it because while you cannot wrap your head around his sheer solidness, you certainly want to wrap your mouth around it. Shit.

You clamber off him, taking him by surprise, and he looks like you slapped him across the face.

“Relax, I got you, baby,” you say giggling as you guide his legs to swing over the side of the bed. “Go on, take that off,” you gesture to his pants while you peel yours off with a shimmy. And when he sees that all that’s left is the matching lace panty, his clothes immediately fly off to join the rest of yours.

The sight of his cock leaves your mouth watering, and you sink to your knees without further ado. You grasp his thick, velvety shaft, pumping lightly before guiding the tip towards the warmth of your mouth. You suck on the head once like a lollipop, releasing it with a tiny pop, repeating it as your eyes lock on him.

“Shit, I knew you’d look good on your knees,” he goads, biting his thumbnail with a smirk playing in his lips.

You decide you wanna erase the cocky grin on his face. So you draw him in quickly until he hits the back of your throat, the skin of your lips almost splitting from the sudden stretch. He stutters. You let drool coat his warm cock as your tongue glides up.

His deep, gravelly fuck, baby spurs you on, but also makes your basement gush. His voice is just… Ugh. You’ll deal with your own needs later, because you are on a mission.

You suck him like you’ve got a point to prove. Like he shouldn’t have left you all those years ago. Like he should’ve parked his ass right here and maybe you could’ve given it to him every damn night. Just like this.

When you hear the shortness of his breath, you know he’s really getting to it. So you suck him so damn good he’s left wondering how you got that good.

“A-a-ahh, hold up,” he stammers, stopping your movements with a gentle pull of your hair.

You sit on the balls of your feet, wiping your chin with the back of your palm. It’s your turn to have a cocky grin.

“You…” he shakes his head, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “My turn.”

He yanks you from the floor and throws you into the bed. And the next thing you know your panties are almost ripped from your legs and you’re spread open on top of his navy duvet like a Sunday feast.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, nosing your pussy gingerly, before giving it a whiff. “Fuck you smell so good.”

“Yoongi,” you squirm, propping your upper body with your elbows to watch the debauchery unfold. Or at least you hope so, but it seems like he wants to make you beg for it with the way he's leisurely blowing air across your damp skin.

“Please…” you beg, body tingling with desire.

“I’ve thought about this, you know,” Yoongi says looking up at you, before licking a broad stripe across your cunt. “A lot.” He does it again, tongue digging a little deeper to flick against your clitoris.

“Shit,” you tip your head back, already in a haze of lust. “Me too…”

“Really?” He shifts his position, then runs his knuckles up and down your glistening folds, each joint nudging your clit as it glides.

A cold shiver travels down your spine. “Oh god yes…”

“How are you already this wet?” he chuckles, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thighs, pulling your leg up one shoulder.

“Yoongi,” you plead. “I didn’t tease…”

“Liar,” he says with a sinister grin, now toying with your hole with his index finger and looping your slick around like he has nothing better to do.

What in fresh hell is he talking about? And also, goddamit you need him inside you literally yesterday and he's still clowning around.

“I didn't tease you…” You whine, needy.

“Oh, but you did,” he mumbles against your skin, biting the soft flesh so close to your mound before laving it with his tongue. “Made me think you had a boyfriend, when all along, I could’ve given you this...”

You gasp as he inserts his finger inside you and already you clench around the lone intrusion.

“And this,” he adds another.

You don't even realize you're bucking your hips up until he guides you back down with an infuriating smile. “Easy, baby, we got all night.”

“But, your cock. Need it…”

“Maybe. You gon’ be a good girl for me?”

You nod. Yes, you want to be his good girl.

Finally he gives you mercy, and his mouth connects with your clit and sucks and you feel like heaven. Two fingers slide in and out of you in practiced strokes. You're already so wound up, it doesn't take long for you to kiss euphoria.

“Feels so good, Yoon…” You fist his sheets, back arching up, as you feel your demise fast approaching. He notices.

“Let go, baby.” he says, before the furious lashing of his tongue resumes against your nub.

Keeping the pace steady, he curls his fingers just slightly, allowing the pads to massage your walls until he finds the one spot that–

Fuck.

Light bursts behind your lids as you come, fast, hard, loud with a prolonged moan of his name.

Your back meets the bed’s plush as your orgasm washes over you. But before you come down, you feel a fresh surge of bliss as Yoongi takes a nipple inside his mouth, giving it tiny nibbles.

Your free arm reaches for his cock. He lifts his hip up slightly, so you can give it a few lazy strokes.

Before long, he shifts completely, leaning over you, his hair brushing against your forehead in feathery strokes. The ache inside you both lingers, unsated, but the world seems to slow around you. There’s a tenderness in the way he moves—his lips tracing a delicate path along your face. He presses soft kisses to your eyelids, your cheek, and the curve of your jaw, each one deliberate, each one unraveling you a little more.

“You’re still as beautiful as I remember,” he says before meeting your mouth for a kiss so sweet, your head is in the clouds again. “Do you still hate me, baby?”

You kiss him back, your reply coming in breathy cadences as your lips melt against each other. “I… don’t think… I ever could.”

And it’s true, wrapped around each other like this, the pains of the past slowly ebb away.

You feel a small smile on his lips, maybe a hint of relief. His tongue pushes in yours as you feel his cock rubbing up against your pussy lips, both of you breathing heavily with the delicious friction. He ruts up a few more times before you feel his blunt tip breaching your entrance, not going all the way in but teasing it in a way that leaves you wanting more, more, more and now.

“Get in me, Yoon. Want it…”

His reply is the push of this thick cock inside you, slow and slick, before he bottoms out with a grunt. You keen, your body bowing towards him on instinct, legs wrapping against his back.

He fills you up, wholly and completely, with every smooth stroke, your walls flutter around his girth and your heart is thumping against your ribcage, but you know it’s not just the ecstasy from your impending release. It’s from the way your eyes meet and you feel like you’re drowning again. Just like you did the first time. And you don’t ever want to come up for air.

“I’m so close…” your voice is strangled when you say it, your fingers clinging to his shoulders for dear life.

His mouth finds that sensitive spot under your ear, licking it, encouraging you to take it with whispers you can’t decipher. Your brain is so fucking empty, and all you know is every fibre of your being is submitting to him at this very moment.

“You feel amazing, fuck,” he grunts, tone as desperate as you are. “You gonna cream for me again, huh?” His thrusts get faster, deeper and it feels like your about to tip over the edge.

“Ah– baby, I’m coming…” Your entire body quivers against him as intense pleasure racks your body.

The rest is a blur as your eyes flutter shut, and Yoongi groans as he spills his seed against your clammy skin, hot liquid pooling on the inside of your thigh.

Later, after he cleans you up and gives you the cuddles your tired body craves for, you’re tangled together in the sheets. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. You’re hit with de ja vu.

“Don’t leave,” you whisper.

Yoongi’s arms tighten around you, his lips brushing lightly against your forehead. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs.

This time, you believe him with all your heart.

The days that follow feel like they belong to someone else. Someone living a life where everything falls perfectly into place—where the person they once thought they’d lost forever suddenly fits back into their world like they’d never been gone.

The tree lot smells like pine and cold, sharp winter air. You rub your hands together to keep them warm, your breath fogging in front of you as Yoongi stands a few steps away, examining a tree with a furrowed brow.

“This one’s perfect,” you say, pointing to the lush, symmetrical pine beside him. The store owner even added some gold tinsel on it to dress it up for buyers, making it look super sunshine-y and brilliant.

He turns, glancing at the tree. “It’s too… obvious,” he says, his lips twitching. “Look at it. It’s trying too hard.”

You laugh. “How can a tree try too hard?”

“It’s trying too hard to make you take them home,” Yoongi says, moving down the row. He stops in front of a shorter, slightly scraggly tree, with whitish branches and paler pine needles. “This one’s got character.”

“It’s literally lopsided… and so pale…”

“It’s cool,” he counters, brushing snow off one of the branches. Strangely, they even have the same height. “This is the underdog tree. You should root for it.”

You cross your arms, pretending to consider. “Or… we could go with a tree that doesn’t look like it fought a bear and lost.”

Yoongi looks back at you, his dark eyes narrowing in mock offense. “Nah, you’ve got zero vision.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of vision,” you retort, stepping closer. “You’re the one who—”

Before you can finish, he shakes a branch, sending a spray of snow directly onto your face.

“Yoongi!” you shout, jumping back and wiping at your eye, careful not to smudge your perfectly drawn eyeliner.

He smirks, unapologetic. “Underdog tree got bite.”

Later, back at your place, the tree you agreed on stands in your living room. When it’s finally lit, glowing softly in the corner of the room, you look over at Yoongi and find him watching you, his face softened by the light.

“What?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

He shrugs, his gaze lingering. “Nothing.”

Your eyes move towards the tinsel and the lights, “Underdog tree does have character.”

“I fuckin’ told you.” He grabs you from behind, excited that you finally saw his vision, and plants several kisses on your cheek.

“This is a terrible idea,” you mutter, gripping the railing like your life depends on it.

“You’ll be fine,” Yoongi says, already gliding onto the ice with an infuriating amount of ease. “Just let go of the railing. You’re overthinking it.”

“Overthinking it?!” you sputter, inching forward like a baby deer learning to walk. “This isn’t natural. People weren’t meant to stand on blades and slide around!”

Yoongi smirks, skating backward so he can face you, his movements smooth and effortless. “Aren’t you the one who’s lived here forever? Shouldn’t you be the pro?”

You shoot him a glare, your knees wobbling. “Skating and living in Seollim Hollow are not the same thing.”

“Sure they aren’t,” he teases, extending a hand toward you. “Come on. I won’t let you fall.”

You eye his outstretched hand with suspicion. “If I fall, I’m taking you with me.”

“Deal.”

Reluctantly, you release your death grip on the railing and grab his hand. The ice feels impossibly slippery beneath your feet, and your balance shifts precariously as you stumble forward.

“Whoa—” Yoongi steadies you, his grip firm. “You really suck at this, still.”

“I told you, ughhhh,” you grumble, trying not to panic as he starts pulling you along.

“You just need to loosen up,” he says, clearly holding back a laugh. “Stop thinking so much.”

“I’m going to die,” you say flatly as your skates skid in opposite directions.

“Not on my watch.”

Yoongi’s hand tightens around yours as he leads you into the center of the rink. Despite your protests, he doesn’t let go, guiding you with patience as you wobble and shriek your way through your first lap. By the time you’ve gone around twice, you’re still far from graceful, but at least you’re no longer clinging to him for dear life. -ish.

“You’re getting the hang of it.”

“No thanks to you,” you retort.

“The fuck?” he says, letting go of you abruptly and you shriek, flailing.

But he captures you effortlessly and spins you around and suddenly you’re hugging in the middle of the rink. You’re still catching your breath when you look up at him, then he leans down and kisses you.

“Is this some kind of fantasy you’re trying to fulfill, Min Yoongi?”

“I’m just trying to make up for lost time.” Then, he leans in again and from the corner of your eye you spot a mom shielding her son from the sight of you and Yoongi, before your eyes flutter shut.

“I forgot you always liked to yap during movies,” Yoongi says, mouth forming a straight line.

“This movie’s so boring,” you reply, gesturing at the screen. “How can you be into this? It’s so… predictable.”

“That’s the point,” he says, leaning back into the couch. “Christmas movies are supposed to be predictable.”

Despite your apprehension, you find yourself sinking deeper into the couch, tolerating the movie and before you know it you’re engrossed with the plot, because, umm, it’s actually so good?!

“Omo! He came back for—” you turn to him and well, he’s fallen asleep, like the bobblehead toy on your car’s dash.

You move his head gently against your shoulder, his breath evening out. For a moment, you consider waking him, but instead, you let yourself relax, leaning slightly into his warmth.

From this view you can see his long lashes, the gentle slope of his nose, the soft curve of his lips and you’re suddenly flooded with emotions that you thought you buried so long ago. Maybe it’s meant to be this time. So you allow yourself to quietly admit it.

“I love you,” you whisper, even though he can’t hear you.

The snow crunches softly beneath your boots as the two of you walk side by side, the cold air nipping at your cheeks. The town is quiet at this hour, the streets lit by the faint glow of holiday lights, and for a while, neither of you says anything.

“I used to hate this,” Yoongi says suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Hate what?”

“Winter,” he replies, shoving his hands into his pockets. “The cold. The snow. I felt… stuck. Like nothing ever changed.”

You glance at him, your breath fogging in the air. “And now?”

He shrugs, his gaze fixed on the snowflakes drifting lazily from the sky. “It doesn’t feel so bad anymore.”

The words are simple, quiet, but they satisfy you in a way you don’t expect.

At some point, Yoongi bends down and scoops up a handful of snow, tossing it lightly at your shoulder.

“Fuck! Did you just—”

“Snowball fight?” he interrupts, smirking.

You retaliate immediately, grabbing snow and throwing it at him with no hesitation. The two of you dissolve into laughter, dodging and weaving through the empty street until you’re both breathless and covered in snow.

“Truce,” Yoongi says, holding up his hands.

“Fine,” you reply, grinning as you catch your breath.

For a moment, you just stand there, the snow falling softly around you. Yoongi’s eyes linger on yours, his expression softer now, and your heart stumbles at the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorize this moment.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

“For what?”

“For this,” he murmurs, gesturing around him. “For reminding me why I came back.”

You and Yoongi fall into an easy rhythm, one that feels almost too good to be true. Mornings at the cultural center turn into afternoons spent working side by side—him scribbling notes onto sheet music while you answer emails and manage ticket sales. Sometimes, you’ll both stop to grab dinner at the little diner down the street or head back to your place where you cook something simple while he steals pieces of food off your cutting board.

Nights are quieter. Softer. When the world feels too still, Yoongi finds his way to your side—whether it’s a late phone call or the two of you under your duvet.

You don’t talk about what happens next. You don’t ask if he’ll stay when the concert is over, and he doesn’t offer to explain.

The night of the concert is perfect.

The performers are brilliant—the children’s choir sings their hearts out, the folk band gets the crowd clapping, and the dancers earn a standing ovation. Yoongi’s arrangements tie everything together seamlessly, each note lifting the room higher and higher until it feels like the entire town is glowing.

Before he goes on stage, Yoongi gives you a mini heart attack. He tells you that he’s playing a different piece. Trust me, he says.

You don’t say much after, because while you don’t like to be blindsided for an important night like this, you also trust his judgment.

And when Yoongi takes the stage, sitting at the piano under the soft glow of the stage lights, you think you might actually cry. He adjusts the mic, shakes his newly dyed black hair, and starts to play. It’s a song you’ve never heard before—something gentle and wistful, the kind of melody that wraps itself around you like a memory. You watch his hands move across the keys, effortless and sure, his expression soft with focus, and you realize you’ve never seen him look more himself than he does in this moment.

Suddenly Jungkook’s angelic vocals slide seamlessly through the melody, “Was it honestly the best…”

For the first time in years, you let yourself hope that the best is yet to come.

When the concert ends and the crowd finally clears, you and your team stay late, cleaning up the venue, storing props, and celebrating quietly with a bottle of champagne Jimin “borrowed” from the local bar. Yoongi stays, too, quietly helping to pack away cables and lights while Jungkook regales the group with exaggerated stories about the night’s performances.

It’s not until the clock hits two in the morning that you’re finally back home, exhausted but still buzzing with the afterglow of the show.

When you wake the next morning, it feels like the entire world is holding its breath. Today is the day. Today, you’ll know if it was enough.

The cultural center feels too quiet as you sit at your desk, staring at the final numbers. Your chest feels tight, the numbers swimming on the page no matter how many times you try to tally them.

You didn’t raise enough. You’re 10 per cent short.

The realization hits like a punch to the gut, and you have to close your eyes for a moment to steady yourself. It’s so close—painfully close—but it’s not enough. And you ran out of time.

You swallow the lump in your throat and grab your coat.

Mr. Choi doesn’t look surprised when you tell him.

“You did good,” he says, though his voice is heavy with finality. “But it’s not enough to match their offer. I’m sorry.”

“There has to be another way,” you insist, the desperation creeping into your voice. “What if I talk to the buyer? What if they’ll accept—”

He sighs, shaking his head. “You can try,” he says reluctantly. “The buyer’s representative is still in town.”

Your heart skips. “Who is it?”

He flips through a file on his desk, his tone casual as he reads the document, “Min Yoongi.”

The room tilts. You stare at him, uncomprehending. “Who?”

“Min Yoongi,” he repeats, glancing up at you. “He’s the representative for the corporation looking to buy the property. I can give you his e-mail address…”

The words hit you like ice water, each one sinking deeper until you can’t breathe. Yoongi.

It doesn’t make sense. How could he—?

Why would he—?

You don’t even remember leaving the municipal office. You don’t remember driving to Yoongi’s house, pounding on the door.

“Yoongi.”

“Hey,” he starts, his expression shifting when he sees your face. “What’s—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, your voice trembling. “Don’t act like everything’s fine. Just tell me the truth, Yoongi. Were you ever going to tell me you’re the buyer?”

The color drains from his face. “You found out.”

“That’s all you have to say?” you snap, your chest tightening as the hurt spills out of you. “You fucking lied to me, Yoongi. This whole time—why? Why would you let me fight for this place if you were just going to take it away?”

“I wasn’t going to take it away,” he says quickly, his voice strained. “Not anymore.”

You stare at him, disbelief crashing into you. “What does that even mean?”

Yoongi exhales, running a hand through his hair. “It means I didn’t know what this place still meant to you when I came back. I thought it was just another deal. Another property my company wanted to acquire.”

“And when you did know?” Your voice cracks, your anger laced with pain. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Yoongi hesitates, his hands curling into fists. “Because I didn’t want to ruin everything.”

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Well, congratulations. You ruined it anyway.”

“Stop,” he says softly, reaching out, but you step back. “Let me finish.”

“No.” you say. “This,” gesturing to him and you, “is finished.”

The next few days are a blur of misery. The maknaes try to distract you, but nothing works. Yoongi’s absence feels like a physical thing—an ache that sits heavy in your chest no matter what you do.

The memory of his voice echoes in your mind, soft and broken, but it only makes the pain in your heart worse.

When you hear from his mother that he’s left town, it shouldn’t surprise you. Of course he’s gone. That’s what Yoongi does.

But somehow, it hurts more this time.

Christmas Day comes and goes.

For the first time in forever, you don’t get a post card from Yoongi.

The glow from your phone illuminates the room as the opening chords of Last Christmas begin to play through your Bluetooth speaker. You’re on your bed, surrounded by chaos—crumpled tissues, a mostly empty tub of ice cream balanced precariously on your thigh, and the infamous box of postcards from Yoongi spilled across your sheets.

The postcards feel heavier than they should, each one like a tiny punch to the chest. You pick one up at random—a simple postcard of a Seoul skyline dusted with snow. Yoongi’s neat handwriting is scrawled on the back: Merry Christmas. Hope you’re staying warm.

Snot drips onto the edge of the card, and you yelp, scrambling to wipe it off. “Oh my God, I’ve hit rock bottom,” you groan, tossing the tissue into the general direction of the trash can but missing entirely.

You glance at the box again, and the next card catches your eye. You sniffle harder, and your vision blurs again.

Your eyes land on one of the Polaroids from the box, its edges slightly bent from years of flipping through them. It’s an old selfie Yoongi sent—his mint green hair poking out from under a beanie, but his sharp eyes and stupidly pretty smirk still visible. “I hate you,” you mumble, though the ache in your chest says otherwise.

You grab a Sharpie from your nightstand and draw devil horns sprouting from his head, a dramatic handlebar mustache, and, for good measure, a pitchfork in the corner.

Three sharp knocks sound at the door, startling you. You quickly swipe at your face, sitting up. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” Hoseok’s voice calls through the door.

Oh no. You glance at the mess around you—the tissues, the ice cream, the pile of Yoongi memorabilia that screams pathetic. “Go away, Hobi! I’m fine.”

The door creaks open anyway, and Hoseok steps in, his ever-present sunshine energy cutting through the gloom of your room. You forget he knows where the spare key is hidden.

He takes one look at you—puffy eyes, snotty tissues, Wham still crooning in the background—and doesn’t bother to hide his grin. “Wow. This is a whole ass vibe.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, tossing a pillow weakly in his direction.

He catches it easily, stepping further into the room. His eyes fall on the postcards scattered across the bed, and his teasing expression softens. “So it’s true, then.”

You blink. “What’s true?”

Hoseok sets the pillow down and walks over, sitting on the edge of your bed. He doesn’t say anything right away, just glances at the Polaroid still clutched in your hand. “I’m not even gonna ask about that. Yoongi told me what happened.”

Your stomach twists, embarrassment rising like a tidal wave. “Great. Now everyone knows how much of an idiot I am.”

“Hey,” he says gently, nudging your shoulder. “You’re not an idiot. Yoongi’s the idiot.”

That gets a weak laugh out of you, and Hoseok’s smile widens. He leans in, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug. It’s so warm, so comforting, that you let yourself melt into it, burying your face in his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I know how much he means to you.”

You sniffle. “Why do you sound like he’s dead?”

Hoseok laughs, pulling back just enough to look at you. “Because you’re acting like it.”

“Did he send you here?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

“No,” Hoseok says quickly. “But he… he wants you to hear him out. He messed up, yeah, but…” He glances at the postcards again. “You guys are made for each other. That’s obvious. Even to a third party like me.”

You groan, throwing yourself back onto the bed dramatically. “It’s not that simple, Hobi.”

“Nothing about love is simple,” he says, lying down beside you. His gaze moves to the ceiling as he continues. “And honestly? You two are the most disgustingly in love people I’ve ever seen.”

Your head snaps toward him. “We are not—”

“Oh, really?” Hoseok interrupts, his grin returning. “Because I saw you and Yoongi making out in the middle of the skating rink. Right there. In public. In front of children.”

Your jaw drops. “You what?”

“Yeah. Had to shield my eyes from the sheer amount of PDA,” he teases. “I almost called it in as a public disturbance.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. A real, genuine laugh that feels like it breaks through the heaviness in your chest. “You’re so stupid.”

He glances at the mess on your bed one more time before standing. “Look, I’m not saying you have to forgive him right now. But at least let him explain. You deserve to know the truth.”

He pats your head lightly, like a parent soothing a child. “Now, go wash your face. You look like Mrs. Claus who failed a breathalyzer.”

“That’s a dumb joke!” You chuck a pillow at him again, but this time, you’re laughing as he dodges it and disappears out the door.

For the first time in days, you feel a little lighter.

When Mr. Choi calls you the next morning, you almost don’t pick up.

“The offer’s been retracted,” he says, his voice calm but tinged with disbelief. “The cultural center is safe.”

You blink, stunned. “What?”

“Not only that,” he continues, “but the previous buyer left a donation to help fund renovations. You can expand the center. Improve it.”

Your heart stops. You didn’t need to ask who.

You already know.

It’s New Year’s Eve. You don’t know why today of all days you finally get a grip on your emotions. You figure today is just as good as any other to do something crazy.

You clutch your phone in your hand, Yoongi’s name glaring up at you in your call history, unanswered. You don’t know what you’ll say when you find him, or if he’ll even want to see you, but you have to see him. You have to know why he did this—why he left, why he pulled out of the deal, why he did it all without saying a word.

The hours stretch long and thin, and by the time the bus pulls into the station in Seoul, the city is already blanketed in a soft layer of snow.

The snow falls softly around you as you stand in front of Yoongi’s apartment building (his eomma was more than willing to text the address), your breath clouding in the air. When he opens the door, his eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t say anything—he just steps aside, letting you in.

“I heard what you did,” you say quietly, your voice trembling. “The center’s safe. You even donated to help renovate it.”

Yoongi exhales, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

He looks at you, his dark eyes soft but unsteady, bags underneath it from many a sleepless night. “Because it was the right thing to do. And because I owed it to you—to the town—to make up for leaving the way I did.”

You shake your head, your chest tightening. “You didn’t owe me anything, Yoongi. You could’ve just told me.”

“I know,” he says softly, his voice tinged with regret. “But I didn’t know how to. And I was scared. Scared that if I told you, I’d ruin the one good thing I’ve had in years.”

“Yoongi…”

“I stayed quiet because I thought I could fix it,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “I knew if I told you the truth, you’d hate me. And I didn’t want that—I couldn’t risk losing you again. So I started looking for another way. I’ve been talking to my company, trying to get them to pull out of the deal, to reallocate the funds to save the center instead.”

You blink, his words sinking in slowly. “You… what?”

“I’ve been trying to undo it,” he says, his dark eyes heavy with something you can’t quite name. “I tried to help in whatever way I could, because you—you deserve to win. You deserve to have that place. I just…” He exhales shakily. “I messed up.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, confusion swirling in your chest.

He takes a step closer, his gaze steady now. “I’m sorry. For everything—for leaving, for lying, for not trusting you enough to tell you the truth. I just…” He hesitates, his voice faltering.

“You didn’t have to leave,” you say, your voice trembling. “You didn’t have to run. I know I pushed you away when I found out that you were the buyer. But if you told it to me in the first place, I would’ve understood,” you admit, the words catching in your throat. “I would’ve believed you.”

Yoongi watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he takes another step forward, close enough now that you can smell the faint musk of his cologne.

“Would you have asked me to stay?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard, unable to look away. “Yes.”

The word hangs between you, suspended in the air, and something in Yoongi’s gaze softens.

“I’m here now,” he says quietly. “I’m not running. I’m not leaving. I don’t want to.”

He reaches up slowly, hesitantly, and brushes a snowflake from your cheek with the back of his knuckles. The touch is light, fleeting, but it sends warmth spreading through you, curling in your chest and settling deep in your bones.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You just stand there, inches apart. And then Yoongi leans in, closing the distance between you, and kisses you. Your lips slide against his, your hands curling into the front of his sweater as the rest of your worries fall away.

When you finally pull back, breathless and trembling, Yoongi rests his forehead lightly against yours, his hands still cradling your face. Before he can lean in again,

“Come home,” you whisper, the word escaping before you can stop it.

Yoongi looks at you with something so raw, so vulnerable, it takes your breath away. “Okay,” he says softly, his voice deep. “If you want me to, I will.”

You nod, your tears spilling over now. “I really do.”

“Good, because I’m out of a job and I need you to fund my unhealthy caffeine addiction.”

“What?”

“It’s ok, I’ve been thinking about it for years anyway.” He shrugs, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “I came to Seoul for music, but somehow I got roped into the capitalism I’ve always hated. Moving back feels… right.”

Later, you find yourselves on his rooftop, bundled together under a fleece blanket as the fireworks light up the Han River below. You share his bougie white truffle parmesan & rosemary popcorn (it’s actually good, though) and a bottle of chardonnay. You lean against his shoulder, link your hands together, hearts full of the promise of a new beginning.

You settle in your seat as the bus begins its journey back to Seollim Hollow. Yoongi had to stay behind for a few days to tie up loose ends, but the promise of his return lingers like a heartbeat in your chest.

As the city fades into the distance, your phone buzzes with a new message.

Yoongi: Check your coat pocket

Intrigued, you reach inside, your fingers brushing against something small and stiff. When you pull it out, your breath catches.

It’s a postcard.

His handwriting is as familiar as ever, the letters neat but tilted just slightly to the left. This time, though, the message is different.

Not a simple Merry Christmas.

Not a quick Hope you’re well.

Not some generic line he thought you might want to hear.

This one has only three words.

I love you.

For a moment, all you can do is stare at the card, the edges soft from where it’s been handled. The words feel heavy, monumental, a promise etched onto paper.

You press the postcard to your chest, your eyes stinging as the bus carries you closer to home. Though, when you think about it, home feels like a person you just left in a high-rise in Hannam.

A week later, you find Yoongi standing on your doorstep, that gummy smile you love lighting up his face. His suitcase sits at his side, snowflakes caught in his hair, and he looks at you like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever asked.

“Hi,” he says softly, his voice warm despite the cold.

“Hi,” you say, leaning against the door frame.

And in that moment, you know—this is it. The chance to start over. The start of something real, something you both waited for, something you’ll build up piece by piece.

And finally, you’ll live a life you’ll both love.

Together.

A/N: Hope you all enjoyed my first Holiday fic ever. If it feels extra cheesy and sappy than my other stories, it’s Hallmark-inspired so it needed to be that way. 🙂 As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments section. A reblog would also be amazing!

Thank you so much for reading this you lovely, beautiful human xo

And I know it’s already been days since we kicked off 2025, but I hope you have had an amazing start to the year and the rest of the days are filled with love, laughs, and Bangtan! 💜✨

Permanent Taglist (Part 1)

@wonh0oe @hyukaluve @glossdebut @kiki-zb @kookiewithluv

@agustblog @maryhopemei @perfectiondazesworld @kimsaerom @kam9404

@00-sleepdontweep-00 @tea4sykes @mggv97 @marnz1990

@whydoeyecare @pastelmin @tarahardcore @minjenna @chimmchimmm

@aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @tinytan-gerine @vesperbells @butterymin

@eve1633455 @baechugff @lilkittenjenjen @wobblewobble822 @coffeedepressionsoup

@futuristicenemychaos @jadestonedaeho7 @granataepfelchen @whoa-jo @annyeongbitch7

@chimmisbae @sexytholland @idkjustlovingbts @kpophosblog @tinyelfperson

@yoongicatagenda @codeinebelle @parapiop7 @diame93 @janeelizabeth1216

@withmuchluv-tannie @abadiimm @angellekookie

The rest to follow in a reblog.

225 notes · View notes

little-diable · 9 months ago

Text

Meant to be – Prof!Spencer Reid (smut)

I just love writing prof!fics – almost as much as I love priest!fics. Almost. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: The reader is a young professor joining the university Spencer works at. Even though he's annoyed about having to share his office with her at first, he can't help but fall for her all too quickly.

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, office smut, some possessiveness/jealousy, lots of fluff

Pairing: Prof!Spencer Reid x fem!prof!reader (3k words)

“Professor Reid?” The soft voice filled his office, forcing his eyes off the paper he was currently grading. His gaze wandered over the woman's features as he curiosity studied her for a moment before clearing his throat.

“My office hours are over, please return on Wednesday for your questions.” His eyes left hers to refocus on his papers, while expecting her to turn around and leave, urged on by the rude tone he hadn’t been able to shake. Spencer hadn’t expected anybody else to turn up this late in the afternoon, he was desperate to squeeze as much work into the remaining time he had alone in his office, already overstimulated by the mere thought of having to share his office with somebody from today on.

“My name is (y/n), I’ll be sharing this office with you.” Once again he was forced to look at her, unable to swallow his annoyance as it began to dawn on him that she wasn’t a student.

She was pretty, by far prettier than all the pictures he had searched on the internet the second he had heard about her, about (y/n) joining his personal safe space. Why hadn’t he recognised her? Was his mind already that fed up with the pretty stranger?

“Of course, I’m sorry.” He didn’t move as she slowly stepped into the big room, letting her eyes wander before finding her way to her space. The old wooden desk had been placed near the big window, drenching her in the light of the slowly setting sun. Spencer would crash and burn if he were forced to see this daily, a sight so ethereal he feared this was just a trick of his tired brain.

“I’m sorry that you have to share your office with me, I can only imagine how annoying that must be for you.” He wanted to protest, wanted to tell her that he doesn’t mind sharing it with her – polite words any other colleague would have effortlessly spoken. But all Spencer could do was hum and redirect his gaze to the papers, while missing the slight hurt expression (y/n) couldn’t hide.

……

Her heart was pounding with a faster beat, singing a tale of nervousness in her chest she couldn’t silence just yet. This wasn’t an unusual situation for her, she had taught numerous classes before, but the first class she taught at a new university always had something special to it, something (y/n) couldn’t shake.

The students were working on the papers she had handed out a minute ago, fully engrossed by the story. She let her eyes wander, taking them all in in hopes of remembering at least a handful of them. But her thoughts were silenced the second her eyes found his. Spencer Reid was leaning against the door and with his arms crossed in front of his chest he intently studied her from his spot.

Her heart skipped a beat in her chest as it silently whispered to (y/n). It had been days since she had first crossed paths with him, the annoyed, closed-off man who was more handsome than she liked to admit. Ever since their first awkward run-in she hadn’t tried to make any conversations with him, she had opted to wear her headphones around him, hiding herself from the curious eyes she felt on her frame whenever she let her work swallow her.

Neither of them dared to break their eye contact first, a silent challenge both were determined to win. (Y/n) allowed herself to take him all in, the locks perfectly framing his handsome face, the slight unfamiliar smile playing on his lips, and those twinkling eyes that seemed to follow her around whenever they crossed paths.

“Alright, seems like our time is up, if you have any questions about your reading, please email me.” She was forced to break their staring contest first, smiling at her students who smiled back at her before leaving the room. (Y/n) couldn’t help but notice how a few of them wore overly bright smiles as they walked past Spencer, seemingly just as affected by the professor's handsome appearance, just like (y/n) was.

Only as the last student had left the room did Spencer finally begin to move. Slowly, he walked down the stairs, moving closer to (y/n) with every passing moment. She was glued to her spot, patiently waiting for the man to break their silence, to let her hear the raspy voice that had rang in her ears for the past days.

“That was a really interesting lecture, (y/n).” He came to a halt only a few steps away from her, keeping a slight distance between them as if he was unsure how to properly approach her. For a moment, (y/n) had to avert her gaze, she began to pack her bag with a slight smile stuck to her lips, hoping that he wouldn’t pick up on the nervousness flushing through her whenever he was close.

“Thank you, Spencer, that means a lot coming from a beloved professor like you.” Her words drew a gritty laugh from him, while a slight rosy tint began to flush his cheeks. (Y/n) shouldered her bag before she began to walk up to him, wordlessly asking him to follow her up the stairs and back to their office.

“Listen,” Spencer cleared his throat before he kept speaking, seemingly unsure how to put his thoughts into a coherent sentence. “I am sorry about those first days, I was annoyed and quite unfriendly to you. Would you allow me to make it up to you?”

“Oh, Spencer, that is very kind of you, but I get it, I would be just as annoyed if I had to give up my personal space to share it with a stranger.” Her soft voice left him smiling, unable to look away from (y/n) while stepping back into their own little bubble, the safe haven they found in their spacey office that was filled with books and collected items.

“Would you want to get some food with me, as an apology? We could also order in, if you want.” He plopped down on his chair the same second (y/n) did, while holding eye contact from their spots.

“Sure, that would be lovely, thank you, Spencer.”

……

Her phone had buzzed in her pocket a few minutes ago, and even though it had ripped (y/n) out of her thoughts, she was determined to get her search over with before giving into the pull. She had just finished her class and was now combing through their library, in search of new reading material, desperately trying to find her books.

With a relieved sigh she reached for the book she had looked for these past minutes, pressing it to her side before finally giving into her heart’s silent call. (Y/n)’s hand wandered to her phone, unable to bite down her chuckles as she read Spencer’s all too simple message.

“Thai or Italian?”

Ever since that evening in their office, where they had ordered in and started to get to know one another properly, they had begun to form some kind of routine, ordering food at least once a week to spend their evenings together. Spending time with Spencer felt all too easy, too natural, something that made her feel more confused than she liked.

She was about to type out her reply as she collided with somebody, forcing her eyes off her phone. Hands found her waist to stabilise her frame, keeping the young professor from losing her balance. (Y/n)’s wide eyes found a pair of brown ones, she studied the man for a second before parting her lips to apologise.

“I am so sorry, are you alright?” Her question drew a soft laugh from him. She had seen him from afar a few times, another professor she had yet to properly introduce herself to. He was a handsome man, taller than her and slightly older, and yet he had nothing on the professor she shared her office with.

“Don’t worry, are you alright though?” The man still had his hand placed on her waist, holding onto her while murmuring the question. Just as she wanted to reply, to tell him that nothing had happened, her name was called, forcing her attention towards Spencer, who was approaching the two. An unreadable expression tugged on his features as he studied her and the hand of their colleague which was still glued to her waist.

“There you are, I was looking for you, sweetheart.” Heat flushed through her at the unfamiliar term of endearment. The second Spencer reached her side, he pulled her from the man’s grasp, straight into his arms. She could only gape up at him, torn between her confusion and the slight twinge of excitement she couldn’t shake as she took in his clear expression of jealousy.

The man muttered something (y/n) couldn’t pick up, fully focused on Spencer and the way she fit all too perfectly into his grasp. No words were shared between them as they held eye contact, staring at one another as if it was the first time they got to take the other in. Spencer’s thumb stroked soft circles into the fabric of her shirt before he slowly – almost reluctantly – let go of her.

“I, uhm, you didn’t reply, so I thought I’d go find before you get lost.” Spencer’s whispers drew a soft chuckle from (y/n). She couldn’t stop herself from reaching for his hand to lightly squeeze it as her smile kept growing.

“And what was that whole thing with calling me “sweetheart”?” The blush she was all too familiar with by now returned to his cheeks, while forcing his eyes from her. (Y/n) squeezed his hand again before she began to tug him down the hallway, set on finding their way back to their office.

“Don’t worry, Spence’, I quite liked it.”

……

“You’re so quiet, what’s going on in that head of yours?” She mumbled the words as she studied Spencer. They were both sitting on the floor, leaning against the small couch placed near their bookshelves, while finishing their food. It had been almost an hour since their situation at the library, but while (y/n) had made some more jokes about the situation, Spencer had grown quiet, deep in thought.

Spencer’s gaze flickered from his hands to her curious features. He studied her for a few seconds before he placed his plate down and fully turned towards (y/n). No words were shared between them, they were caught in a thick fog of unspoken thoughts, longings, and fears.

“Can I try something?” His husky voice was about to draw a gasp from (y/n). She could only nod her head, not daring to break out of the grasp this situation had on her. Spencer’s hand found her cheek, while his eyes were focusing on her lips. He let a few seconds pass before closing the distance between them.

Within seconds he had pulled her into his lap, letting (y/n) straddle his thighs as their lips moved in sync. Their hearts were racing, pounding in their chests to beg one another to keep on going, to let their tongues meet while growing comfortable in the new sensation that held their souls hostage. The kiss felt all too perfect, something they had been waiting for ever since crossing paths, something they had longed for and thought of for weeks now.

“I can’t stop thinking of the way he touched you.” Spencer murmured his words against her lips. A confused expression began to tug on her features as she patiently waited for him to keep on talking.

“You’re mine to touch, and not his, you’ll never be.” Possessiveness dripped from his words – a possessiveness so strong, it made her feel as if they had been together for years, sharing memories neither could shake. (Y/n) couldn’t speak up, not when she felt Spencer’s hands disappear beneath the fabric of her blouse, softly stroking her sides.

“Spencer,” she gasped his name, desperate for more, another touch – anything he’d offer to her. His lips began to find their way down her throat, sucking on spots that made her tingle with a biting heat threatening to leave its mark on her forever. (Y/n)’s hands tugged on his curls while trying to shuffle even closer, letting her core grind against his growing bulge.

“We shouldn’t do this here.” (Y/n) could only whisper the words as his hands pulled her blouse over her head, exposing her bra to his wandering eyes. The groan that left Spencer at the sight made her forget every word she wanted to speak, every warning, nothing but hazy thoughts were left behind.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t, baby.” The raspy command forced her to arch her front into his touch. She felt as if he had set her ablaze, burning for him only, a summer solstice bonfire that left her shaking and trembling in a desperate need to turn every offering into something worthy.

“People will hear.” His hands kept moving, urged on by the desperate whines leaving (y/n). The cold air teased her now naked chest, the hardening nipples Spencer’s fingers tugged on, drawing the most sinful sounds from her parted lips.

“And? Let them hear how good I’ll be fucking you.” The words seemed to do something to (y/n) - they forced her hands to move from his hair down his front to slowly undo his trousers. Both knew that there was no way out of this, they were high on the feelings the other pushed through them, desperate for the highs they could already feel creeping closer without being properly touched.

“How can you be so sure you’ll satisfy me enough?” She was riling him up, teasing him in a desperate attempt to forgo any foreplay to be filled by him, needing to feel Spencer buried deep inside of her. They held eye contact for a second as she finally managed to free his cock, twitching in her grasp as if he felt the same exciting heat burning deep inside of him.

Spencer didn’t speak another word as he pushed her off his lap to murmur a raspy “Undress”. He stared at her as (y/n) pulled out of her jeans, with her soaked panties following a second later. Her skin was prickling, unsure how to act around the man who was now seeing her completely naked for the first time.

They kept looking at one another while Spencer fisted his cock, giving himself a few pumps before a smirk tugged on his lips. With his hand finding the back of her head, he pulled her in for a teeth-clashing kiss – a kiss so desperate (y/n) feared he’d rob her of her last breath.

“Turn around, chest down on the couch.” Slowly, (y/n) turned around to follow his command, only to feel him behind her a few moments later. She heard Spencer shuffle around and rip open a condom, before she felt his slender fingers at her aching heat. A loud moan managed to break through her at the feeling of his digits brushing through her slit, collecting drops of her arousal to spread it on her pulsing bundle.

(Y/n) had to claw her fingernails into the fabric of the couch to ground herself, to let go of a few deep breaths – all while Spencer slowly pulled his fingers away to push his cock towards her entrance. With one hand placed on her waist, he held onto (y/n) while slowly pushing into her – a sensation so strong, it pulled raspy moans from the both of them.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, baby.” (Y/n) could only let go of a sob at his praises. She had her eyes squeezed shut, knuckles turning a few shades lighter from the strong grip she had on the couch. Spencer pulled out of her, only to fuck into her with more force, letting his hips meet her behind with every thrust.

This was neither sweet nor was it slow, it was a desperate fuck, an attempt to get rid of the tension lingering between them, the longings neither of them had managed to shake ever since meeting for the first time. It was a perfect chase that now ended with both of them tumbling to their knees, losing all grip on reality, while being fucked into oblivion.

“Spencer, fuck, you feel so good.” Tears dripped from her eyes while the words broke through her – words that filled Spencer with pride. His smirk began to widen as her moans grew louder, rumbling through their office like a song both played on repeat.

“Touch yourself, make yourself cum on my cock, baby.” Her fingers blindly followed his command, she circled her pulsing bundle to push herself closer and closer towards the edge, high on the sensation that began to thump through her veins. With her teeth buried in her lower lip, (y/n) tried to keep another moan from leaving her, very well knowing that anybody could burst into their office any second now, a risk neither of them should take. And yet they couldn’t care, not when he was buried deep inside of her and about to fuck her through her high.

(Y/n) began to tremble as her orgasm climbed up her limbs, momentarily robbing her of her sight as black spots appeared in her vision. Spencer kept fucking her from behind, more ferocious with every thrust to chase his own high, set on following her down the edge. Their moans got tangled, ringing in their ears as if fireworks went off in the distance to support them through this long awaited moment.

Spencer came with a groan of her name, he clung to her as they both rode out their highs with racing hearts and quivering limbs. Heavy pants left them, filling the room with every breath spluttering from their lips.

“That was,” the rest of her sentence was left hanging in the air. Spencer slowly pulled out of her, he tossed the condom away before finding his way back to her. A slow kiss was shared between them, with his hand cupping her cheek, and hers resting on his shoulders.

“Perfect, like it was meant to be.”

#Spencer Reid smut #Spencer Reid x reader #Spencer Reid imagine #criminal minds

599 notes · View notes

midnightfict · 1 month ago

Text

Back in Our Days.

— 𓆩𓆪 —

𓆩 Lee Byung-Hun x F!reader 𓆪

Summary — When two, now estranged friends get caught in an unexpected encounter which triggers a feeling one thought was lost.

A/N — This story is loosely inspired by the song "Who Are You?" - Saga Faye. Please give me story requests, I get story inspirations from songs and/or real-life situations, and I'm currently up for a new challenge.

read pt. 2 here

— 𓆩𓆪 —

The streets of Seoul were bustling as usual. People hurried past, umbrellas shielding them from a faint drizzle. On opposite sides of the road, two figures unknowingly walked in parallel paths. You clutched your bag nervously, trying to avoid the water from ruining your belongings, while on the other side, a tall man in a sleek black coat walked confidently, his face partially hidden by a baseball cap.

As the traffic lights turned red, you stepped onto the crosswalk, and your eyes caught his. Something about him felt achingly familiar, but the thought slipped away as the two of you passed each other. Just as you reached the other side, an unexplainable tug made you glance back. You saw him turn too, his eyes meeting yours for a short moment.

“Byung-hun?” you murmured under your breath.

Gathering your courage, you waved with a bright smile, the kind you always used to greet him with back in the day. But instead of the warm recognition you expected, his expression remained monotone. He looked away and continued walking.

Your hand fell slowly, your smile fading. Hurt pricked at your chest, but you shook it off, convincing yourself there must be some explanation. You couldn't help but remember the joyful times you spent with him.

⋆｡𖦹° ⏾ ˚｡⋆

The bell rang, signaling the start of class, but the seat next to you was still empty. You tapped your pencil against your desk, glancing out the window. Moments later, Byung-hun slipped into the classroom, his hair slightly disheveled, a mischievous grin plastered on his face.

“You’re late,” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

“And you’re still here? I thought you’d be bored to death already,” he shot back with a chuckle.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. Byung-hun leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Wanna ditch?”

“What?” you whispered, eyes widening. “We can’t just—”

“C’mon, we're seniors. They won't bat an eye!” he said, grabbing your hand and pulling you out of your seat.

The two of you sneaked out through the back gate, muffling your laughter as the wind rushed past. The afternoon was spent at a nearby arcade, battling each other in games, eating street food, and talking about dreams that seemed so big back then.

"I want to be a famous actor," He proudly claimed.

"One day, I'm going to write a movie, and I'll make you the biggest actor in the world," You replied, supporting his dream.

As the sun began to set, you both sat by the riverbank, the golden light reflecting on the water.

“Promise me,” he said suddenly, turning to face you.

“Promise you what?”

“That no matter what happens, we’ll always stick together. Okay?”

You smiled, holding out your pinky. “Promise.”

He hooked his pinky with yours, his grin wide and genuine. “Promise.”

Later that evening, you both parted ways. Your grin and wave brought out a giggle from him. It was a small moment, but it stayed with you. You had no idea how much that promise would mean for him.

⋆｡𖦹° ⏾ ˚｡⋆

The memory faded as you found yourself back in the present, the bustling streets of Seoul grounding you once more. The ache in your chest deepened. What had changed? Why did he act like he didn’t know you?

A few days passed and he still lingers in your mind. You were scrolling through your phone when a message from your sister popped up. It was a video link accompanied by a single question:

Doesn't he used to go to your school?

You clicked on the link, your heart skipping a beat as a familiar face appeared on the screen. Lee Byung-hun. The caption read: “Rising Star Lee Byung-hun Shares His Story.”

In the video, he was seated on a sleek couch, his polished demeanor worlds away from the carefree boy you once knew. The interviewer asked about his childhood, and his response hit like a punch to the gut.

“Honestly, I never really felt like I belonged anywhere,” he said, his voice calm and composed. “High school was a lonely time for me. I didn't have any close relations.”

Your heart clenched. How could he say that? The boy who had once sworn to always be there for you—the boy you had shared countless memories with—now claimed he had no friends?

You replayed the clip, hoping you had misunderstood. But the words stayed the same. Each repetition felt like another crack in the foundation of your cherished memories. You closed the video and sat back, staring at the ceiling, the weight of confusion and hurt pressing heavily on your chest. Trying to distract yourself, you grabbed a random book to read. But fate seemed to have other plans.

A picture from your early high school days fell off the shelf. It was the two of you, grinning widely as you held up a trophy from a group project competition. The memory behind that photo stirred something deep inside you. You remembered how you had to practically drag him to the stage when he was too embarrassed to go up, telling him, “You did just as much as I did. If I’m going up, so are you.”

Your fingers hovered over the picture, and as you stared at it, the emotions bubbling within pulled you back further into another memory—your first encounter with Byung-hun. It was so vivid, as though the years separating then and now had disappeared entirely.

⋆｡𖦹° ⏾ ˚｡⋆

The classroom was crowded with chatter as the new student was introduced. Lee Byung-hun stood at the front, his hands shoved in his pockets, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“You can take the seat next to her,” the teacher said, pointing toward you.

He shuffled over, barely sparing you a glance as he sat down.

“Hi! How are you?” you said brightly.

He looked at you, surprised. “I'm fine, thanks.”

“Nice to meet you, Byung-hun. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. From that day on, the two of you were inseparable. Whether it was group projects, lunch breaks, or late-night phone calls, you had each other’s backs. You remembered the way he had slowly opened up, sharing stories about his old school and how he always felt like an outsider.

“Not anymore,” you had told him with a grin. “You belong here now.”

His smile had been shy but grateful. “Thank you,”

⋆｡𖦹° ⏾ ˚｡⋆

Had those moments meant nothing to him? You felt tears sting your eyes, the hurt bubbling up uncontrollably. But almost immediately, you wiped your face, taking a deep, shuddering breath. This wasn’t you. You weren’t going to let these feelings drown you.

Needing to clear your head, you grabbed your house keys and slipped on your shoes. Fresh air would help, you told yourself. You stepped out into the cool evening, the faint rain lingering in the air. Without thinking, you began walking, letting your feet guide you as your mind remained tangled in memories.

At some point, you found yourself standing at the same crosswalk where you had seen Byung-hun just days ago. You froze for a moment, staring at the spot where you had smiled and waved, only to be met with his indifference. The pang of that memory made you glance down, biting your lip, before you continued walking.

Lost in thought, you didn’t realize how far you had gone until you stopped in front of a building that made you blink in surprise. It was the old arcade you and Byung-hun used to visit whenever you ditched school. The bright, flashing neon lights seemed almost out of place among the modern cityscape, but there it was—still standing after all these years.

Curiosity and nostalgia drew you in. The familiar jingle of the entrance bell brought a flood of memories. You wandered the aisles, eyes scanning the games you used to play together, a bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. It felt surreal, being back here after so long.

“Excuse me,” a voice called out, pulling you from your thoughts. An older man, likely one of the long-time workers, approached you with a curious expression. “You look familiar… Weren’t you a regular here back in the day? Always hanging out with that tall boy…”

You blinked, surprised that he remembered. “Uh, yeah. That was me,” you said with a sheepish smile.

“What was his name again? Byung-something, right?” the man asked, snapping his fingers as he tried to recall.

“Byung-hun,” you supplied softly, the name tasting bittersweet on your tongue.

“Ah, that’s right! Byung-hun! You two were always together. How’s he doing? Are you still in touch?”

The question made your heart twist. “I… no. We're not,” you admitted, averting your gaze.

The man’s face softened. “That’s a shame. You know, I could always tell he cared about you a lot. That boy… he liked you from the very beginning. Said so himself once.”

You froze, your breath catching. “What?”

The man chuckled, clearly unaware of the impact his words had. “Yeah, he mentioned it when you two came in here for the first time. He was so shy about it, though. Just kept watching you out of the corner of his eye, like you were the best thing he’d ever seen. But the last time I saw him, he was a mess. He said you left the country and he wasn't sure if you were going to come back. One thing he said he knew for sure though is that he lost you forever,”

Your mind reeled, the revelation hitting you like a train. All the memories you had shared with Byung-hun suddenly carried a new weight, a new meaning. To you, your goodbye meant a new chapter being written. But to him, it meant losing you—losing everything. Before you could process it further, the man was called away by another customer, leaving you standing there, stunned.

And then, as if the universe wanted to twist the knife, your thoughts shifted—to him. From his perspective, starting from the moment he had seen you again at that crosswalk.

— 𓆩Byung-Hun𓆪 —

Byung-hun adjusted the brim of his baseball cap as he walked briskly down the bustling street. He was on his way to a meeting for his upcoming film, the one everyone was talking about. His agent had reminded him—yet again—how important this role was for his rising career. But none of that was on his mind when he stopped at the crosswalk.

The moment he saw her, his heart stuttered. There she was, on the opposite side of the road, clutching her bag tightly like she always used to when she was nervous. His feet rooted to the ground, his breath catching in his chest. It had been years, but she hadn’t changed much. The same eyes, the same demeanor—still as beautiful as he remembered.

For a second, he thought about calling out to her, but the words died in his throat. How could he? He wasn’t the same person she used to know, and seeing her so cheerful, so bright—it hurt. She looked like she’d moved on, like she’d left their memories behind. And him? He had spent years trying to forget her, but here she was, undoing all of it with just a glance.

As they crossed paths, he saw her wave and smile at him, the same smile she used to give him back in high school. It took everything in him to keep walking, to pretend he didn’t know her. He wasn’t ready to face her, not when all the unresolved emotions threatened to spill over.

He forced his legs to keep moving, his jaw tightening as he left her behind. Once he was out of sight, he paused, leaning against a wall to catch his breath. His hands trembled as he adjusted his coat, but he shook his head and pushed himself forward. He had a meeting to attend.

Hours passed by, and Byung-hun sat at the long table, nodding along as the director explained the plot of his next project—a romance with a bittersweet ending. He should have been focused, taking notes, asking questions. But his mind was elsewhere.

“Byung-hun?” the director’s voice snapped him back to reality. “What do you think?”

He cleared his throat, straightening in his seat. “It’s… an intriguing story,” he replied, forcing a professional tone.

The plot they had described, two people brought together by fate, only to be torn apart by circumstances, felt uncomfortably familiar. It made him think of her, of the promises they had made back in high school. Promises that, in the end, neither of them could keep.

⋆｡𖦹° ⏾ ˚｡⋆

The days leading up to graduation were supposed to be exciting, full of plans and dreams for the future. But something had shifted between you and Byung-hun. You had been distant, avoiding his questions and brushing off his attempts to talk.

“Y/N,” he finally cornered you after class one day, his tone firm. “What’s going on? You’ve been acting weird.”

You hesitated, looking anywhere but at him. “It’s nothing,” you mumbled.

“It’s not nothing,” he pressed. “Just tell me.”

Before you could answer, a classmate approached, grinning. “Hey, Y/N! Congrats on the acceptance letter! How’s the prep for moving abroad going?”

Byung-hun froze, his eyes snapping to you. “Abroad?”

You winced, guilt written all over your face. “I was going to tell you…”

“When?” he demanded, his voice rising. “After you left? Or were you just never going to say anything?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” he repeated, his laugh bitter. “Do you even realize what this feels like? We promised we’d always be there for each other. And now you’re just leaving?”

Tears welled up in your eyes. “I was scared, okay? I didn’t know how you’d react. I didn’t want you to hate me.”

Byung-hun shook his head, his jaw clenching. “Do I even mean anything to you?”

The argument ended with no resolution. The days that followed were filled with silence, both of you too hurt to bridge the gap. But on the day of your flight, Byung-hun showed up at the airport.

“I couldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye,” he said, his voice soft but strained. “I… I had to see you.”

You hugged him tightly, whispering apologies and promises to stay in touch. He hugged you back, but deep down, he knew things would never be the same.

"I'm chasing my dreams, Byung-hun. Dreams that I had never even thought were possible. I hope you'll understand and I know you will. You'll always stay in my mind... my best friend. And when I'm back, I better see your face plastered on every movie poster in town," You lightly joked.

He couldn't even crack a chuckle at her. Just tears and hiccups.

As he watched your plane take off, he wondered if you knew. If you knew, would you still go?

⋆｡𖦹° ⏾ ˚｡⋆

Sitting in that conference room, Byung-hun felt the weight of those memories pressing down on him. The question that had haunted him for years resurfaced. Had she ever loved him the way he loved her? And if she did… was it too late to find out?

#lee byung hun x reader #front man #squid game #fluff #angst #x reader #lee byung hun #hwang in ho #reqs open

196 notes · View notes

spr1ngtweaks · 13 days ago

Text

Reluctant Comfort?... - oneshot | part 2 (for the "Late-Night Hypothesis")

ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕝𝕖𝕪 𝕊𝕒𝕨𝕪𝕖𝕣/𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕠𝕔𝕥𝕠𝕣 (ℙ𝕣𝕖 -“𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕠𝕔𝕥𝕠𝕣” 𝕍ℍ𝕊 𝕋𝕒𝕡𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘) 𝕩 ℂ𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕘𝕦𝕖!ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣

(Harley in his middle 30s and reader/you in late 20s)

🇨🇴🇳🇹🇪🇳🇹 🇼🇦🇷🇳🇮🇳🇬: None ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ – After you fall asleep at your desk, Harley lingers longer than necessary, his eyes lingering on your face. As he turns away, several of his coworkers—Eddie Ritterman, Leith Pierre, and Stella Greyber—make suggestive comments (about how he seems to care more about you than he should). But Harley evades, hiding behind cold answers and aloof demeanors. The conversation turns to recent experiments—the orphans who disappeared in secret, the brutal results they dare not discuss openly…

The laboratory was silent, save for the soft hum of overhead lights overhead. Harley Sawyer stood still, eyes lingering on the figure slumped over the desk—head resting atop a disordered pile of notes, breaths slow and even.

A sigh slipped from his lips as he reached for his lab coat, draping it over your shoulders with the practiced indifference of a man who had long since abandoned sentimentality.

Practicality, he told himself. Fatigue hinders productivity.

That was all.

And yet, when your stirred beneath the fabric, murmuring something half-conscious, he hesitated.

He was not one for displays of affection, nor did he see value in pointless tenderness, but the weight in his chest was a sensation he refused to name. He turned away before he could dwell on it any further.

Footsteps broke his trance. He recognized the gait before he even looked up.

"Still here, Sawyer?"

Eddie M. N. Ritterman’s voice carried an edge of amusement, but there was something measured beneath it. The older man leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze flicking from Harley to the sleeping figure. One brow lifted. "Didn’t take you for the sentimental type."

Harley exhaled slowly, irritation threading through his carefully maintained composure. "If you came here to comment on my habits, you’re wasting both our time."

Eddie smirked, pushing off the frame. "Relax. Just an observation." His expression darkened slightly, something more calculating surfacing. "But I have to wonder—do you think sentimentality will be tolerated?"

Harley bristled at the insinuation. He had clawed his way up through the ranks of Playtime Co. through sheer intellect and ruthless ambition, but no matter how far he ascended, men like Eddie always looked at him as though he were a tool, a means to an end. It should not have bothered him. And yet—

He glanced back at the sleeping form on the desk. The sight stirred something unfamiliar. He remembered the first meeting, how your sharp tongue and unwavering gaze had irritated and intrigued him in equal measure.

You were clever—too clever, perhaps, for your own good. And yet, you had stayed, challenging him in ways he had not anticipated. He should have found it infuriating. Instead, he had found himself watching you, too often and for too long.

His fingers twitched at his side, recalling the warmth of your skin when he had brushed against them earlier, entirely by accident. He told himself it was insignificant. He had bigger concerns—more important matters to attend to.

Like the project. Like the children.

His stomach twisted at the thought. The orphans—test subjects, they were called, as if reducing them to a category could erase the reality of what had been done.

He had seen their faces, heard their voices—before they had been molded into something unrecognizable. It was necessary. It had to be. And yet, in the darkest corners of his mind, doubt whispered.

A voice he had long buried—one that sounded suspiciously like his younger self, before Ludwig had dismissed him, before his genius had been deemed too reckless, too cruel—resurfaced.

Would the man he had been recognize the man he had become?

"Sawyer," Eddie’s voice cut through the haze, drawing him back. "Are you even listening?"

Harley inhaled sharply, shoulders straightening. "I have work to do. Unless you have something of value to contribute, I suggest you leave."

Eddie studied him for a long moment before chuckling. "Suit yourself." He turned to go but paused at the threshold. "Just remember—attachment makes men weak. And weakness has no place here."

Harley did not respond. He merely watched as the older man disappeared down the dimly lit corridor before his gaze drifted, once more, to the slumbering figure before him.

He had never believed in kindness. But as he stood there, his coat still draped over you, he found himself lingering just a moment too long.

───── ⋆⋅✝⋅⋆ ─────

The lab was silent now.

Not the usual kind of silence that came with the late hours, where machines hummed and the distant clatter of some unseen worker echoed through the walls...

No, this was the silence that settled in after everything had been said. After words exchanged between weary scientists, after tension coiled and uncoiled like a serpent winding through the air. Harley stood in the middle of it, staring at nothing, his hands curled loosely at his sides.

The dancing of light in the lab cast elongated shadows across his face, carving out the sharpness of his cheekbones, the set of his jaw.

He was still as he always was after conversations like these—conversations where Eddie’s carefully veiled reprimands, Leith’s sardonic remarks, and Stella’s unreadable expressions piled atop one another, pressing in against his ribs.

Words about ethics, about progress, about lines crossed and lines yet to be drawn. As if they mattered. As if, at this point, there was anything left to salvage... for sake.

And then there was you.

Asleep at your desk, oblivious to the weight of the night pressing down on him. A pile of scattered notes lay beneath your head, the ink smudged faintly where your cheek had rested against the pages. His coat, still draped over your shoulders from earlier, had slipped slightly, exposing the curve of your nape to the cold air.

He should leave. He knew that. He should turn on his heel and return to his own office, lose himself in calculations and blueprints until exhaustion forced his body to surrender.

That was what he always did. That was what he was supposed to do.

And yet, he lingered.

Harley wasn’t sure when he had sat down, nor when he had leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, watching the slow rise and fall of your breath.

He told himself it was practicality—an assessment. He had done the same with countless test subjects before, monitoring their vitals, the slightest twitch of their fingers. But this wasn’t that.

This was something else.

Your face was relaxed, softened in sleep in a way he rarely saw when you were awake. No guarded amusement, no sharp retorts laced with exasperation.

Just the quiet rise and fall of your chest, the small murmur that barely passed your lips as you shifted slightly beneath his coat. Something settled in him, something he refused to name. He had spent years categorizing every feeling, every instinct into neat, clinical labels.

It made things easier. It made him efficient.

But he had no label for this.

Harley sat there for longer than he should have, his gaze lingering in the spaces between your breaths.

He traced the contours of his own thoughts, the echoes of old memories clawing at the edges of his mind. He remembered standing in a different room, a different silence, where the weight of a wedding ring felt foreign on his hand, where the air still carried the scent of something warm—of someone who was gone.

He remembered the moment he stopped believing in anything outside of his work, the moment the pursuit of progress became the only thing that mattered.

And now, here you were. Here he was. And he had been looking at you for too long.

A quiet breath escaped him, barely more than a whisper in the stillness.

He reached forward, the movement automatic, the ghost of a touch just barely skimming the fabric near your shoulder before he stopped himself. His fingers curled into a fist, retracting as he stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor in the process.

You stirred, just barely, a soft sigh leaving your lips before you settled again.

Harley exhaled through his nose, forcing the stiffness from his shoulders.

Whatever this was, whatever momentary lapse had made him hesitate—he would not entertain it any further. There was work to be done. There was always work to be done.

Without another glance, he turned, his coat slipping slightly further down your frame as he left the room.

#harley sawyer #harley sawyer x reader #poppy playtime #poppy playtime x reader #the doctor x reader #the doctor #dr harley sawyer #╰₊✧ ﾟ⚬𓂂➢ 👁📺💉🩸

166 notes · View notes

revelboo · 20 days ago

Note

I was rereading Gravity because it was one of my inspirations for the song I ended up writing about Optimus and I just realized I accidentally made it a waltz.

https://www.tumblr.com/mi-mi-ri/775082342247202816/sneak-peek-of-the-optimus-prime-x-yn-song-ive?source=share

I wanted to share a bit of it because your fics have been helping me emotionally so much 😭🫶

This is so cool! I’m glad you’ve been feeling creative 💕

Gravity- one shot Waltz

Optimus x Reader

• “Do Cybertronians dance?” Lifting his head from a report at your question, he watches you move around his desk. Dancing by yourself when he’d give anything to dance with you. Would you let him? Or would that be another line you draw and refuse to let him cross. Afraid of letting him get too close. And not even realizing that for him, it’s too late. Loves your attitude, those quick, mischievous smiles and the sound of your laughter. “Besides the horizontal tango, I mean,” you add, laughing when he frowns slightly.

• That one went right over his handsome head. Most of what you say probably does, but he’s good enough to just look slightly puzzled and to go with it. “We dance.” Motions faltering, you stare up at him. Really? ‘Show me,’ you demand, aware that you sound like a little kid, but this you need to see. “Show you?” He repeats. And maybe you want to dance with him. A real dance not just grinding on a stranger, the air thick with cigarettes and your skin itchy with glitter.

• There’s a challenge in those eyes of yours as he sets his datapad aside and presses him palms against the desk. Vaulting up and mass shifting, stumbling a bit before he finds his balance. And your eyes drift up and down him as he holds out a hand in invitation. Your little hands so soft as he curls his servos around it and sweeps you up against his frame. Aware of how inexperienced he is with this. That while Senator Shockwave had invited him to parties, he’d rarely attended and then only so the other mech could pretend to be occupied talking business with him to avoid being pulled into a dance. They’re all sharkticons, the Senator had whispered once a bit too loud, lips curling into an almost smile. That memory fills him with an unexpected melancholy as he tries to remember the dances he’d seen. Trying to remember the steps. Not what they’d done to the Senator for daring to question them.

• For a moment, there’s something in his expression. Almost pain and he takes an uncertain step, resting a hand against the small of your back. It’s a waltz, you realize. Or something close. Following his slow, uncertain lead, there’s a vulnerability in his hesitant movements. Resting your cheek against his chassis, his palm slides up your spine, servos splayed. You can hear his spark thrumming, those little noises his internal systems make. Familiar sounds. “Thank you for not laughing,” he says, venting to stir your hair. “I know I’m bad at this.”

• Palm shifting against your spine, he chases the steady beat of your heart and the feel of you breathing. Needs those things or he can’t recharge anymore. Needs the feel of you. “You’re really not,” you reply, your free hand on his chassis and tucking his chin to see you, your eyes are closed. Relaxed in his arms as you let him guide you. Those words you don’t want to hear on the tip of his glossa. Wanting to say them anyway even if you get angry with him. To tell you he loves you, but he swallows them down again, spark aching. Taking what little of you that you allow him to have and being thankful for it.

#transformers x reader #optimus prime x reader #idw optimus prime

165 notes · View notes

satellite-evans · 3 months ago

Text

The Artist

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader

Summary: sometimes, an artist is far more interesting than the art itself.

Word count: 5.4k

Warnings: fluff, angst? Anthony not being able to mind his own business, briefly mention of parents passing away

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, recommendations, vents or questions are always welcome. I love talking to you guys about anything <3

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Lady Danbury’s soirées were the heart of the social season—part chessboard, part battlefield, where every glance and whisper held strategic importance. Benedict Bridgerton, however, approached such gatherings as an observer rather than a player. He found the art on the walls more captivating than the posturing of the ton.

Wandering through Lady Danbury’s grand halls, Benedict stopped before a painting of a turbulent sea, his thoughts briefly drifting to his own half-finished sketches. A voice interrupted him, sharp and vibrant.

“It’s ambitious, but overworked. The sea churns, but the emotion feels... manufactured.”

He turned to see her: a young woman standing a few steps away, her posture poised yet unguarded. She wore her beauty with an effortless confidence, her eyes a vivid storm of intellect and intrigue. She wasn’t like the other women at the ball, fluttering fans and batting lashes. She observed the world with precision, as though she’d already decided it was hers to command.

“An intriguing critique,” Benedict replied, his interest piqued. “Though perhaps the chaos was intentional. Sometimes life demands a lack of restraint.”

Her gaze flicked to him, assessing. “Chaos is compelling, but it must be tempered with truth. This, Mr. Bridgerton, is a performance.”

“You know my name,” he noted, smiling. “You have the advantage over me, Miss...?”

“Y/N,” she said, a hint of amusement in her tone. “And I find that knowing one’s audience is the first rule of any conversation.”

He inclined his head. “A lesson I’ll remember. Tell me, Miss Y/N, are you always this direct?”

Her lips curved into a subtle smile, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she turned back to the painting. “Do you sketch? You look at this piece as though you’re searching for something beyond the surface.”

Benedict blinked, surprised by her insight. “I do, though I’ve yet to create anything worth showing. You?”

“I paint,” she admitted, her voice softening. “But my work isn’t for the ton’s galleries. Some things are too personal to display.”

“Now you’ve made me curious,” he said, stepping closer. “What would it take to see one of your pieces?”

She tilted her head, her gaze teasing. “Persistence. But I should warn you—I am not easily impressed.”

Benedict smiled, already intrigued by the challenge. “Good. I prefer earning my victories.”

Before she could respond, Lady Danbury’s voice carried through the hall. “Ah, Benedict, I see you’ve met Miss Y/N. And what do you think of her opinions? Sharp as a rapier, aren’t they?”

Benedict glanced at Y/N, his expression warm. “Quite sharp, indeed. But rapier wit is vastly preferable to dull pleasantries.”

Lady Danbury chuckled. “I agree. Well, don’t let me interrupt. Though, Y/N, your brother Charles is looking for you. Something about the carriage.”

At the mention of her brother, Y/N’s composure shifted slightly. “Thank you, Lady Danbury. I’ll find him shortly.”

As Lady Danbury swept away, Benedict offered Y/N a small bow. “Will you grant me the honor of a dance before you leave?”

“Perhaps,” she replied, her eyes glinting with amusement. “If you’re persistent enough.”

Before Benedict could craft a suitably clever reply, a deep voice broke through the moment. “Y/N, it’s getting late.”

Both turned to see a tall man striding toward them, his posture commanding yet measured. He was dressed impeccably, the weight of responsibility apparent in his expression. His resemblance to Y/N—sharp features and the same striking eyes—was unmistakable.

Charles stopped beside them and inclined his head politely toward Benedict before addressing his sister. “The hour grows late, and I believe Lady Danbury is beginning to hint that the soirée is winding down.”

Y/N offered her brother a cool yet affectionate look. “You always did have an impeccable sense of timing, Charles.”

Benedict, recovering quickly, stepped forward with a polite bow. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Benedict Bridgerton.”

Charles’s gaze sharpened slightly at the name before he returned the bow with measured precision. “Charles Y/L/N, Earl of Whitestone.”

Benedict’s eyebrows lifted in recognition, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Whitestone? I believe my brother, Anthony, has spoken of you. He mentioned you were recently elevated to the title.”

Charles gave a brief nod, his tone guarded but civil. “Anthony and I have known each other for some years. He’s a good man, and an excellent Viscount.”

“As I’m certain you’re an excellent Earl,” Benedict replied smoothly, sensing the protective edge to Charles’s demeanor.

The corner of Charles’s mouth twitched upward, though he remained composed. “I do what I can, though the title comes with its share of burdens. And you, Mr. Bridgerton, seem to have a knack for engaging my sister in conversation.”

Benedict chuckled lightly, inclining his head toward Y/N. “Your sister is an extraordinary conversationalist, my lord. I find myself quite fortunate to have made her acquaintance tonight.”

Charles’s gaze flicked to Y/N, who appeared unruffled by the exchange but wore a faint smile of amusement. “Fortunate, indeed,” Charles said evenly. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I believe it’s time to depart. Y/N?”

Y/N turned back to Benedict, her expression unreadable but her tone cordial. “Thank you for the discussion, Mr. Bridgerton. Perhaps we’ll meet again, should the occasion allow.”

Benedict bowed, his tone warm. “I certainly hope so, Miss Y/N.”

As Charles and Y/N walked toward their waiting carriage, Benedict watched them leave, his thoughts lingering on the sharp wit and quiet allure of Y/N.

Charles, walking slightly ahead of his sister, cast a glance back toward Benedict, then murmured to her, “He seems taken with you.”

Y/N’s lips curved faintly as she replied, “Let him be. I’m hardly an easy conquest.”

Charles smirked faintly, his tone fond but serious. “Good. Just remember, Y/N, you’re worth far more than simple flattery and fleeting interest.”

Y/N nodded, her gaze forward but her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

The clatter of carriage wheels echoed faintly as Charles and Y/N made their way back to their townhouse. The dim glow of gas lamps illuminated the streets, casting fleeting shadows across Charles’s pensive expression.

“You like him,” Charles remarked, breaking the companionable silence. His voice was even, but his words were laced with a quiet observation.

Y/N glanced at her brother, her expression unreadable. “He’s intriguing. Sharp-witted. But liking someone, Charles, is a luxury I can ill afford.”

Charles leaned back in his seat, watching her carefully. “Luxury or not, you seemed more yourself tonight than I’ve seen in months. There’s no harm in entertaining the idea—provided you remain cautious.”

Y/N’s gaze softened at her brother’s concern. “I appreciate your vigilance, my dear Earl of Whitestone. But let’s not rush to paint him as either hero or villain. Men of his world are not often held to the same scrutiny as women of ours.”

“True,” Charles admitted, tilting his head slightly. “But Anthony Bridgerton isn’t one to speak highly of a man without reason. If his brother is half as principled, I’d consider him worth the risk.”

Y/N’s lips twitched at his words. “Risk, indeed. But enough about Mr. Bridgerton. We’ve our own affairs to manage, and I’m certain our tenants won’t care for my musings about art or charm.”

Charles nodded, though he noted the faint pink flush that crept up her neck as she turned toward the window.

As the Whitestone carriage disappeared into the darkness, Benedict stood at the edge of the Danbury estate, his gaze lingering on the path where Y/N had vanished. The warmth of the evening had cooled, but he hardly noticed the chill. His mind replayed their conversation—the sharp wit in her words, the spark in her eyes when she spoke of art, and the measured grace with which she had danced around his charm.

“Y/N,” he murmured softly, as if testing the sound of her name. It felt as striking as the woman herself, an enigma he couldn’t easily solve.

Lady Danbury’s sharp voice startled him from his reverie. “Well, Mr. Bridgerton, if you plan to stand out there all night, you might as well help me escort the remaining stragglers to their carriages.”

Benedict turned, an easy smile masking his contemplative mood. “I was merely enjoying the view, Lady Danbury. Your soiree is, as always, a triumph.”

Her keen eyes narrowed with amusement. “And yet your gaze was fixed on the road, not my ballroom. That young lady certainly left an impression.”

Benedict didn’t deny it. “She’s remarkable,” he admitted, more to himself than to Lady Danbury.

“Be careful with that one,” the older woman warned, though her tone was fond. “She has depth. And depth demands substance in return.”

Benedict inclined his head, her words sinking in. As much as he relished the challenge, he realized he wanted more than a fleeting encounter.

The ride home was a quiet one. Benedict sat in the carriage, the sounds of horses’ hooves a steady rhythm that gave his thoughts space to wander.

He’d encountered many women in his time—clever debutantes, bold widows, and those who wore charm like armor. But Y/N was different. There was a quiet power in her deflections, a vulnerability hidden behind her sharp observations.

His mind lingered on her smile, fleeting yet warm, and the way her brother, Charles, had watched over her like a hawk. Benedict respected that protectiveness—it spoke of loyalty, of family bonds he deeply valued.

When he finally reached the familiar halls of his family home, the house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of old wood and the soft rustle of wind through the trees outside. He retired to his room, but sleep eluded him.

Instead, he sketched—rough outlines of Y/N’s features, her poised stance, the energy in her eyes as she critiqued the painting at Lady Danbury’s. Each stroke of charcoal carried with it an urgency, an attempt to capture the essence of someone who refused to be defined.

By the time dawn’s light began to filter through his window, Benedict set the sketch aside, his resolve clear.

“I’ll see her again,” he murmured, more determined than he’d been in years.

The following morning, the Bridgerton family gathered around the long dining table, sunlight streaming through the tall windows. Despite the sumptuous spread of fruit, fresh-baked pastries, and piping hot tea, all eyes were on Benedict.

“Who was she?” Eloise asked bluntly, buttering her toast with unnecessary vigor. “Lady Whistledown was positively tantalized.”

Benedict sighed, taking a deliberate sip of tea. “Good morning to you too, Eloise.”

“Don’t dodge the question,” Daphne chimed in with a knowing smile. “It’s not every day Lady Whistledown dedicates an entire paragraph to your exploits.”

Anthony leaned back in his chair, an eyebrow raised. “Y/N Y/L/N, wasn’t it? I believe her brother, Charles, is the new Earl of Whitestone. Solid reputation, though he keeps to himself since inheriting the title.”

Benedict nodded, setting down his cup. “The very same. I had the pleasure of speaking with her—she’s sharp, insightful, and refreshingly candid.”

“And beautiful?” Colin teased, his grin wide.

“Extremely,” Benedict replied without hesitation, earning a round of laughter.

Anthony’s amusement faded slightly as he regarded his brother with a calculating look. “Charles is an old acquaintance of mine. We crossed paths during the early years of our titles. A good man, but fiercely protective of his family. Tread carefully, Benedict.”

“Always,” Benedict said, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of determination.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the grass of Whitestone’s modest garden, a sketchpad balanced on her lap. The cool breeze carried with it the faint scent of lavender from the nearby hedgerows, mingling with the crisp aroma of her graphite pencils. The gardens were her sanctuary—a reprieve from society’s endless noise and expectations. Today, her focus was on a half-finished drawing of a willow tree bending gracefully over the garden pond. Yet, as much as she tried to focus, her thoughts drifted back to Benedict Bridgerton.

She had replayed their exchanges from Lady Danbury’s soiree countless times in her mind. His words had been genuine, his curiosity sincere. Yet it was his gaze that lingered in her memory—the way his eyes softened when he listened to her critiques of the art, as though he truly saw her and not just another face in the crowd. Y/N frowned slightly, annoyed at her own vulnerability. He’s intriguing, certainly, but so are countless men who wander into my path. Why should this one matter more?

Her pencil faltered as the sharp rap of a knock echoed from the front of the house. She stilled, curiosity piqued. Guests were rare at Whitestone, and Charles had already mentioned he expected no visitors today. She heard the muffled creak of the door opening and the low rumble of her brother’s voice, but the words were indistinct. Setting her sketchpad aside, Y/N rose and dusted her hands off on her skirts, wandering closer to the house with light steps.

Inside the parlor, Charles extended a firm handshake to Anthony Bridgerton. The Earl of Whitestone and the Viscount Bridgerton cut striking figures in the modest room, both exuding a commanding presence, though Anthony’s was tempered by a composed air of diplomacy.

“Viscount Bridgerton,” Charles greeted, stepping back to motion him inside. “This is an unexpected visit.”

“I thought it past time we caught up,” Anthony replied with a faint smile, his eyes sweeping the room briefly before settling back on Charles. “Though I must confess, my errand isn’t entirely social.”

Charles raised an eyebrow as he led Anthony toward the parlor’s armchairs. “I assume this has something to do with your family’s estates bordering mine?”

“In part.” Anthony seated himself with practiced ease, but there was a guardedness to his tone that Charles didn’t miss. “The other part involves my brother, Benedict.”

Charles stilled briefly, his expression giving nothing away. “Ah, your brother,” he said smoothly, taking his own seat. “I must admit, he did make an impression at Lady Danbury’s soiree.”

Anthony’s lips quirked in a wry smile. “So I’ve heard. I trust my brother behaved himself?”

Charles smirked faintly, folding his hands over his knee. “Mr. Bridgerton was... eager to engage my sister in conversation. Though I’m not sure she was as willing to reciprocate.”

Anthony chuckled, but his tone shifted, his words laced with sincerity. “Benedict speaks highly of your sister. It’s rare for him to show such genuine interest, Charles. He’s not one to court frivolities.”

Charles leaned back, his gaze sharpening. “You understand, Anthony, that Y/N has had her fair share of shallow suitors. She’s cautious, and rightly so. My priority is ensuring her happiness and protecting her from anyone who sees her as a fleeting amusement.”

“Benedict doesn’t play such games,” Anthony replied, meeting Charles’s gaze head-on. “In truth, I’ve never seen him take such an interest in anyone. Your sister seems to have stirred something in him—though, knowing Y/N from your stories, I suspect she hasn’t made it easy for him.”

Charles allowed himself a faint chuckle. “No, she certainly hasn’t. Y/N is not one to be charmed easily. But it’s clear your brother is determined, which could either work in his favor or cause him considerable frustration.”

Anthony inclined his head, his expression softening. “Benedict values substance, as I’m sure Y/N does. They may both surprise you.”

Charles studied him in silence for a moment before offering a measured nod. “We’ll see. For now, I’ll judge him by his actions, not his words.”

Y/N lingered just beyond the doorway, her heart racing at the snippets of conversation she managed to overhear. Charles’s voice, steady and firm, carried faintly through the air. He’s defending me, she realized, a pang of gratitude swelling in her chest. Her brother’s protectiveness had always been her shield against the pressures of society. Yet, there was another voice—smooth and commanding.

The Viscount Bridgerton.

She had never met Anthony before, but his reputation preceded him. To hear him speak so highly of his brother was... surprising. Benedict’s charm had seemed effortless, but perhaps it ran deeper than she had assumed.

Careful not to draw attention, Y/N eased closer to the edge of the doorway, curiosity getting the better of her.

Anthony’s final remark, “They may both surprise you,” was met with a soft clearing of a throat. Both men turned to see Y/N stepping into the room, her expression poised but her gaze quietly assessing.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” she said with a faint smile, addressing Anthony. “You must be Viscount Bridgerton. I apologize for not greeting you sooner.”

Anthony rose immediately, his movements fluid and respectful. “Miss Y/N,” he greeted, his tone warm. “The pleasure is mine. I was just remarking to your brother on your keen sense of discernment. It seems Benedict wasn’t exaggerating.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, her smile deepening. “He spoke of me?”

Anthony’s smile mirrored hers, though he chose his words carefully. “Indeed. Rarely have I seen my brother so animated in recounting a conversation.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to Charles, whose stern expression had softened, before settling back on Anthony. “That’s high praise coming from you, my lord,” she said lightly, though her eyes gleamed with amusement. “Perhaps I should be flattered—or cautious.”

Anthony chuckled, gesturing toward the chair opposite. “Flattery or caution—either is warranted. But if I may, Miss Y/N, Benedict is many things, but insincere is not one of them.”

Y/N seated herself gracefully, her expression thoughtful. “Then it would seem your brother and I have much in common,” she replied smoothly, though her mind raced. What exactly has Benedict told him?

As Anthony and Y/N exchanged polite conversation, Charles observed his sister closely. Her tone was cordial, her posture poised, but he knew her well enough to detect the subtle sharpness in her gaze—a warning to anyone attempting to pry too deeply. She wasn’t rattled by Anthony’s words, but she was undoubtedly calculating her next move.

Anthony, for his part, seemed at ease. His diplomacy was well-honed, his remarks layered with subtle reassurances. Yet Charles couldn’t help but feel the quiet tension in the room. Anthony was here not simply to visit a friend, but to ensure Benedict’s intentions were made clear—or perhaps to defend them.

“I find it intriguing,” Y/N said, interrupting Charles’s thoughts, “that you’ve taken the trouble to visit us, my lord, when your brother has already made his interest known. Surely, you trust his judgment?”

Anthony’s brow arched slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I do, Miss Y/N, though it would be remiss of me not to learn more about the woman who has managed to hold my brother’s attention.”

“And have you drawn your conclusions already?” she asked, tilting her head.

Anthony leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady but not intrusive. “Not entirely. But I do know this: my brother is a man of passions—art, creation, and the search for something meaningful. He finds those qualities rare. I suspect he believes he’s found them in you.”

Y/N’s composure didn’t falter, though her chest tightened slightly at his words. Her response was deliberate, each word measured. “An interesting theory, my lord. I wonder what he might say if he were here to speak for himself.”

As the conversation unfolded at Whitestone, Benedict Bridgerton was oblivious to his brother’s bold intervention. He sat alone in the Bridgerton family’s drawing room, a half-finished sketch resting on the desk before him. It was an abstract piece—a hazy rendition of the way the light had played across Y/N’s face as she’d described the painting at Lady Danbury’s soiree.

Frustrated, he set the pencil down and ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t seen her since the garden farewell days ago, and the memory of her enigmatic smile lingered like a half-finished melody. Every word she had spoken felt deliberate, each glance calculated. Yet, for all her guardedness, he had glimpsed something more—an intensity that matched his own.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the sketch with a mix of irritation and admiration. What is it about her that has me so utterly undone?

The door creaked open, and Colin poked his head inside, his ever-mischievous grin firmly in place. “Still brooding over Lady Y/N?”

Benedict scowled, though there was no real malice behind it. “I’m not brooding.”

Colin stepped inside, uninvited, and plucked the sketch off the desk. “Is that so? Because this,” he said, waving the paper, “tells a rather different story. Don’t tell me you’re losing sleep over one of Anthony’s sermons.”

Benedict frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Colin flopped onto the settee, clearly enjoying himself. “Anthony’s gone to Whitestone, hasn’t he? To visit Y/N and her brother. He practically ordered Newton to saddle the horse this morning.”

Benedict shot to his feet, his voice incredulous. “Anthony went to Whitestone?”

Colin’s smile widened. “Oh, yes. Didn’t he tell you? I’d wager he’s there now, making some long-winded speech about Bridgerton honor and the seriousness of your intentions.”

Benedict’s fists clenched, though it was more out of frustration than anger. “Of course he would meddle,” he muttered, pacing the room. “I don’t need him playing matchmaker.”

“Perhaps not,” Colin replied, his tone light. “But I suspect you’ll thank him in the end. Anthony may be insufferable, but he has a way of clearing obstacles—even those you’re too stubborn to see.”

Benedict ignored him, walking around in the room furiously waiting for his brother to come home. He did not need Anthony meddling with his business when even he didn't have the chance to visit you or buy you flowers. He prayed that his brother didn't scare or intimidate Y/N in any shape or form.

Back at Whitestone, Y/N’s mind churned as Anthony’s words settled. The sincerity behind them was disarming, but it also raised questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

She glanced at Charles, who was watching the exchange with his usual stoicism. Her brother was protective, and she valued his judgment, but she also resented feeling like a piece on a chessboard. Why should my life’s direction hinge on the machinations of two Bridgertons?

Y/N straightened, her voice breaking the charged silence. “You speak highly of your brother, my lord. But I can’t help but wonder if his interest is shared equally by the rest of your family. Surely a marriage, that you keep mentioning I might add, between a Bridgerton and an earl’s sister comes with certain expectations.”

Anthony’s expression didn’t falter, though his gaze turned contemplative. “You’re right, Miss Y/N. Family expectations can be... formidable. But we Bridgertons tend to weigh them against the matters of the heart. My brother is pursuing you not for duty, but for something far greater. That is why I came—to assure you that his pursuit is no fleeting fancy.”

Her breath caught for the briefest moment before she composed herself. “And yet you speak for him instead of letting him speak for himself. Tell me, viscount Bridgerton, is it a tradition of your family that the elder brother visit first before the man himself came here to court me or are you just more excited than Benedict?"

Anthony’s smile turned faintly amused. “Perhaps. But as the head of the family, it is not a tradition, but my duty to do so."

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows through the Bridgerton drawing room, where Violet sipped her tea, listening to Eloise debate some pamphlet on societal reform. Colin, seated nearby, was making a show of writing letters while sneakily trying to eavesdrop.

Suddenly, the front door opened with a sharp creak, followed by the heavy sound of deliberate footfalls. The atmosphere in the house shifted.

“Anthony,” Violet remarked, looking up from her teacup as her eldest son entered. His expression was stony, his movements clipped.

“Anthony, you look—”

Anthony!" Benedict’s voice roared through the house, heavy with fury.

"Benedict," Anthony greeted cautiously, straightening. "What’s the meaning of this outburst?"

"The meaning?" Benedict spat, his voice echoing through the room. "You went to the Whitestone estate without even telling me. You had no right!"

Violet, startled by the commotion, stood. "What’s going on here?"

"Ask your eldest son," Benedict said bitterly. "Apparently, he’s taken it upon himself to play matchmaker or, worse, guardian of my personal affairs."

Anthony’s jaw tightened, though he remained outwardly calm. "Benedict, I was only acting in your best—"

"No!" Benedict interrupted, his voice rising. "You were acting in your best interest, Anthony. Or, at the very least, what you think is best. You didn’t consult me, didn’t even think to ask what I wanted!"

By now, the household was gathering in the hallway, drawn by the shouting. Eloise whispered to Colin, "This is far better than the last novel I read."

Anthony’s patience began to fray as he stood taller, his tone hardening. "I went because I thought you might care for her, Benedict! And if you do, it’s only natural to ensure the family is suitable."

"How dare you presume to know what I care for!" Benedict snapped. "And what of her? Did you think she’d appreciate you barging in, uninvited, to assess her worth like livestock? I don’t even know if I care for her, but now I may never have the chance to decide for myself because of you!"

Anthony’s face fell briefly into guilt before he rallied. "I wasn’t trying to ruin anything. I was trying to protect you—"

"Protect me from what, Anthony? From a young woman with a talent for art and a brother navigating his new title? Or perhaps from the whispers you always seem so terrified of?"

"You don’t understand," Anthony said sharply. "These things matter. Reputation matters. If you pursue her—"

"Stop!" Benedict’s voice was loud enough to make the rest of the family wince. "You don’t get to make this about reputation or family honor. You didn’t even think to come to me first, and for that alone, you’ve overstepped!"

Violet interjected, her voice firm. "Both of you, enough. This shouting is unbecoming."

"Unbecoming?" Benedict scoffed, his anger undiminished. "What’s truly unbecoming is my brother meddling in affairs that are none of his business!"

Anthony took a deep breath, his voice dropping but still heated. "I went because I thought it was for the best, Benedict. If I was wrong, then I apologize. But don’t act as if I’ve committed some great crime for trying to protect my family."

Benedict shook his head, his jaw tightening. "If you wanted to protect me, Anthony, you should have come to me first. You should have trusted me to handle my own life."

Without waiting for a response, Benedict turned and stormed out of the room, the sound of the door slamming behind him reverberating through the house.

Benedict rode hard, the crisp autumn air stinging his face as he left Mayfair behind. The rhythmic pounding of his horse's hooves against the packed dirt offered little solace, the anger from his fight with Anthony still churning in his chest. The thought of his brother making decisions about his life—his relationships—without so much as a conversation left him fuming.

The horse slowed as they approached Hyde Park. Benedict hadn’t meant to end up here, but the vastness of the greenery and the relative quiet of the park seemed preferable to the confinement of Bridgerton House. He dismounted near a cluster of trees, tying his horse to a low branch.

Wandering through the park, Benedict eventually spotted a familiar figure seated beneath a sprawling oak tree. Y/N sat cross-legged on the grass, a sketchbook balanced on her knee, her brow furrowed in concentration as her hand moved deftly across the page. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t notice his approach.

For a moment, Benedict simply observed her. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on her face. There was a peacefulness about her that pulled at something deep within him, a stark contrast to the chaos of the morning.

He cleared his throat softly.

Y/N jumped, her pencil jerking across the page. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide before recognition dawned. “Mr. Bridgerton!” she exclaimed, a hand flying to her chest. “You startled me.”

“I apologize,” Benedict said quickly, stepping closer. “Startling you was not my intention. I... Well, I didn’t expect to find anyone here, let alone you.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him, though there was a trace of humor in her gaze. “Hyde Park isn’t precisely secluded, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Touché,” Benedict conceded with a small smile. “Still, I seem to have a habit of interrupting you.” He gestured to the sketchbook in her lap. “May I?”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edges of the paper. Then, with a resigned sigh, she handed it over. “It’s not finished,” she said quickly.

Benedict took the sketchbook, his eyes scanning the page. It was a study of a fountain in the park, the water captured mid-flow, the surrounding trees sketched with delicate precision. “This is remarkable,” he said sincerely. “The way you’ve captured the movement of the water—it feels alive.”

Y/N flushed at the compliment, though she tried to mask it with a nonchalant shrug. “It’s nothing special. Just practice.”

“Your modesty does you no justice,” Benedict said, handing the sketchbook back to her. “This is more than practice. It’s art.”

Her lips quirked into a small smile, but she said nothing, her eyes dropping to the sketch.

They sat in silence for a moment before Benedict spoke again. “I owe you an apology, Miss Y/N.”

“For startling me?” she teased, though her tone was light.

“For that and...for my brother’s intrusion at your home earlier today,” he said, his voice more serious now.

Y/N looked up sharply, her expression unreadable. “You knew?”

“I only found out after the fact,” Benedict admitted, frustration seeping into his tone. “Believe me, if I had known what Anthony was planning, I would have stopped him.”

Y/N studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I won’t pretend it wasn’t unsettling to have the Viscount Bridgerton show up unannounced, but your brother was respectful.”

“That doesn’t excuse him,” Benedict said firmly. “He had no right to involve himself. Whatever this is,” he gestured between them, “it’s our business, not his.”

A flicker of something passed through Y/N’s eyes—surprise, perhaps, or even approval—but it was gone before Benedict could decipher it.

“Your brother’s actions are understandable, though,” she said finally. “Family often feels entitled to protect us, even when we don’t need their protection.”

“‘Entitled’ is the word,” Benedict muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

Y/N tilted her head, a trace of amusement creeping into her expression. “You sound angry.”

“I am angry,” Benedict admitted, though his voice softened as he continued. “Not just because Anthony went behind my back, but because I... I don’t want anyone to think I need someone else to make my decisions for me. Least of all you.”

Her brows lifted at his candor, and a small smile played on her lips. “I think I can decide what to think of you, Mr. Bridgerton, regardless of your brother’s interference.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink around them. There was an openness in Y/N’s gaze that felt like an invitation, though to what, Benedict wasn’t entirely sure.

“May I sit?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Y/N gestured to the patch of grass beside her. “Be my guest.”

Benedict settled himself beside her, leaning back against the tree trunk. The tension that had coiled in his chest all day seemed to ease in her presence.

“Do you often come here to draw?” he asked after a moment.

“Whenever I can,” Y/N said, glancing at the fountain in the distance. “It’s one of the few places in London that feels...free.”

“I can see the appeal,” Benedict said. “There’s a tranquility here. A sense of space.”

“And yet you seem restless,” Y/N observed, her eyes studying him intently.

Benedict chuckled, though there was little humor in it. “I suppose I am. My family has a way of...complicating things.”

“Families tend to do that,” Y/N said lightly.

He turned to look at her, a question forming on his lips, but he hesitated. “Do you...” he began, then stopped.

“Do I what?” she prompted.

“Do you find it hard?” he asked finally. “Being the person others look to? Shouldering the weight of their expectations?”

Y/N’s gaze grew distant, her fingers idly tracing the edge of her sketchbook. “I think we all bear expectations, whether we like it or not. The trick is deciding which ones matter and which ones don’t.”

Benedict nodded, her words striking a chord. “And have you decided?”

Her lips curved into a small, enigmatic smile. “I’m still working on it.”

They fell into a companionable silence, the only sounds the rustling of leaves and the faint splash of the fountain. For the first time that day, Benedict felt a sense of calm.

Perhaps, he thought, this wasn’t such a terrible day after all.

( part 2 anyone?)

#fluff #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x fem!reader #benedict x reader #bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton season 4 #benedict bridgerton fic

214 notes · View notes

loveritas · 4 months ago

Text

a/n: slow intro with a fair bit of dialogue & little plot twist at the end? + if you don't like gunplay, i promise this is not the one for you, don't read it wc: 5.7k

the rest of kinktober here + (toji art credit) + special tag @risararelywrites <3

As the night crept on, the thrill of the scare park hung thick in the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and muffled shrieks from other visitors. You walked arm-in-arm with Shoko, Suguru, and Satoru, revelling in the pulse of adrenaline that shot through you whenever an actor lunged from the darkness. Together, you’d gone through nearly every haunted house in the park, each one more elaborate than the last.

But now, as you drifted toward the edge of the grounds, the lively sounds began to fade, swallowed up by the sight of a lone haunted house standing apart from the others—a grim silhouette shrouded in eerie, rolling fog.

This house looked different. It was darker, older, with an unsettling aura that seemed to thicken the air around it. Unlike the other exhibits, there were no bright lights, no cheering guides or costumed actors welcoming you in, just an open doorway that hinted at cracked wood, grimy windows, and shadows that seemed to hang around and watch.

"Why isn’t anyone going in?" you murmured, stopping to stare at the building. "Did they close it for the night?"

Shoko glanced at Suguru, exchanging a look that sent a tiny ripple of unease through you. “No, it’s open. Just not exactly popular,” she replied, her voice low.

“Not popular?” You smirked, letting the hint of a challenge seep in. “Is it really that bad?”

“Depends who you ask,” Satoru replied, his usual playful tone missing as he stared at the house. “People don’t go in alone.”

“It’s a scare park.” You scoffed, waving off his warning. “How scary could it actually be?”

Suguru placed a hand on your shoulder, a rare seriousness in his eyes. “This one’s different. People say there’s something… wrong with it. Nobody wants to find out for sure.”

“Wrong?” you echoed, crossing your arms. “How, exactly?”

“Some say there’s a man who hides in there,” Shoko murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “They don’t know if he’s some rogue actor or just… some crazy man. But he’s armed. Supposedly, he sneaks around pretending to be part of the act.”

You looked at the house again, half-amused, half-spooked. “So you’re telling me there’s a real psycho in there hiding out? Right.”

Your friends exchanged wary glances, their usual bravado notably absent, which only deepened your curiosity. “You’re serious? This is over some urban legend?”

“It’s not a legend,” Shoko muttered, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting to see someone creeping out of the fog. “People say they’ve seen him covered in blood. They say he blends right in until it’s too late.”

“Staff avoid it too,” Satoru added, his tone unusually flat. “So if you’re thinking about going in, maybe reconsider.”

A thrill shot through you, half defiance, half intrigue. The house loomed ahead, daring you. “So you all think he’s in there tonight?”

Suguru’s hand tightened on your shoulder. “It’s not worth finding out. There are plenty of other places we can check out.”

But the challenge tugged at you, almost tauntingly. You took a step forward, drawing exasperated sighs from your friends.

"Are you actually going in there?"

"This is a hard no for me," Shoko insisted.

“Come on, we’re not kidding around,” Suguru said, his expression sombre.

You gave them a shrug and a smile. “I’ll just peek in, five minutes, that’s all.”

Shoko crossed her arms, rolling her eyes. “Right, nothing bad ever happens in ‘just five minutes.’”

“Remember, if he’s in there, we’re not coming to save you.” Satoru jokes as he rolls his eyes.

"Noted," you replied, dancing around him with a grin. "If anything happens, at least I'll have a story."

But as you moved toward the darkened doorway, the memories of the warnings hounded you, and crossing the threshold, a small voice whispered, maybe they're right.

Inside, the shadows clung to the walls, warping and shifting with every flicker of the dim yellowing light bulbs. The air was heavy, still, as though the house itself was holding its breath, waiting. With each cautious step, the floor remained eerily silent-no familiar creaks, no whispers from other thrill-seekers echoing from somewhere in the darkness. The quiet was suffocating.

"It's just another haunted house," you whispered, trying to break the silence. But even your voice seemed to be swallowed up by the shadows.

You reached the edge of a dusty, darkened room when a soft dragging sound cut through the quiet. You whirled around, your heart hammering, but the hallway behind you was empty. The moment you began to steady your breath, a low rumbling chuckle echoed through the room, crawling down your spine.

"Didn't think anyone would wander in alone," a voice drawled from the shadows, smooth and dripping with dark amusement. "You've got guts.”

Your breath caught as a figure began to take form: a tall, wide man whose eyes glinted in the poor light. He moved like a shadow off the wall, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as he took another step forward, the faint glow illuminating a pistol in his hand, his finger lazily resting near the trigger.

You swallowed hard and forced a grin, hoping to mask your unease. "Are… are you part of the show?"

He chuckled, his eyes raking over you with dangerous curiosity. "I'm part of an experience," he told you, that taunting smile twisting. "But not the kind you paid for.”

Your heart was racing as he closed in; his eyes were razor-sharp and predatory. He didn't hurry-if anything, he drew out the fear across your features. The pistol glinted in his hand, but his gaze stayed fixed on you, like he was reading every flicker of emotion.

He moved forward with a nearly lazy step; his head fell to the side as his smile grew, watching you inch backward. "So, you thought this was just another haunted house?" he asked, the tiniest thread of dark thrill weaved in. "Guess it's too late to warn you some rumours are worth listening to.

Your back hit the wall, and his eyes lit up with a spark of satisfaction. He leaned in closer, pressing the gun against his temple as he did so, an intense gaze and a chilling gleam in his eye. "You've got that look-the one which says you're curious. Brave, maybe a little too much so." He paused, smirk deepening. "So, how brave are you feeling now?”

You clenched your jaw and wouldn't flinch. "Maybe I am not as easy to scare as you think," you muttered, though your own voice quivered ever so slightly. "Oh?" His smirk whittled just a little sharper, a flash of mirth dancing in his eyes. "Then let us see.”

He let go of your wrist, only to trail the gun’s barrel along your jawline, his eyes drinking in every flinch, every shiver. He seemed to delight in drawing out the silence, each second weighted with his slow, deliberate movements. And in that quiet, somehow, the unspoken threat felt far more sinister.

As he studied you, his gaze lingered, savouring the fear that glinted in your eyes. “I have all night to see what it takes to break you,” he murmured, his voice almost playful. “And something tells me, this is going to be fun.”

The glint in his eyes held a dark promise, and you knew, too late, that you’d wandered into a trap—the kind that left you wondering just who, exactly, was meant to be scared.

You swallowed, struggling to hold his gaze, fighting the instinct to look away. But he had you cornered, and he knew it—knew you were trapped in his snare, just like he’d intended. The glint in his eye sharpened as he watched, a spark of twisted satisfaction lighting up his face as he took in every flicker of fear.

The man’s grin stretched wider, dark and mocking, as he watched you. With a slow, deliberate motion, he lowered the gun, tracing the cold barrel down your jawline, his eyes studying every inch of your face with a predatory intensity. The silence between you pressed in, suffocating and tense, somehow worse than any threat he could have made.

“You’re trembling now,” he whispered, voice dipped in dark humour. “But it makes me wonder…” He tilted his head, a false look of innocence softening his gaze even as his smirk stayed razor-sharp. “Is it fear making you shake? Or is it something… else?”

Your breath caught, a barely perceptible hitch that he didn’t miss. His smirk grew, as though he’d stumbled on a private joke, something only he was in on. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re the kind who gets a thrill out of all this?” he mocked, his voice a conspiratorial whisper, as if he were sharing a secret with you. “The type who’d never admit it, but… can’t help the way their heart races anyway.”

You tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let you off so easily. With a nudge from the gun, he forced your chin up, his gaze locking with yours. “I see you,” he continued, inching closer, his warm breath fanning across your skin. “People like you walk in here alone, pretending it’s just for the thrill.” He leaned in, his voice lowering to a near murmur against your ear. “But maybe you wanted more.”

His words sent a shiver through you, mingling fear with something you didn’t want to acknowledge. He leaned back, watching your reaction, fingers brushing the side of your face in a touch that was disturbingly gentle. “Maybe that’s why you’re here,” he said, a rough laugh slipping from his lips. “I doubt someone like you would admit it, though.”

Your mind raced, and your voice caught in your throat, a knot of indignation and fear keeping you silent. He noticed, smirking like he’d already won. “Right on the mark, aren’t I?” he murmured, his hand resting on your cheek. “It’s always the innocent ones—scare the easiest, break the fastest.”

Your heart pounded, and though you willed yourself to pull away, your body seemed frozen under his touch. He held your gaze, thumb brushing softly over your cheek. “Just say it,” he teased, leaning close again. His thumb pressed lightly against your throat, tracing the beat of your pulse. “You didn’t come in here just for the scare, did you?”

The mocking smile he wore softened slightly, his voice lowering to a nearly intimate whisper. “I can feel it—the way you’re responding. The thrill, the nerves, the part of you that’s not sure if you want to run… or stay.”

You hated the way he seemed to read you, hated that he saw through the mask you wore to the part of you he’d awakened, a part tinged with something reckless and dangerous. He bent down further, enjoying how he had you at his mercy. "That's it, isn't it?" he mumbled, "It's a game-this line between predator and prey." His voice dropped to a purr. “Between fear… and whatever this is.”

You tried to steady your breath as he studied every flicker of emotion that crossed your face. He brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the touch feather-light but charged, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“How much would you actually enjoy being pushed?” he wondered aloud, eyes glinting. “Maybe you’d even beg for it. Maybe you’d even like not having control.”

A thrill of panic mingled with something darker, something that made your heart beat faster. He could see it, knew the effect he was having, and the satisfaction on his face only grew. “Just admit it,” he murmured, his tone insistent, his thumb grazing your jawline. “Admit how much you’re enjoying this.”

His fingertips lingered on your hip, a reassuring touch that was highly unsettling, as if he were daring you to let those words pass your lips out loud. "Come on," he seduced, the devilish glint dancing in his eyes. "I promise I won't bite… unless you're asking.

His hand slid around to the small of your back, pulling you against him. The heat of his body reminded you just how close he was, how easily he could overpower you if he wanted. His voice dropped to a near-growl. “Last chance to back out.” His lips ghosted over your earlobe. “Tell me to stop, and I will. But if you don’t…”

His grip tightened, teeth grazing your ear, and then he pulled back, his gaze sharp as he slipped the gun into his waistband. His eyes were fixed upon yours with such intensity and something so akin to hunger; it sent the shiver down your spine. "So," he breathed, his voice low, with just a hint of challenge. "Ready to play?

Your heartbeat pounded against your rib cage, each thud a resonating drum in the silence between you. His words, his touch, the heat radiating off his body, it threatened to overwhelm you, drowning out every rational thought. You knew you should tell him to stop, should put space between you, but something kept you frozen there, curiosity mixing with the thrill of the unknown.

"I… I don't.", you stuttered, all but a whisper, while shallow breaths betrayed you, even in protest.

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk edging toward a full grin. “You don’t what?” he asked, eyes gleaming. “Don’t want me to stop… or don’t know if you should?”

Closer still, he leaned in until his nose brushed against yours, his gaze burrowing into yours with an intensity that made your knees feel weak. “I think you want this more than you’ll admit,” he murmured. His hand slid up your back, fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head, exposing your neck. “Just say the word,” he whispered, his lips hovering over yours. “I’ll give you everything you’ve been too afraid to ask for.”

He caught your bottom lip between his teeth, a playful nip that he soothed with his tongue, his voice softening to a near-coax. “Come on, sweetheart,” he breathed, every word a slow, dangerous promise. “Let yourself stop fighting it.”

"Okay," you whispered, just barely audible, the last shred of resistance dissolving as his lips claimed yours-hard and demanding. The kiss bruised with its possessiveness-he took your mouth with such hunger that robbed your breath, his tongue delving deep inside to consume you. His hand tangles in the strands of your hair, keeping you firmly in place, the other roaming along your body, mapping out every curve.

But the next instant, he pushed you away, and you tumbled backward, falling against a stack of old props that tumbled with you, a flicker of fear crossing your features. He saw it.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" he mocked, stalking toward you on lean legs with a predator's ease. "Scared off so soon?"

His eyes shone with a feral light, a cruel smirk playing about his lips. "I thought you wanted to play."

He leaned over you, grasping at your chin roughly to force you to look up at him. "Maybe you're not as brave as you thought," he sneered. "Or maybe", the tone darker, "you just need a little more incentive."

His hand had gone to his waistband, drawing out his gun. He pressed the cold metal against your lips, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that chilled you to the bone.

"Open up, sweetheart," he ordered in his voice, a thick coating of mockery. "Let's see if you're as good with that mouth as I think you are." A hand twisted in your hair yanking your head back to bare the line of your neck. "Or maybe," he mused, "I should just shut you up completely."

He traced the gun along your jaw, down your throat, stopping at the hollow at the bottom of your neck. His eyes never once strayed from yours as he watched for the effects, feeding off your growing fear. "What's it gonna be, baby? Want to play nice, or should I get rough with you?"

He leaned closer, his eyes glinting with sadistic glee as he savoured the tension. "Tick tock," he murmured, his voice a low, menacing growl. "Time's running out, and my patience is wearing thin. Choose wisely, baby—it might just save your life."

A wicked grin spread across his face as he saw you open your mouth, lips parting just enough for the barrel of the gun to slide between them, the cold metal pressing against your tongue. "That’s it," he purred. "Good girl."

He pushed the gun deeper, savouring the sight of you as the taste of metal filled your mouth. "Suck," he commanded, his voice thick with lust as he watched you obey, your lips stretched around the barrel, tongue swirling over the smooth surface. His hand in your hair tightened, and he let out a low, satisfied groan.

"Fuck, that’s hot," he breathed, his hips pressing forward as he ground against you. "You’re a natural at this, aren’t you? I bet you'd look even better with your lips wrapped around something else."

He watched with rapt attention as you continued, cheeks hollowing, mouth working the gun with an obedient rhythm. His gaze darkened as he took in the sight of you, debasing yourself at his command.

Finally, he withdrew the gun, a string of saliva briefly connecting it to your lips. "Kiss it," he growled, voice low and commanding. "Show me how much you want it."

You pressed your lips against the barrel, kissing it softly, your eyes flickering up to meet his gaze, exactly as he demanded. Seeing you so submissive, so compliant, sent a rush of satisfaction through him.

"Atta girl," he murmured approvingly, his voice a soft purr of pleasure.

He pulled the gun away, resting it on the side as he freed his cock from his pants, stroking it slowly, teasingly, as you knelt before him. He smirked down at you, his eyes glinting with dark promise. "Put that pretty mouth to work, baby. Show me what you can do."

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, guiding your head towards his cock, the musky scent of him filling your nostrils. His other hand gripped the base of his shaft, slapping the head against your lips, leaving a smear of pre-cum.

He pushed forward, forcing the head of his cock past your lips, groaning as your warm mouth enveloped him. "Fuck, that's it," he growled, his hips rocking gently, pushing deeper.

He groaned as your lips stretched around his thick, veiny shaft, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head. His cock was long and hard, the skin smooth and hot against your tongue. The musky, masculine taste of him filled your mouth as you took him deeper, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked.

Saliva dripped down your chin as you bobbed your head, your hand coming up to grip the base, stroking what you couldn't fit in your mouth. He tasted of sweat and arousal, the flavour heady and intoxicating on your tongue.

Lewd, wet sounds filled the air as you slurped and sucked, your nose buried in his pubic hair, breathing in his scent. His balls were heavy and full, bouncing against your chin as you worked him over.

"Fuck, just like that," he grunted, his grip on your hair tightening, his hips snapping forward, fucking your face with shallow thrusts. "Take it all, baby.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as he hit the back of your throat, your gag reflex working overtime, but you didn't pull away. Instead, you relaxed your throat, letting him slide deeper, taking him to the hilt.

He threw his head back with a groan, his abs clenching, his thighs trembling as you swallowed around him, your throat fluttering around his sensitive flesh.

"Goddamn, you're a natural," he panted, his voice strained with pleasure.

The click of the safety being disengaged sent a jolt of fear through you, even as you continued to suck him off. The cold metal of the gun brushed against your cheek, a stark contrast to the heat of his cock in your mouth.

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending vibrations through his shaft. "You like that, don't you, baby? The danger, the thrill. It gets you hot, doesn't it?" He pressed the gun to your temple, the barrel cold against your skin as he fucked your face harder, his hips snapping forward, driving his cock deeper down your throat.

"Bet you're soaking wet right now," He groaned, his grip on your hair tightening as he neared his peak. "Fuck, I'm close," he grunted, his hips stuttering, his cock throbbing in your mouth.

He pulled out of your mouth with a wet pop, his cock slick with your saliva. "Not yet, baby," he growled, his voice low and guttural. "I'm not done with you."

He grabbed your arm, hauling you to your feet, spinning you around and shoving you so you were bent over the wooden table. The rough wood scraped against your skin, the edge digging into your hips as he kicked your legs apart, exposing you to his gaze.

He flipped up your skirt, tearing your panties away with a sharp rip. His fingers dipped between your folds, teasing your entrance, circling your clit.

"Fuck, look at you," he purred, his hand coming down hard on your ass, making you yelp. "Already so wet for me. Yeah, you’re not innocent at all, are you?” He leaned down, his breath hot against your skin as he spat directly onto your pussy, the warm liquid trickling between your folds before he licked a stripe along your slit.

He dove in, his tongue delving deep into your folds, lapping at your juices. He teased your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it into his mouth, flicking the sensitive bud with rapid strokes. The hand holding the gun rested against your ass as the other held one of your thighs, exposing you completely to his hungry mouth.

He alternated between long, slow licks and quick, darting flicks, his tongue exploring every inch of your pussy. He growled against your flesh, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine. His nose rubbed your clit as he buried his face deeper, his tongue probing your entrance.

He slipped two fingers inside you, curling them to stroke your G-spot as he continued to eat you out. He added a third finger, stretching you, filling you, as his tongue swirled around your clit.

"Fuck, you taste so good," he groaned, his words muffled against your pussy. "So sweet and wet for me. I could eat this cunt all day."

He sealed his lips around your clit, sucking hard, his tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive nub. His fingers pumped in and out of you, the wet squelching sounds obscene in the quiet room.

His cock throbbed, rock hard and leaking pre-cum as he feasted on your pussy. The taste of you, the feel of your wetness coating his tongue, the sounds of your moans and whimpers—it all drove him wild with lust.

He fucked his fingers harder into you, curling them just right to hit that spot that made you see stars. His tongue flicked rapidly over your clit as he sucked, nibbled, licked every inch of your sopping folds.

He pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with your juices. His eyes dark and hungry as he took in the sight of you, spread out and desperate for him.

"Mmm, you're so fucking wet," he purred, his voice low and dangerous. "I could eat this pretty pussy all night long."

He trailed the gun along your inner thigh, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. "But first, I think I need to prep you a little. Get you nice and ready for me."

He teasingly ran the barrel of the gun along your folds, the cold metal sending a jolt of sensation through you. "What do you think, baby? Think you can handle this?"

You looked over your shoulder at him, stealing a glance as his eyes gleamed in the moonlight, a faint nod of your head as you wanted it.

"I don't know," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "Can you?"

He circled your clit with the tip of the gun, the metal cool against your heated flesh. Your hips twitched, seeking more pressure, more friction.

"Look at you, so desperate for it," he purred, his free hand coming down on your ass in a sharp slap. "Even with a gun to your cunt, you're still begging for it."

“Tell me-” he says as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, “Use those words.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the moan that threatened to spill from your lips. His touch, his words, they were driving you crazy with need. You wanted him, all of him, and you didn't care how twisted it was.

"Please," you whispered, your voice hoarse with desire. "Please, I need it. I need you."

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "That's more like it”

He trailed the cold metal of the gun along your slit, teasing your entrance, circling it slowly. You could feel the heat of him, the weight of his gaze on your body as he watched you squirm

He pressed the tip of the gun against your entrance, the metal cool and unyielding. Your breath hitched in your throat, your heart pounding in your chest as he applied just the slightest bit of pressure.

He pressed the tip of the gun inside you, the cold metal sliding in teasingly slow. You gasped, your body tensing at the unfamiliar sensation. He went deeper, inch by torturous inch, stretching you, filling you in a way you'd never experienced before.

"Fuck, look at you taking it," he groaned, his voice low and approving. "Such a good girl, so eager for me."

He worked the gun in and out, fucking you with it, the metal gliding along your walls, hitting spots you didn't know existed. Your pussy clenched around it, trying to adjust to the intrusion, the friction.

He pushed the gun deeper, the metal sliding in with a slick sound, your wetness easing the way. You whimpered, your body trembling as he filled you, stretched you, claimed you in the most primal way possible.

He pulled it out slowly, the metal dragging along your folds, teasing your entrance, before pushing it back in.

He twisted the gun, the barrel rubbing against your sensitive walls, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you. Your pussy clenched around it, trying to adjust to the intrusion, the friction.

The wet, obscene sounds of the gun pumping in and out of your pussy filled the air, mixing with your moans and whimpers. He angled it just right, hitting that spot deep inside that made your toes curl, your eyes roll back in your head.

He pulled the gun out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching. You whimpered at the loss, your body craving more.

"Patience, baby," he purred as he tossed the gun to the side. "We're just getting started."

He lined himself up, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

He pushed inside you slowly, inch by throbbing inch, stretching you, filling you. Your pussy clenched around him, trying to adjust to his size, his heat. He groaned, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady as he sank deeper.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he grunted, his voice strained with pleasure. "Feels so good wrapped around my cock."

He bottomed out as his massive frame engulfed you as he leaned over your back, his balls heavy and full against you as he remained deep inside you. He stayed there for a moment, letting you feel every inch.

Then he started to move, his hips rocking, his cock sliding in and out of your slick heat. He set a slow, deep rhythm, pulling out until just the tip remained before slamming back in, burying himself to the hilt.

Your pussy fluttered around him, your walls clinging to his shaft, trying to keep him inside. He grunted with each thrust, his fingers digging into your skin with a pressure that you know will leave marks.

He wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you back against him, his hips snapping forward, driving his cock deeper. His other hand slid up your body, coming to rest at your throat. Not squeezing yet, just a gentle reminder of his control, his dominance.

"That's it, baby," he growled in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Take it. Take my cock like the good girl you are."

He fucked you harder, faster, his grip on your throat tightening just a fraction. The dual sensations of pleasure and pressure, of being filled and controlled, sent waves of heat coursing through your body.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he panted, his hips pistoning, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur. "Gonna fill you up with my cum. Pump you full until it's leaking out of you."

His fingers tightened around your throat, not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your heart race, your pussy clench around him. He was so close, his cock throbbing inside you, his body tensing.

His grip tightened on your throat, his fingers pressing just hard enough to make your pulse flutter beneath them. His other arm cinched around your waist, pulling you back harder, his hips slamming into you with bruising force.

"Fuck, gonna come," he grunted, his voice strained and guttural.

He pounded into you relentlessly, his cock stretching you, claiming you, branding you from the inside out. His balls slapped against your clit with each brutal thrust, the wet, obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the air.

His hand on your throat squeezed again, not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your head swim, your vision blur. The dual sensations of pleasure and pressure, of being filled and controlled, pushed you closer to the edge.

His fingers found your clit, rubbing it in tight, fast circles as he fucked you harder, deeper, his cock pounding into your pussy like a jackhammer. The added stimulation was too much, sending you careening over the edge into a mind-blowing orgasm.

Your pussy clamped down around him, fluttering and clenching, milking his cock for all it was worth. Your body shook and trembled, your moans echoing off the walls as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you.

He groaned, his hips stuttering, his rhythm faltering as your pussy worked him over. "Fuck, yes, come for me," he growled, his fingers pinching your clit, prolonging your climax.

With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he emptied himself inside you. His thick cum filled you, painting your walls white, marking you as his.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight pinning you to the table, his breath coming in harsh pants against your neck. For a moment, you both just lay there, basking in the afterglow, your bodies still joined, your hearts beating in sync.

He rolled his hips, his semi-hard cock still buried inside you, drawing out your pleasure. He pulled out slowly, a groan escaping him as your walls clung to him, trying to keep him inside.

He watched, transfixed, as his cum leaked out of your pussy, dripping down your thighs. The sight of you, so thoroughly used, so marked by him, sent a fresh wave of arousal through him.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "So fucking beautiful, covered in my cum."

He leaned down, pressing soft, teasing kisses along your spine as you lay there, trying to catch your breath. His hands roamed over your body, tracing the curves and dips, the marks he'd left on your skin.

"You did so well, baby," he purred, his lips brushing against your ear.

He nipped at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing. “Come on, up, lemme get a look at you.”

He helped you up, his hands steady on your hips as you wobbled on shaky legs. He turned you around to face him, his eyes dark and hungry as they roamed over your body, taking in the marks he'd left, the cum still dripping down your thighs.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he growled, his hands cupping your face, tilting it up to meet his gaze. "I could look at you like this all day."

He kissed you then, hard and deep, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you, tasting himself on your lips. He pulled back, his eyes searching yours, a question in them.

“Didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks as he helps you redress, along with himself.

"No," you breathe, your voice hoarse and trembling. "It was... intense, but not painful."

You lean into his touch, savouring the warmth of his hands on your face, the solidness of his body against yours. Despite the darkness of what just transpired, there's a strange comfort in his presence, a sense of belonging.

“The gun-” you begin before he chuckles and interrupts you as he approaches the gun and picks it up, “Looks pretty real, huh? Feels it too.”

You laugh a little at that, “Yeah, it definitely felt it.”

“I’ll have to thank your friends for getting me such a good prop” He says, “And for arranging this whole place…You think they’re waiting outside?”

“God no, Shoko made it very clear yesterday that she wouldn’t wait around whilst I came in here to get fucked by my boyfriend. They’ll be long gone, we can call a cab.”

“Cab it is.” He smirks as he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

taglist:

@l0v3m3-p13as3 @hishearttohave @williamafton26 @kentochronicles

@jays-adventure3 @nctislifue @eeveedvck @needtoloveoutloud @yowumi

@sweetpo1son @betelgeuse420 @yuhig-blog @psychedellyc @char-35

@kaeyeahsworld @sukunadckrider @ladyackermanisdead @szired

328 notes · View notes