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wonderlandwalker · 21 days ago

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Two can play (but three's more fun) | Steve Harrington x reader x Eddie Munson

stranger things masterlist / inbox

summary: when Steve catches Eddie staring a little too long at his girlfriend, he doesn’t throw a punch—he extends an invitation. And as Eddie quickly learns, Steve doesn’t just share; he teaches, with slow, filthy demonstrations.

word count: 5.2k

tags / content warnings: smut, just pure filth really, posessive steve, desperate eddie, a lot of swearing, I couldn't help it, maybe some repetitive words but smut vocabulary just has it's limits

a/n: I got insanely stoned and wrote this so if it came out too horny i'm sorry, also im ovulating oops. I've prolly been very inconsistent with grammar tenses but I can't be bothered to check it. I usually correct my grammar after i've already posted so the masterlist link has significantly less errors than earlier versions

The living room was bathed in the flickering glow of the TV, some forgotten horror movie playing on low volume—The Thing, maybe, or was it Halloween?—its eerie soundtrack warping under the weight of the thick, sweet-smelling haze curling through the air.

Eddie had outdone himself with this new strain, something sticky and potent that left his limbs heavy and his usual sharp edges dulled into something languid and warm, his thoughts perhaps a bit too syrupy.

“—I know I talk a big game, man, but fuck. I have no clue what I’m doing when it actually comes down to it.”

His voice was a low mumble, words slipping out like he hadn’t meant to say them at all. He tipped his head back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling as if it might hold answers.

Steve blinks at him, slow and rhythmically, before snorting. “What, like… at all?”

“Yeah, man. Like—” Eddie waves a hand vaguely, the silver of his rings glinting as he moves. “How the fuck am I supposed to know what sounds are real and which ones are fake? It’s fucking Russian roulette.”

The next reaction from Steve is immediate, no hesitation. Just a lazy, knowing smirk as he stretches his arms behind his head. “Huh. Well, once you know the difference, it becomes pretty obvious.” He pauses, just long enough to take a quick glance over Eddie’s face. “If you really need some pointers, I can ask my girlfriend if she wants to help you out.”

Eddie nearly comes crashing to the fucking floor.

Because fuck. He’s had a crush on you for, like, forever. Not that he’s ever admitted it out loud — not when Steve Harrington has a reputation for rearranging the faces of guys who so much as look at you wrong. Eddie has seen it happen: some poor asshole at a party, fingers skimming your ass as you passed, and bam — Steve’s fist in his jaw before anyone could blink. There’s even a rumour some other idiot once stared just a little too long at the way your lips wrapped around the neck of your beer bottle and then slurred, “Wanna spin the bottle?” Word is, Steve dropped him in one hit. No warning. No theatrics. Just pure, primal instinct.

So yeah, Eddie’s kept his mouth shut.

But now? Now Steve is watching him with this lazy, half-lidded expression, like he hadn’t just detonated a goddamn bomb in Eddie’s head.

“You’re fucking with me.” Eddie pleads, his voice rough.

Steve just grins — slow, deliberate — his eyes dark with something Eddie can't name. “Nah, man. She’s actually really into that kinda stuff.” His voice drops, gravel scraping over each word, and Eddie’s stomach flips “And I’d do anything for her.”

The air feels thick as Eddie’s pulse roars in his ears, his throat suddenly bone-dry. Was this a test? A trap? Christ. Harrington was going to be the death of him, and worse—Eddie knew he’d fucking thank him for it.

His fingers twitch at his sides. “...Yeah?”

Steve’s smile only widens, but his eyes soften. “Yeah.”

When Eddie shows up at your place the next night, he’s strung tight enough to power Hawkins twice over, his pulse hammering in his throat. He’s spent the last twenty-four hours convincing himself he’d imagined the whole conversation, that there was no way Steve Harrington just offered—

And then you open the door.

Dressed in nothing but one of Steve’s old band tees, the fabric riding high on your thighs, you greet him with a smile that damn near stops his heart. “Hey, Eddie.”

His mouth goes dry. And before he can choke out a response, Steve is behind you, hands sliding possessively around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. And then — Jesus Christ.

The kiss Steve gives you isn’t just heated — it’s filthy. All tongue and teeth, your fingers twisting in his hair as he backs you against the doorframe, his hands already under your shirt like it’s a regular Tuesday afternoon.

Eddie’s knees nearly give out.

“Watch,” Steve murmurs against your lips when he finally breaks away, his gaze flicking to Eddie over your shoulder. His voice dark and commanding. “And pay attention.”

Then, right there in the doorway, Steve pulls the shirt over your head — meticulously slow, like he wants Eddie to memorise every second. And, well — Eddie does.

He memorises the way your breath hitches when Steve’s fingers brush over your ribs, the way you arch into his touch, the soft, real sounds spilling from your lips as Steve’s mouth finds the top of your breasts—

Eddie’s throat protests as he swallows, fingers twitching at his sides like he can’t decide whether to bolt or drop to his knees.

Steve notices —of course he does— and his lips curl into something dangerously close to a challenge. “You just going to stand there, Munson?” His hands slide down your hips, squeezing just hard enough to make you softly gasp. “Thought you wanted to learn.” Eddie manages to get control over his brain just long enough to answer “I— Yeah. Fuck. Yeah. I do.”

Steve hums, pleased, and spins you around to face Eddie fully, his palm splayed possessively over your stomach. “Then get over here.”

It’s not a request.

Eddie moves like a man in a trance, close enough now to feel the heat of your skin, to catch the intoxicating scent of your perfume. His gaze darts between your face and Steve’s fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over your collarbone.

“First lesson,” Steve murmurs, leaning in to nip at your earlobe. “Don’t just touch. Listen.” His free hand reaches out, grabbing Eddie’s wrist and dragging it toward you. “Feel how she reacts.”

Eddie’s fingertips brush your waist—hesitant at first, then firmer when you shiver under his touch. His breath hitches as you lean into him, lashes fluttering when his thumb grazes the delicate curve of your ribs.

“Good.” Steve’s voice is low, eyes locked on Eddie’s every twitch. “Now kiss her.”

Eddie’s head jerks up. “What?”

Steve’s grin is all teeth. “Unless you don’t—”

“No, I—fuck.” He surges forward, crashing his mouth against yours like a man starved. It’s messy and desperate, and he barely gets a taste before Steve yanks you back by the waist, eyebrows furrowed in disapproval.

“Jesus Christ. Not like that.”

Eddie stumbles after you as Steve kicks the door shut behind them. “It’s like you were raised by wolves.”

Eddie opens his mouth to protest—then snaps it shut. Because Steve’s right. He’s a wreck.

“What are you waiting for, a written invitation?” Steve’s voice is rough with impatience. “Kiss her again.”

Eddie hesitates—just for a second—before lust wins the war. This time, when his lips find yours, it’s still hungry, but it’s also aware, his movements more controlled. For a heartbeat, he’s terrified Steve will deem him unworthy of you altogether and kick him back to the curb—until you moan into it, until your fists twist in his shirt and drag him closer.

Steve groans in approval against your shoulder. “That’s it,” he rasps, pressing you forward just enough that Eddie can feel your heartbeat against his chest. “Now slow down. Make her want it.”

Eddie whimpers, but obeys, pulling back just enough to tease your lower lip between his teeth before licking into your mouth like you’re water and he’s been dying of thirst.

The sound you make — the soft, wanting whine—it's the hottest thing he’s ever heard. Steve pulls you back again, but this time, there’s satisfaction in his grin. “See?” His thumb swipes over your kiss-swollen lips, smug. “She likes it when you take your time.”

Steve doesn’t let go of you—not really. Even as he nudges you toward the couch, his palm stays glued to the small of your back, steering you like he owns every inch of space you move through. Eddie doesn’t need to be told to follow; his pulse hammers in his throat, fingers flexing like he’s already imagining the weight of you beneath them.

“Sit.” Steve’s order cracks through the air, and Eddie drops onto an armchair like his strings have been cut.

You don’t get the chance to join him. Steve catches your wrist, yanking you back against his chest instead. His mouth brushes your ear, voice a low, possessive hum: “Nah, sweetheart. You’re staying right here.” His fingers trail down your arm before guiding your hand to Eddie’s jaw. “Let him earn it.”

Eddie’s breath stutters. Christ. Up close, you’re devastating. The way your eyes shimmer with pure lust, the way your lips part—just slightly—when Steve’s fingers skim over the lace of your bra. The syrupy moan you let out when he pinches your nipple over it, just enough to make your back arch—

“See that?” Steve’s voice is rough against your ear. “She gets loud when she’s turned on. You just have to know how to listen.” Eddie nods, swallowing hard. His hands hover over your hips like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve under his touch. Steve rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, Munson. You’re not going to break her.” He grabs Eddie’s wrist, pressing his palm flat against your stomach. “Feel how warm she is? How fucking desperate?”

Eddie’s fingers twitch. He can feel it—the rapid rise and fall of your breath, the way your skin burns under his touch.

“Now”, Steve murmurs, lips grazing your shoulder, “show me what you’ve learned.”

Eddie doesn’t need to be told twice.

This time, when he kisses you, it’s relaxed—calculated. He licks into your mouth like he’s savouring it, one hand sliding up your ribs while the other tangles in your hair. And when you moan, when your hips jerk forward like you just can’t help it, Eddie groans against your lips like he’s just discovered fucking religion.

Steve watches, eyes dark with approval. “Better,” he rasps. Then, with a smirk: “Now get on your knees.”

Eddie freezes, and Steve arches a brow,“got a problem?”

“No—fuck, no.” Eddie’s already sliding to the floor, knees hitting the carpet with a thud. His hands find your thighs, gripping just tight enough to feel the muscle tense under his fingers.

Steve’s smirk widens. “Good.”

The praise goes straight to Eddie’s dick.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp—and God, Eddie’s never been so hard in his life.

Steve’s voice is a murmur as he trails a path down your throat, bruises already blooming under his mouth. “Now, make her beg.”

Eddie’s breathing is ragged as he looks up at you—fuck, the way your pupils are blown wide, the way your chest rises with every shaky inhale. Steve’s fingers are still tangled in your hair, his thumb brushing a stray strand behind your ear with a tenderness that feels domestic. Your eyes meet Eddie’s just before they flutter shut, and it’s all the permission he needs. His mouth finds the inside of your knee first, lips dragging slow and hot up your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. Steve hums, tracing your ribs and sliding your bra strap down your shoulder. His palm cups your breast as it spills free, kneading with a lazy possessiveness that has your hips jerking forward — but Eddie holds you steady, determined.

His tongue traces past the waistband of your panties like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you, and when his eyes flick up to Steve, all he finds is lust, raw and unfiltered. So Eddie hooks his fingers into the fabric and pulls, dragging it down your legs as he kisses a trail after it, reverent even in his hunger. His fingers work you with surprising precision, his gaze desperate for approval — and when he curls them just right, you gasp, arching into his touch with a moan loud enough to make Steve’s smirk falter. He wasn’t expecting that.

The slip in Steve’s control sends a thrill through Eddie, and he murmurs against your thigh, voice rough: “You sound so fucking sweet — bet you taste even better.” Steve’s grip tightens on your hip, hard enough to bruise, but you don’t seem to mind.

He’d meant to teach. Now, he’s learning.

And the way you’re unravelling under Eddie’s touch stirs something awake inside of him. Eddie’s got a musician’s dexterity, his fingers able to coax sinful melodies from you with every twist. When you whimper Eddie’s name, Steve’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t stop him. Just watches with a gaze darker than the midnight sky itself as Eddie’s breath ghosts over you, your thighs trembling. “Please—”

The word barely leaves your lips before Eddie adds another finger, crooking them until your thighs squeeze around his wrist. He groans against your skin, resting his forehead against your leg as the vibration tears another broken sound from your throat. He fucks you with his fingers — slow and deep, then fast and relentless, like he can’t decide whether to savour you or ruin you.

Eddie, drunk on your praise, dares to glance up at Steve with a smirk. Steve’s nostrils flare, but instead of shutting him down, he drags a thumb over your cheek and growls, “You gonna cum for him?” You can’t even answer. Your back arches, toes curling, and Eddie drinks it in like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. The moment you shatter, he loses it. He’s not sure what destroys him more — the way you choke out his name, begging him not to stop, or the filthy, approving rumble of Steve’s voice as he speaks, “Good girl.”

Eddie finds himself at an impasse, torn between begging for more and staying silent as the two of you decide his fate. His fingers twitch where they grip your thighs, his breath ragged, his entire body coiled tight with anticipation—and fear. Steve detaches himself from nipping at your collarbone when Eddie wavers, his movements faltering. A reprimand flashes in Steve’s darkened gaze, sharp enough to make Eddie shudder again. “Didn’t you hear her, Munson?” Steve’s voice is a low, warning growl. “She told you not to stop.”

But Eddie freezes. The reality of where he is—what he’s doing—hits him like a freight train. He has no idea how to continue.

But Steve doesn’t tolerate hesitation. His hand fists in Eddie’s hair, yanking him forward with a rough, “Stop thinking.”

Eddie obeys like a man possessed, and the moment his tongue drags over you, his whole body jerks—holy shit. You taste even better than he could’ve dared to dream. Sweet, addictive, and the way you gasp when he flicks his tongue over your clit? He’s ruined. Forever.

Drunk on you—on the way your fingers tighten in his hair, the way you’re so wet it’s coating your thighs—he laps at you like his life depends on it. Steve watches with drowsy satisfaction, his palm sliding possessively up your stomach to cup your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple just to hear you whimper for him again.

“Listen to how she sounds when you do it right,” Steve murmurs, voice thick with contentment. “Isn’t it the most beautiful sound in the world?” He doesn’t wait for Eddie to answer. Instead, he tilts your jaw toward him, locking you in a searing kiss. You moan into Steve’s mouth as Eddie continues, his tongue relentless, his own desperate noises vibrating against you. Steve chuckles darkly when Eddie whimpers, his cock straining against his jeans just from tasting you. He hasn’t even touched himself, but he’s so close he’s shaking.

“Are you going to come just from this, Munson?” Steve drags him off you by his hair, grinning at the dazed, wrecked look on Eddie’s face. “Fuck, look at him, darling. He’s a mess.” Eddie’s lips are slick, his chest heaving, his pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. Steve doesn’t give him a chance to recover. He pushes Eddie back into the armchair, his grip firm, dominant. Then he guides you onto the couch with a smirk.

“You did good,” he tells Eddie, voice dripping with condescension. “Now let me show you great.”

Steve doesn’t waste time. In one smooth motion, he hooks his hands under your knees, spreading you wide —putting you on display— before dragging you to the edge of the couch. His gaze locks onto Eddie’s, making sure he’s watching as he leans down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, a shudder running through you at the sensation. “See how she shivers?” Steve murmurs, his breath hot against your skin, laced with something Eddie can only describe as devotion. “It’s because she knows what’s coming—” Then he devours you.

Unlike Eddie’s frantic, eager strokes, Steve’s tongue moves with precision — deliberate, decisive licks that have you arching off the couch within seconds. He teases you, circling your clit until you’re gasping, then he pulls back with a cruel smirk.

“Steve—” you whine, fingers scrambling at his hair. “Patience, sweetheart,” he muses — before sucking your clit between his lips, hard. Your cry echoes through the room, and Eddie’s hands clench into fists, his hips jerking helplessly as you overwhelm his senses without even touching him. Steve doesn’t let up; he works you with his mouth until your thighs tremble, until your moans grow longer and heavy, until you’re right there—, and he pulls away.

“No, no, baby, please—” you beg, but Steve just clicks his tongue, amused, sliding two fingers into you without warning. “Look at her, Munson,” he orders, curling his fingers just right, making you sob beneath him. “This is how you give her what she deserves.” His thrusts are ruthless, his palm grinding against your clit with every movement. You’re a writhing, whimpering mess, your nails digging into Steve’s shoulders as he fucks you on his fingers, his eyes locked onto Eddie’s the entire time.

“She’s close,” Steve taunts — he doesn’t even need to look at you to know, too busy watching the way Eddie’s jaw clenches. “You want to see what happens when she comes on my hand?” Eddie can’t even speak. He just nods, frantic. Steve smiles wickedly and makes do with the response. “Then watch closely.”

He crooks his fingers again, pressing deeper, and you don’t just shatter — you explode. Your back bows like you’re possessed, broken screams tearing from your throat as you squirt, and Eddie swears he’s seeing stars. Your hand finds Steve’s bicep, clinging desperately, like you’re afraid he’ll stop. Eddie can’t look away; he doesn’t dare blink — if he misses a single second of this, he’ll never forgive himself.

Steve works you through it, drawing out every last spasm until tears streak your face, until you’re oversensitive, trying to squirm away. Only then does he finally relent, licking his fingers with a satisfied hum before brushing featherlight kisses up to your neck. The moment you feel his proximity, you meet him in a kiss — not heated like before, but purposeful, delicate, like Steve is guiding you back to reality with it. He doesn’t rush you; he just lets your fingers weave through his hair until your breathing steadies. Then, he speaks again. “That”, he says, “is how it’s done.” He meets Eddie’s stunned gaze. “You shouldn’t even be thinking about getting your dick wet until she’s clenching around nothing.”

Eddie’s so hard it hurts. His cock throbs against his jeans, neglected and aching, precum soaking the fabric. He’s never been this turned on in his life—and the worst part? Steve knows it. The bastard smirks, dragging a thumb over your lower lip. You suck it in eagerly, tongue swirling, before he pulls away and stands. It’s a fucking performance. Steve undoes his belt like he’s savouring the way Eddie’s eyes cling to his hands, the leather slipping free with a final, damning shush. You whimper, still boneless from your orgasm, but your eyes flutter open when Steve’s palm slides up your thigh, squeezing. “Please, Steve?” you breathe, and his grin turns feral. “Not yet, love.” He glances at Eddie, whose throat bobs under the weight of his stare. “Munson hasn’t earned it yet.”

Eddie’s stomach drops. Fuck. He’s dripping in his pants, his hips twitching like a fucking teenager, and Steve’s going to make him wait? But then—

Steve grips Eddie’s chin, forcing his gaze up. “You want her?” he asks, voice rough. Eddie nods, greedy. “Then prove you can take care of her.” And just like that, Steve shoves him onto the couch with you. “Do it like I showed you.”

For a heartbeat, Eddie can only stare—at the way your breath hitches when he touches you, at the way your eyes lock on Steve, who’s sprawled in the armchair like it’s a fucking throne, lazily stroking his cock. Your lips part, and Eddie swears he sees your mouth water—fuck, it’s obscene. His hands tremble as he touches you—really touches you—this time. His mouth finds your thigh, kissing up the sensitive skin, trying to mimic the way Steve had worshipped you earlier. But when his tongue drags over you, your breath catches—wrong—and Steve’s low chuckle cuts through the room like a knife.

“Christ, Munson,” Steve sighs, his grip tightening around his cock. “You’re thinking too hard.”

Eddie grits his teeth. He is. He’s thinking about the way Steve had made you scream, the way your back arched off the couch like you were trying to fuse into him. He’s thinking about the fact that Steve’s watching, lazily stroking himself while Eddie fumbles like a virgin.

And the nail in the coffin? You’re watching Steve too. Your teeth sink into your lower lip, eyes heavy with desire—but not for Eddie.

“Fuck,” Eddie rasps, pulling back. His voice is wrecked.“I can’t—I don’t—” Steve leans forward, fingertips ghosting over your throat as you keen toward him. “You can,” he growls. “Stop trying to perform. Just feel her.”

Eddie’s breath comes in sharp bursts. This time, when his mouth finds your cunt, he doesn’t think. He listens. To the way your breath catches when he licks a slow, experimental stripe. To the way your hips jerk when he sucks just there. And when your fingers fist in his hair—finally—it’s not to guide him, but to hold on.

“There,” Steve murmurs, voice thick with approval. “Now you’re getting it.” Eddie moans against you, the vibration pulling a whimper from your throat. Fuck. He’s dizzy with it—the taste of you, the sounds you’re making, the way Steve’s gaze burns into him like a brand.

But then Steve stands. Eddie barely has time to register the loss before Steve’s dragging him up by the collar, spinning him around to face you—really face you. Your lips are swollen, your chest heaving, your thighs slick with Steve’s work.

"Look at her," Steve growls, his voice a dark scrape against Eddie’s ear. "Don’t just glance—really look."

And Eddie looks. He sees the damp flush between your breasts, the way your hips lift like you’re already chasing it, the way your pupils blow wide when Steve’s thumb swipes over your bottom lip. "She’s not yours," Steve breathes, dragging his teeth over Eddie’s earlobe. "But fuck, look how bad she wants you to try."

Eddie’s pulse races. Then Steve steps back, gesturing like a king permitting a subject to kneel. "Go on. Make her forget my fucking name."

So he closes his eyes, trying to drown out the noise in his head, to sync himself with the thrum of your heartbeat beneath him, to dissolve into every breath you take. He wants to belong here, in this moment, where Steve’s approval hangs heavy in the air and your pleasure is the only thing that matters — success. A satisfied hum from Steve when Eddie finally finds the right rhythm, a broken moan from your lips. But your eyes — your eyes stay locked on Steve, even as Eddie’s mouth works you over. It’s still him you want. Hunger battles with pride in Eddie’s chest. He hates how badly he craves this—how much he needs Steve’s approval—but god, he longs to pull those sounds from you himself, to unravel you with nothing but his touch. And so he moves like a man possessed, single-minded in his mission to play you like an instrument, to pluck every string until you snap.

Your taste is intoxicating, something he’s already addicted to, something he’s not sure he can live without anymore. Your eyes scrunch shut as pleasure blooms, so lost in it that you don’t even notice Steve speeding up his strokes, his grip tight on his cock. Eddie gets close—so close he can practically taste your climax—but you linger on the edge, just out of reach. He’s aware he’s missing something, some final piece to send you over, but he can’t find it. Then your eyes flicker open again, searching for Steve’s gaze like it’s the only thing that can save you. And Eddie knows—he’s pushed his luck too far. Steve’s patience snaps—not with his pleasure, but with Eddie’s failure to give you yours. Next thing he knows, he’s being dragged back, the warmth of you ripped away too soon. Steve looms over him, a predator in human skin, annoyance rolling off him in waves. “If you want to get a chance to fuck her,” Steve growls, voice dripping with challenge, “you’re going to have to do better than that.”

Eddie’s brain becomes the mental equivalent of a dropped Wi-Fi signal—because did Steve just imply—?

Every touch, every taste Steve has allowed him, Eddie has devoured with insatiable hunger. But now it hits him—this is more than just a demonstration. Steve might actually let him fuck you. Or he would have. Now, Eddie isn’t sure he’ll ever get the opportunity again. A sharp, breathy cry from you yanks him from his thoughts. Steve has already turned you over, guiding you onto your hands and knees, one foot perched on the armrest behind you like a damn king claiming his treasure. Eddie is so close to your face now, your slick still glistening on his chin as you blink up at him, dazed. Steve teases your entrance with his cock, just enough to have you pushing back, begging for it. And for one glorious, heart-stopping moment—you look at Eddie.

Not at back at Steve.

At him.

Your gaze is pure, primal desperation—like he’s the one you need. Steve drives into you in one brutal thrust, and your eyes screw shut in ecstasy. You sob Steve’s name, but your eyes flicker back open as you you look at him.

“Baby, please—” And it dawns on him—you are begging Steve, but not for Steve. No, you’re begging for permission, your gaze locked onto Eddie like he’s the only thing anchoring you to earth. He doesn’t know what you’re asking for, but Christ, he already knows he wants it just as much.

Steve, of course, does understand. He drags his cock into you agonisingly slow, pressing tender kisses along your spine even as his voice comes out harsh. “You think he deserves it, honey?” You whine, desperate, but Steve doesn’t need more than that. He leans over you, his thrusts deliberate, sinful. “How could I ever say no to you?”

And fuck, Eddie gets it now—gets why Steve turns possessive, gets why you love it. He’s watching the two of you move like a single entity, Steve’s hips rolling into you with a precision that rewrites Eddie’s entire understanding of sex. And the real tragedy? He’s pretty sure you’re only getting started. Your fingers fist in Eddie’s collar, yanking him down hard. His breath stutters as your lips take him in, hot and needy, and he doesn’t think—just reacts, his hands tangling in your hair as Steve’s thrusts rock you forward, forcing Eddie deeper into your mouth. You moan around him, the vibrations nearly undoing him right there, but then your hand tugs at his belt loop like it’s personally offended you, and Eddie’s thoughts fry into static. What do you want? He glances at Steve for answers, but the bastard just laughs, driving into you harder like he’s savouring Eddie’s confusion.

And God help him, Eddie looks. It’s downright pornographic. Steve’s cock glistens as he pulls out, your body clinging to him like it never wants to let go, and every time he sinks back in, you clench, a broken noise tearing from your throat.

As Eddie freezes, you take matters into your own hands, undoing Eddie’s belt with ruthless efficiency. The zipper’s barely down before his jeans pool at his knees. He looks at Steve again—helpless—but Steve just shakes his head, smirking. “Jesus, Munson. Keep up.”

Your fingers brush the straining outline of his cock through his boxers, and his hips jerk. Your mouth finds the spot beneath his ear, teeth scraping, and—fuck—it nearly sends him over the edge right then. You’re not gentle. You know exactly what you want. In seconds, his dick is in your hand, your grip perfect, and the first stroke has him grinding his teeth so hard his jaw hurts. He wants to keep his eyes open—to watch, to devour every detail of every second—but his body betrays him. A shudder wracks through him, his lashes fluttering helplessly before his head falls back, lost to the crushing wave of ecstasy."

“Fuck—!”

Steve’s voice cuts through the haze, dark with amusement. “That’s it, sweetheart. Show him how good you can be.” His hand tangles in your hair—not guiding, just holding—like he wants Eddie to see he’s the one in control. That every gasp you make, every shudder Eddie can’t suppress, is because Steve orchestrated it.

“Bet he’s never felt anything like you.” Eddie’s thighs tremble, his cock twitching against your tongue. He’s close, too close, and Steve knows it—fuck, he’s enjoying it. “Look at him,” Steve murmurs, dragging his cock out of you just to slam back in, punching a moan from your lips. “Already shaking for you. Bet he wishes it was him inside instead.” His thumb swipes over your clit, and you whimper, your rhythm on Eddie faltering. “But he’s got to earn that, doesn’t he?”

Earn it? Eddie’s vision blurs at the edges. He’d shamelessly beg if it meant— Then your tongue swirls over the head of his cock, and he chokes, almost falling forward into you.

“Steady,” Steve warns, though his voice is anything but calm. “You cum before she does, and I’ll make you watch while I fuck her twice as hard.”

Eddie’s groan is nothing short of pure agony. Steve fucks you more slowly then—cruel, like he’s savouring Eddie’s torment—dragging his cock almost all the way out before sinking back in, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to make your eyes water. But your dedication doesn’t waver; if anything, it burns hotter. “Shit—” Eddie’s hips jerk involuntarily, but you swallow him deeper, humming around the salt-bitter heat of him. His fingers scramble at the cushions, knuckles white. “Jesus, sweetheart, where the hell did you learn—?”

Steve’s laugh is a dark, knowing thing against your neck. His hands slide up your thighs, spreading you wider as he presses inside, slow, letting you feel every fucking inch. “She’s full of surprises,” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear. “But you’re not going to last long enough to find out, are you?”

Eddie’s groan disintegrates, the way you swirl your tongue around him, the slick pressure of your throat—it’s nothing like the groupies who’d thrown themselves at Corroded Coffin. This is ruination. This is worship. Your mouth works him with practiced greed, and Eddie’s vision blurs.

“Fuck, I’m not—I can’t—”

“Yes. You can.” Steve’s voice doesn’t leave room for argument—this isn’t a suggestion; it’s a command. His hand moves from your scalp to your nipple, pinching just shy of pain until you whine around Eddie’s cock. His other hand slips between your legs, circling your clit with filthy precision. “You going to come for us, sweetheart?” he rasps. You nod frantically, lips stretched lewdly around Eddie. “Good. Let him see.” You break with a cry, muffled around Eddie’s cock, and Steve growls as your body clenches around him. “That’s it,” he grits out, hips snapping harder, “that’s my girl—” Eddie’s spellbound.

Steve fucks you through it, your tears smearing Eddie’s thighs. His breath comes in punched-out gasps, cock twitching against your tongue—

Steve loses control first. A guttural groan tears from his throat as he spills inside you, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.

Eddie’s hips stutter when you whimper, oversensitive, as Steve grinds into you one last time—claiming you like he wants to brand the feeling into your skin. And then— “Fuck!” Eddie’s back arches, his cock jerking as you pull off with a slick pop, begging Steve for mercy. He comes untouched, frustration and relief searing through him as he gasps your name like a prayer. Steve laughs, low and satisfied. Eddie’s too wrecked to care, chest heaving—until Steve’s next words send him tumbling straight back into want.

“Let me know if you’ve got any requests for the next lesson.”

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minorlyatfault · 7 days ago

Text

you are the best thing that's ever been mine,

from vi

ᰔ pairing . . . b. wayne !

ᰔ with . . . a wife!reader / batmom !

ᰔ category . . . fluff , suggestive , one - shot

ᰔ in which . . . for anyone who has ever hoped for a second chance.

ᰔ TAGS . . . domestic bruce wayne. dilf energy maxed out. wife!reader. reader is younger than bruce but was not mentioned. alfred supremacy(he's my dad guys). child wrangling. emotionally constipated but trying. batkids being menaces. batdad malfunctioning before coffee. kisses like vows. touch-starved billionaire behavior. gentle smut if you squint. robe removal as a love language. heavy on the softness. suggestive content. emotionally vulnerable bruce wayne. minor language. too much love. may cause unrealistic expectations of breakfast.gentle smut if you squint. robe removal as a love language. heavy on the softness. suggestive content. emotionally vulnerable bruce wayne. minor language. too much love. may cause unrealistic expectations of breakfast conversations. ooc. second chance but in a found family way. alfred addresses reader as "m'lady" because yes. & he's british. yes.

ᰔ look around . . . m. list && detective comics m. list

────── vi whispers . . . ᰔ

001. "for anyone who has ever hoped for a second chance." heh.. GUESS WHERE I GOT THAT FROM!!!!

002. also also for @cinnamongrl2006 for being patient w me😭 & kidnapping me back to the fandom ilysm

003. "poor attempt in being poetic" i mean it. I CAN'T 💔💔

004. but im trying chat.. if there's a grammatical error,,, IM SORRRYRYYRYRYRYRYR😭😭😭😭

005. can u guys tell that i want a baby. but i don't wanna give birth. i don't wanna do that w a man. my family is against adoption for some reason. && i wanna take care of a child URGHHHHHHHHHHH

006. might as well be a kindergarten teacher

you normally wake up to him.

his arms already wrapped around you, sometimes the pressure of his gaze heavy against your skin before your eyes even have a chance to flutter open. sometimes, he's gently sweeping an errant strand of hair away from your forehead, planting a kiss on your cheek with that rare, faint softness you only ever get from him.

but today, the bed is immobile, & he's immobile.

your body slips smoothly from his, as if unsticking yourself from something holy. it's a bit colder without him, even in the huge heat of the master bedroom, but you smile anyway.

because this? this means something.

this means he trusts you.

enough to sleep without his armor on.

enough to remain sleeping even when you leave.

you look back at him▰face oh, so gorgeous, a small furrow still between his eyes from years of nightmares & fights & weights no one should bear. the type of man who's never let his guard down.

except with you.

you slide into something more relaxed, softer. something less... scandalous. not because you object, but because the children are another story. they adore you, they do▰deeply. but they also understand how utterly undone their father becomes when you so much as inhale anything remotely enticing. & none of them want to witness bruce wayne malfunctioning before coffee.

your naked feet pad against the chilly halls of wayne manor, ringing a bit off against marble & history. you walk by framed portraits. some old, some new. family, in all the disarray of ways it has created. & your fingers run over the railing like muscle memory.

the kitchen has the scent of heaven. warm coffee, toast bread, warmth.

"good morning, m'lady."

alfred's voice is a soft violin string, smooth & proper, but containing that unmistakable tenderness he can never quite keep from you.

your own head tips up in a smile. "the kids aren't up yet?"

he sets down your plate with gentle care. "i woke them up a bit earlier. they'll be here any moment now."

& as if called, you hear the beat of footsteps▰light but purposeful.

damian arrives first. of course he does. always the first to train, first to cross the line, first to tell you that your coffee is an abomination.

his shoulders are squared, his stance precise, but when he catches sight of you, something flashes in his hard green eyes. something much more… genuine.

"good morning, damian," you tell him, voice relaxed.

he nods, takes the chair next to you. "good morning."

& it's genuine. reserved, almost abrupt, but not cold. no longer.

he's trying. adjusting. learning that love doesn't equal weakness.

he hasn't forgotten his mother. not at all.

but he regards you as if you could be something he never believed he'd ever have. a second chance at love. at tenderness. at home.

soon after, the others trickle in. tim with sleep in his eyes & coffee already in hand, dick with that easy grin that never quite fades, jason with a grunt & a smirk & hair still damp from a too-hot shower.

“morning, mom,” dick says, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he walks by.

jason could only let out a grunt & a nod as a greeting, stealing a piece of toast.

“morning,” tim mumbles, voice muffled by the coffee mug.

they all greet you now as if it's the most natural thing in the world. like you've always been there.

& perhaps you have, kind of. not only in the manor.

but in their spaces.

in the wounds they didn't even realize needed to heal.

in the mother-shaped holes no one wanted to discuss.

you chat. about little things. silly things. jason's failed cooking attempt last night. dick joking with tim about his new crush. damian rolling his eyes at them all but not budging from your side.

you're giggling at something. most likely at jason & dick arguing over whose socks were stolen▰when the air changes.

& you sense him before you see him.

bruce wayne sweeps into the room like a storm in silk.

dark cloak sagging loosely over his muscular build. hair still rumpled. eyes relaxed the moment they light on you.

"good morning, love," you murmur as you rise to your feet, arms around his neck.

his hands▰big, roughened, gentle▰wrap around your waist as he bends toward you. you kiss him & he exhales into it like a man who's been down too long.

his lips linger an extra fraction of a second. your noses touch.

the children groan in the background. alfred clears his throat, pointedly gazing at the scrambled eggs.(he's used to this. give this man a raise.)

you pull back, hardly stifling your smile.

he regards you as if you're the only thing sane in a world of madness. like you're gravity. home. peace.

breakfast goes on. bruce arrives halfway through, hand never really leaving yours. his fingers brush your knuckles beneath the table. his thigh against yours, a quiet comfort. a habit he can't break.

at last, one by one, the children slip away to do their business▰patrol briefings, training, reading, vanishing into wherever the manor engulfs them.

alfred gathers the dishes. you offer your aid, but he waves you off with a sly grin.

"bon appétit, m'lady. i think the master has something in mind."

your eyebrows rise, but your hand settles into bruce's. his hold is quick. but gentle.

he escorts you upstairs, through the corridors. quiet envelops you, warm & intimate. the bedroom door closes behind you, & the world slows down.

his robe comes first.

then yours.

& then his lips find yours again. urgent now, but still reverent. still like he’s learning your shape all over again. like you’re holy & he’s not sure he deserves to pray but he will anyway.

his hands on your back. your nails in his hair. the quiet sound of breathless laughter. of wanting. of years of love built in silence & shadow & something deeper than words.

the room is full of the stillness that follows your kiss, the one that leaves you gasping but fulfilled, like something holy. bruce relaxes against the bed, his chest heaving as if the world has just been put on pause to this moment. his body under yours, you & he both snarled in sheets, warm skin, limbs against each other in the only way that feels right when it's just the two of you.

he strokes your hair, fingers tracing against your scalp in a way that causes you to dissolve even further than you ever knew you could.

"you okay?" his voice is low, a little rough around the edges, like he's struggling to maintain control, to not let the walls he's spent years constructing fall down entirely.

you nod, your chin on his chest, listening to his heartbeat steady under your ear. "yeah. more than okay."

his hand moves down the length of your back, his fingertips tracing over the curve of your waist, the warmth of his touch setting your skin afire. nothing is rushed about the way he touches you any longer. this is the post-coital warmth of something authentic, of that place where language is unnecessary.

his fingers wander down to your side, drawing slow, careful lines. you let your eyes fall shut for a moment, the sense of being so utterly comfortable with him a pleasure to behold. it's a precious thing, the vulnerability bruce lets himself feel in your presence.

"i love you," he tells you, the words raw but soft. "i don't know what i'd do without you."

you smile softly, lifting your head to look at him, your hands resting on his chest, over his heart. "you’ll never have to find out."

the air changes between you once more, not with such haste as last time but with that slow-burning heat that always comes after moments such as these. you lean in to kiss him again, gentle at first, like the morning sun that doesn't hurry to come up but slowly fills the space with light.

but there's a hunger there too, a silent longing that never really goes away, not even after all that you've shared. his mouth makes the kiss deeper, & soon, you & he are lost in rhythm with one another again.

bruce's hands move up your spine, drawing you in as if he's trying to commit to memory the way you fit against him. his lips find your neck, kissing down the curve of it, his breath warm against your skin, making you shiver. your hands grab at his hair, drawing him in.

& then▰just as the world outside would have it▰there's a knock at the door.

"sir, m'lady," alfred's voice outside.

you could hear him clear his throat before continuing. "breakfast was▰wonderful, but perhaps you might join us for the remainder of the day's activities?"

you & bruce stand stock-still, eyes huge. alfred has impeccable timing.(possibly because of the kids.)

bruce groans, but there's a smile on his face, & he kisses you goodbye one more time, his lips brushing yours lightly. "we'll get them next time," he says, his voice low, almost playful.

you smile quietly, a quiet, contented noise that hangs in the stillness of the room. there is no hurry to move away. indeed, the two of you remain like that for a bit longer, your bodies entwined, still warm from the moments you've just shared.

eventually, the two of you rise▰smiling, because it's the sort of thing you'd both do, all the years & masks aside. you both put your clothes back on, every moment with him another page in a book that's never really done.

as you enter the hallway, hand in hand, the sound of your children's voices echoes down the stairs. it's a gentle symphony, the cacophony of their personalities resonating in the air. & you know▰this is home.

you're not merely bruce wayne's wife anymore. you're their mother as well, in every way that counts.

you're not only damian's second chance in love▰but everyone's. the kids' chance to embrace the love of a mother. alfred's chance to embrace you like his daughter. & bruce's chance in embracing the warmth you offer to him.

their second chance in everything.

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simpjaes · 21 days ago

Text

Frontman Agenda ― P.JS

It’s been so long since he’s seen you, and for a moment he thought he was seeing things like so many times before. Every song has a part of you in it, and now you’re here, looking at him as if he never broke your heart to begin with. Or the one where you and Jay were highschool sweethearts, years after the break up, he’s suddenly seeing you in the crowd at his first ever sold out show.

minors do not interact.

WORDCOUNT― 6.2k

PAIRING― frontman ! jay x afab ex girlfriend reader

CONTENT― exes to lovers, fluffy shit because im in love, soulmate type shit, smut

WARNINGS― reader is in a different relationship with some unknown character. He’s barely mentions and jay matters more anyway so…infidelity.

SIDE CHARACTERS― mentions of jake, sunghoon, and heeseung being his fellow band members.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

✧ now available on patreon.

✧ public release date: April 19, 2025.

✧ ask to be on my tag list!

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

teaser: 1.1k

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

“How was the show?” Jay suddenly speaks out, filling the silence with words that feel empty.

“Good. It was good.” You nod awkwardly. “I knew you guys could do it.”

He looks at you dumbfounded, almost offended. It wouldn’t be right to bring up all those feelings from before, not now. It would seem juvenile, after all, it’s been years. Then again, Jay has never been good at keeping himself in check.

You still aren’t even looking at him now. In fact, you’re avoiding eye contact as you wander around the room, fiddling with hair brushes and ratty t-shirts hanging on a rack.

“Did you though?” He questions, throwing himself down on the couch in a huff. “I never expected you to show up at one of our gigs.”

You nod, keeping your eyes to yourself.

“Of course I did. I always knew you’d put in the effort.”

You hear him let out a scoff, one so quiet you almost don’t hear it. But it’s familiar. A sound he’d give to you when he knew you were just saving face, when he knew you were feeling guilty.

“Why’d you come?” He says now, still looking at you. Unable to not look at you, actually.

You look like you’ve matured so much, wearing an outfit that you would have thrived in back in the day, but you seem almost uncomfortable in it now. God, he remembers how pretty you were when you’d smile at him, when you’d just look at him as if he created the world just for you.

It’s such a distant memory now, with your prettier lips and prettier eyes. He can’t imagine you’d ever look at him that way again.

You both really took separate paths.

He watches you shrug at his question before you turn around, glancing at him only for a moment, before averting your eyes again to busy yourself with something else.

“Seriously, why’d you come if you can’t even look at me?” He snaps now, standing to his feet and coming up to you. He can’t really help it if he’s being honest. It’s kind of a rush to see you again, to have so much to catch up on, so much to bury.

“Why are you here?”

“Didn’t someone call me back?” You argue slightly, forced to meet his eye.

“I did,” He says your name so sternly. “Do you even know how many times I’ve looked for you in the crowds? Why now?”

You remain silent, guilty almost. You didn’t expect him to question you, better yet be standing in front of you like this claiming to have seeked you out for so long. He’s the one who didn’t want to bend, he’s the one who wouldn’t break for a safe, comfortable life. Not you. You wanted everything with him, everything but instability.

“Because you were proven wrong?” He almost seethes it out, narrowing his eyes at you. “I always wondered what this day would feel like–”

“Jay,” You swallow hard. “That was so long ago. I just said those things because I was hurt that you were–”

“It doesn’t feel as good as I imagined.” He scoffs, interrupting and ignoring you as you try to speak. “Did you come here expecting to laugh?”

You shake your head, now, only now, do you really look at him.

His own breath is caught in his throat when you look at him. There it is. There’s those eyes he used to get lost in. And you look at him as if he isn’t the guy on stage who promises heartbreak and good sex. You look at him like you used to, when you’d study his face before a kiss in the middle of the night, out of breath and glistening with sweat.

And upon actually looking at him, seeing him grow into that massive head of his, doing what he loves. There’s more shine in his eyes than before, more passion for his music, for life in general.

And then there’s you in an outfit you had to buy because your closet is filled with business casual attire that will always feel itchy. Your hair, no longer colored or messy, your nose ring removed. Conformed to the very job you dreamed of.

Did you really dream of it? Of security through desks and excel spreadsheets? Of a boss who doesn’t give two shits about you and co-workers who gossip behind your back? Of that boyfriend of yours who is slowly moving up in the company solely because he gives in to the lap-dog lifestyle for the CEO?

You own your own home already, Jay probably lives in a rented apartment with the guys. You have a car, a nice job, a boyfriend who makes decent money. Yet, you’re jealous. You’re regretting it.

Have you always been this shallow? Looking down on Jay and his dreams because, at the time, it wasn’t realistic?

Well, look at the reality now.

And you don’t have a choice really, as you stare at him. What if you had gone with him? You’d have remained unemployed, no degree in hand, but…would it have been worth it?

You can’t fool yourself into believing it would be. It would have been fun, passionate even. But…what even is passion to you? Sex? The office you sit in day after day? Owning your own home? Your cat? Your boyfriend? The feeling thumping in your veins right now? The way your heart rate spikes when he looks at you?

“I was wrong.” You say, still looking at him, this time bringing your hands up to grab at his arms. “Is that what you want to hear?”

He ticks his tongue at you, looking to the floor.

“I wish it was.”

You shake your head, unable to lie to yourself, nor him. Tonight was the first time you heard his music since he broke up with you. Even so, no lyric was heard. Even with the hundreds of people shouting them out. You couldn’t hear it, not the guitar riffs, not the drums, the bass, nothing.

Truthfully, all you could see was Jay. All you could hear was his voice, how even it had gotten, how much skill he had worked to grow. Yet, still, the lyrics were foreign to you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He almost laughs now. The audacity for you to show up here, on what should be one of the best nights of his life. The fucking confidence you must have to show up, as if you weren’t proved wrong. As if you have the right.

To look at him like this and not even put up a fight? To not tell him how you’re doing? How your life is so much better without him? How you’d never have wanted to live this life or see him work tooth and fucking nail for this night.

As if half of the fucking tracklist wasn’t entirely rooted in the break up. If you had listened, perhaps you’d have been aware that letting him see you again was a dangerous choice.

He fell in love again. All over again.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Reminder: full release date is April 19th, though the entire fic is already up and available on patreon!

This teaser is not the beginning of the fic, just a little scene tangled in the story <3

#enhypen smut #jay smut #park joongseong smut #enha smut

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bucketbueckers · 1 month ago

Text

TIMELESS

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

content: slight language, fluff w maybe a little angst (im beginning to realize the "angst" is probably just plot) but it's literally not that deep at all (this is a bucketbueckers fanfiction we all know there's a happy ending), AU, soulmates, author won't pretend to understand history, potential misuse of period-typical slang, historical inaccuracies (ask me if i care [spoiler: i dont!]), abuse of punctuation, light violence, poorly proofread

wc: 15.5k

synopsis: Even in a different life, you still would have been hers. OR – two (of the many) lives you've lived with Paige Bueckers, and the one you're living with her now.

notes: im not rly much of an au author but i figured i needed a lil bit of something different after FOTS beat my ass. i've been toying w this idea for a while now 😋 this fic is probably better in theory but i had sm fun writing it (and thinking about pilot!paige and knight!paige kinda drives me crazy) idk not too much yapping from me today but as always i hope y'all enjoy &&& happy munch madness, lets have some good vibes going into game day tmr 🫶

2025

It’s a warm, breezy Tuesday in Connecticut, one of your rare off days, and this is quite possibly the last place you’d expect yourself to be.

Standing before you is an old antique shop. It’s a block away from the apartment you share with your girlfriend, Paige Bueckers, and you pass it every day on your morning jog. It’s rustic, worn at the edges, but there’s something softer about its unassuming visage today. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you’re out a little later than usual – Paige had an afternoon practice compared to her typical morning ones, so the two of you had lounged in bed for a little longer, soaking in the time together.

Whatever the reason, there was something in the air that compelled you to stop by. So you do.

The sign that hangs over the door is rusted, hanging loosely from one tarnished chain, its words unrecognizable from how time has eroded it. A bell chimes happily as you push the door open. Immediately, you’re hit with the scent of aged paper, ink, and something else that is distinctly vintage. The walls are lined with various art pieces, antique furniture tucked neatly into the crevices of the shop with tan price tags attached. You’re wrought with a familiar sense of nostalgia; there’s something so incredibly touching about the fact that everything in this store had belonged to somebody once, had been something of value, something to take care of. Everything is still in perfect condition. It’s beautiful to know that after someone is long gone, there is still someone out there who will cherish their belongings and take care of them the same way they had.

You gaze around the shop, taking everything in, your steps slow and methodical. You were never a patient shopper, always seeking to get in and get out, but it feels as though the shop is trying to tell you something – trying to show you something. You wander, studying the art, the intricate carvings on aged furniture, until you make your way to the check-out counter. The clerk is absent, although there’s a cardboard box full of old pictures – a black and white photo of a bride, toddlers playing soccer, an elderly couple on a porch swing.

There’s something achingly familiar about them. It makes your heart swell, makes you wrack your brain to discern where you’ve seen these photos before. You sift through the rest, lingering on a few; there’s one of a couple laughing on the porch of what you assume to be their first house, a photo of two people embracing – one is wearing an aged military uniform, which makes your face soften, and the third is two teenagers holding hands, dressed fashionably. That one makes you smile as you take in the lovestruck expression on their faces.

Still, there’s something about the photos that give you pause. You pull out your phone, navigating to FaceTime, and you call the one number you know will pick up no matter what.

The line clicks through and Paige’s face fills your screen. She’s slightly out of breath, her face flushed from the exertion of practice, hair messy and sweat beading at her temples. Despite that, she grins, a sort of smile that’s reserved only for you. “Hey, baby,” she greets, her voice soft, which brings a smile to your face as well. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” you say back. “Sorry, I know you’re at practice–”

“We finished early, but I always got time for you,” she promises. “You know that.”

Your smile widens. “Well, I was on my jog, but you know that antique shop in town?” Paige hums in affirmation. “Something told me to go in, so I did. Look at some of these photos I found.” You flip the FaceTime camera, positioning your phone over your collection of photos. Paige leans in a little closer to see, her brows drawing together in concentration.

“They feel…really familiar,” she says, scratching the back of her neck. “Like I feel like I’ve seen them somewhere.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” you exclaim. “It’s so weird. It’s like I know these people.”

“Wait, go back to that one,” Paige requests. “The black and white one, military uniform.” Doing as instructed, you pull that one to the forefront of the stack, gazing at them expectantly. That’s when you truly take a closer look, recognizing the expressions on the couple’s faces, their facial features. Your breath hitches just as Paige says, “Why do they kinda look like–”

“Us,” you finish.

“Yeah,” Paige murmurs, a little awestruck. “I can’t explain it but like – I can feel it.”

You flip the photo around, your eyes catching on the date on the back, and the subsequent memory hits you like a truck.

1944

It’s a sweltering afternoon in May when your life changes.

Well, changes for the second time since 1941.

Three years ago, the United States declared war on Germany and the adjoining Axis powers following the attack on Pearl Harbor. It was a dramatic shift for the entire country, one that displaced just about every facet of life. Men were drafted, heading overseas to fight, leaving holes in the workforce. Although the reality was bleak and dire, you saw this as an opportunity – for independence, for some shred of equality, for freedom. With plenty of job openings as workers were joining the war effort, you landed a job at a shipyard along the coast.

It wasn’t easy. Far from it, actually. You worked long, uncomfortable hours, hardly fitting in time for a break. You, along with several other women, worked on building, repairing, and maintaining the ships that would be used to transport supplies or men overseas. For you, it was enough – the daily routine, the knowledge that you were contributing to something greater than yourself, that your efforts were making a difference. It was worth it.

You get off your shift sometime in the afternoon. You’ve been up since the early hours of the morning; now, you’re half-asleep, only going through the motions and letting pure muscle memory guide you down the busy streets. Something big is happening soon – you can feel it. You’ve noticed drastically more uniformed men on the streets, whispers of another draft; at this point, your suspicion is a matter of when and not if.

Barely aware of what’s in front of you, you turn the corner, colliding roughly with the person in front of you. They hardly move although you bounce backwards, knocked off balance by both your exhaustion and the fact that you’re so much smaller than the other person. You’re already bracing yourself to eat concrete, eyes shut tightly, when you realize you’re not toppling over; instead, there’s a pair of firm hands holding you by the arms, keeping you upright.

“You alright?”

Her voice is concerned, if a little gravelly, rough around the edges in a way that captures your attention immediately. You open your eyes, your breath hitching, because you’re sure this is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever laid eyes on. The street is busy — everyone lost in their own little worlds moves right by you, but at this moment? It feels like time stops, like nothing exists except for you and the blonde woman before you.

Her hair is pulled up in a tight, slick-back bun, the edges pressed and the golden waves reflecting in the early May sun. Her eyes are a deep blue, almost startling so, but there’s an evident kindness that softens the intensity. Her jaw is sharp, angular, her nose sloping elegantly despite the chisel, but what truly captures your attention is her stature — she’s the tallest woman you’ve ever seen, no less than six foot, and her broad shoulders fill out her khaki uniform service shirt. There’s an emblem pinned over her left breast, wing shaped in the aviator insignia. You’ve been staring for far too long already and the pilot is smiling like she’s caught you. Despite yourself, you feel the heat rise in your cheeks.

“I’m okay,” you assure her, your voice even, which makes the expression on her face soften.

“The flyboys would never let me live it down if I ran you over,” she says coyly, her hands lingering just a second longer on your arms before she finally steadies you. Her touch makes you flustered. “Hurtin’ a girl like you is cause for a national emergency.”

You laugh, a tinkling, carefree sound that betrays the way your heart pounds — in a good way. “You think you’re slick, don’t you?”

With gentle hands, she pulls you under the awning of the storefront you’re standing next to — an antiquities shop, according to the sign, keeping you out of the way of the bustling crowd as she murmurs, “I call it like I see it.”

With a teasing smile, you glance up at her, enjoying the way she looms over you far too much. It’s not intimidating, her stature, but it does make you feel warm all over. She’s long, toned, and you can see the muscle hidden behind her uniform. Her khaki button up is tucked neatly into the waistband of her sage green trousers, the top missing a few clasped buttons to reveal the dog tags hanging from her neck. She looks so put together, handsome and beautiful all in one, and maybe it’s the solemnity of the world around you, but this moment in time feels so peaceful, so right. “Do you, now?” you ask. “And what exactly are you seeing, flygirl?”

The nickname makes her preen, flashing her teeth in a smile that could surely ruin you. “Well,” she begins, her eyes scanning your figure in a way that looks as though she’s in a gallery staring at art, and not actually standing in the middle of a crowded street and staring at a woman who has just gotten off a twelve hour shift, covered in motor oil. Her gaze doesn’t make you feel objectified – far from it, but you’re beginning to think that you enjoy her attention. “I see this pretty girl – gorgeous is more like it, but I ain’t never been good with words. Just actions.” Her lips quirk slightly, reaching out with her thumb to wipe away a smudge of grease off of your cheekbone. Your face flushes, which only makes her features brighten like the clouds parting for the sun. “I see honesty. Ambition.”

“You can tell that much about me just from one look?” you say, a little amused.

“I’d tell you a hell of a lot more if it meant seein’ you again,” she confesses.

You scan her features, not quite sure what you’re searching for – deception, maybe, but you don’t see it. All you see is genuinity, a certain brand of hope that you haven’t seen in anyone’s expression in the last few years. You don’t know anything about her other than the fact that she’s a pilot, an aviator, but a slow smile spreads across your face the more you consider her request.

In times like these, you need all the joy you can get, no matter how short it is. So you teasingly lean in, relishing in the way her body eclipses yours as she melts into you, but you stop her with a hand to the chest. You know she could easily push past it, but you appreciate the way her body goes rigid, like she’s letting you make the call. Her brow raises – a challenge, maybe? – but despite herself, her smile grows, too.

“I’m not that easy,” you whisper to her, satisfied when her breath hitches. You press against her gently and she leans back, acquiescing. “You’re gonna have to work for it if you wanna see me so bad.”

“I can do that,” she promises, nodding emphatically, which makes you laugh quietly – she’d seemed so confident, so composed; now, she just seems eager to impress, to listen to every word you say.

Content, you take a step back, flashing one last smile. “See you soon, flygirl,” you say, enjoying the smitten look on her face, until –

“I never got your name, yardbird!” Her voice carries over the thrum of the crowd.

When you pause, glancing back at her, she seems amused, if not a little hopeful to hear you answer. But again – you’re not that easy. “Find me again and I’ll tell you,” you call back, your promise reaching her ears. You watch as her smile grows; even from afar, you can make out the determination in her eyes, the clear message of challenge accepted.

You’re not surprised to see her again.

If anything, you were almost expecting it. Her eyes had held a promise, the vow that she’d rise to the challenge. She didn’t become a pilot by being unambitious – you were sure that it was the complete opposite of that, having to work twice as hard as her flyboy companions. Any surprise you hold is because of how soon you see her.

It’s the next day and you’re walking home from the shipyard again, taking that same path you’ve taken hundreds of times across the years. You’re guided by muscle memory, weaving around the slow walkers and finding natural gaps in the crowd. When you turn the corner, the pilot is standing under the awning of the antiquities shop again, her hair pinned up in the same, sleek bun, her uniform crisp and pressed. She’s glancing at her wristwatch and as soon as you round the corner, stepping onto the street, she looks up and meets your eyes immediately. A smug smile graces her features.

“Found you,” she calls out, pushing herself off of the wall with a boot to the brick. You roll your eyes, amused, and you meet her in the middle by the doorway.

“You memorizing my schedule?” you ask her.

She shrugs a coy shoulder. “I’m committed,” she declares. “Said you weren’t gonna make it easy for me, right?”

“So she does listen,” you muse.

“Every word.” You smile at her, and it’s then that you realize she’s hiding her hands behind her back. Recognizing your curiosity, she reveals her hands, her smile softening – she’s holding a singular red rose, a rich, dark red in color, and you shouldn’t be surprised, but you are. “Think this is enough to finally earn your name, yardbird?”

You hum, tapping your chin dramatically, which draws a laugh from the aviator. Conceding, you take the rose from outstretched hands, much to her relief. You introduce yourself, listening as she tests the pronunciation on her tongue, smiling at how nice it sounds rolling off her tongue. Then, she sticks out her hand for you to shake as she states, “Paige Bueckers, airforce service pilot.”

She walks you home after that, her hand gentle yet protective over the small of your back. Your conversation is full of laughter, teasing, and Paige flirting with you unashamedly; you like it more than you would ever admit to her, although you’re certain she knows. Despite the fact that this is only your second conversation, there’s something about Paige that gives her the uncanny ability to understand you – it’s like a connection that goes deeper than your accidental run in from yesterday, like she was born to know you and you were born to know her. It’s like you’ve known Paige Bueckers your entire life. It’s a new feeling, but certainly not an unwelcome one.

This quickly becomes your routine. You wake up early, spend your morning and the better part of the afternoon at the shipyard, then Paige walks you home. Getting to know her comes as easy as breathing and being with her is almost enough to make you forget about the chaos in the world. It’s like Paige is your perfect complement. She came into your life in the most unexpected way possible, but the more time you spend with her, the more nights you invite her over for dinner, the more you realize that you truly wouldn’t have it any other way.

Some nights she stays over. Paige blends so seamlessly into your routine that you wonder how you were ever complete without her at your side constantly. In the mornings, she’ll brew your coffee – how she figured out exactly how you took it, you weren’t sure, but you weren’t complaining, make your breakfast, massage your hands (because they were always sore and calloused from working on the ships all day), and walk you to the shipyard every day. At some point in time, she graduated from having a hand on your back to tangling your fingers together, which is something you truly relished in.

Over the month, the two of you get closer. Sometimes you stay at her house, waking up early enough to iron her uniform just to make her day a little easier. Paige tells you that you don’t have to go out of your way to do that for her, but secretly, you like it when she’s still in the grips of sleep and she gets out of bed to wrap her arms around you, resting her chin on your shoulder and watching you smooth out every wrinkle from her shirt. She’s warm, and soft, and dare you say it, she’s yours, even though neither of you have truly discussed it yet. It’s not traditional – in fact, nothing about the two of you is traditional; until recently, it wasn’t normal for women to work, let alone fly airplanes, let alone be in relationships together, but it works because it’s you and Paige. It works because although you’ll never have the vocabulary to describe it, you know this isn’t the first time you’ve met Paige. This isn’t the first time you’ve shared sleepy mornings together. It’s not even the first time you’ve loved her. Whether you truly realized it or not, you and Paige were a story centuries in the making, spanning across several years, decades, lifetimes.

But in a world like this, not everything can be perfect. Your suspicions were right from the very beginning.

“I have to leave,” Paige whispers to you on one quiet, sunny afternoon. It’s June 1st, barely fourteen hours into the day when Paige breaks the news. You’d been working since dawn. When Paige picked you up from the shipyard, she’d been noticeably dim, not nearly as lively on the walk back. You pressed, but she was silent, so you’d hoped that she was just tired from training; then, she’d suggested the two of you go to her backyard to lay in the sun. You curled up next to her, your chin on her chest, smiling as she pointed out the different shapes in the clouds (“That one’s definitely a boat,” you’d said, finger directed at a blob in the sky, to which Paige had responded with, “Y’think so, yardbird?”)

You knew Paige was an aviator. An aircraft service pilot, to be exact. You knew that eventually, she would be called in to fulfill a duty. You just never thought it would come so soon.

“When?” you murmur, willing your voice not to crack. Your hand was resting over her stomach – you can feel how her breathing comes to her quicker, hear the way her heart pounds in her chest. She wants to leave just as much as you want her to, but she knows she’s bound by obligation.

“Tomorrow morning,” she responds. Your heart aches and she can only tighten her arm around your shoulders, her chin pressing into your temple. “I’m flyin’ out to England – all of the Allies will be there. We’ll get debriefed, then… I’m flying twenty men into Normandy to invade Europe. After that, I’ll be transporting supplies and cargo between our bases and the frontlines.”

“Paige,” you try, but the lump in your throat cuts you off.

“Don’t worry about me,” she says, trying for a lighthearted tone, but you can hear that it’s weighing on her just as much as it’s weighing on you. “I’ll be okay.”

“Please don’t make me a promise you can’t keep,” you beg, which makes Paige deflate, unable to continue being strong. “There’s no guarantees–”

“I know–”

“And don’t be reckless, you hear–”

“Yardbird,” Paige stresses, her voice cracking on the syllables of her nickname for you; despite the anguish on her face, there’s a calm acceptance, a sort of determination that looks like a promise to return. She squeezes your shoulder, directing your attention to her face. Tears are pooling on her waterline and if there’s one thing that’s always true about Paige Bueckers, it’s that irritating, unmistakable confidence of hers; you can see it reflected in her eyes. She believes that she’s coming home after this mission. You know better than to get your hopes up. “I promise you–”

“Don’t–”

She interrupts you with a stern look, desperation clouding her features now. She needs you to hear this. “I promise I’ll come home to you,” she vows. Paige’s voice softens to a whisper, her eyes searching yours to make sure you’re listening. “I don’t care what it takes. As soon as my mission is complete, I’ll be flying the first plane out of Europe. You and me?” Paige trails off, squeezing your hand like it’s a lifeline. “We aren’t done here. I still have to make you mine.” You murmur her name, but she shakes her head, needing to finish her thought. “I still have to introduce you to my family – to Drew. There’s so much more we have to do together – that we are going to do together. Okay?”

You gaze at her for a few achingly long moments, trying to memorize the blue of her eyes, the slope of her nose, the way her hair is disheveled because she’s usually so put together and that thought alone makes fresh tears spring to your eyes. Before they can fall, she leans up, pressing her thumbs to your cheeks and her forehead to yours. “I’ll write you letters,” she promises. “Everyday.”

You breathe in deep, trying to remember her scent. You know that you still have the rest of the day with Paige, but it feels like she’s already overseas. Gathering yourself, you nod against her, trying to commit the way her skin feels on yours to memory. “Okay,” you repeat, giving in. Her fingers brush across your skin, tilting your head up to meet her eyes. She’s scanning your features for any hint of a falsehood, but the only thing she sees is a quiet acceptance, the kind that comes when you know you can’t argue anymore or stop something from happening.

She offers you a gentle, wobbly smile, and it does lift your spirits some. If Paige can believe so ardently in something, then so can you. “I’ll be okay,” she says again.

“I know,” you confess, because deep down, you really do think she’ll come back to you. From the very first moment you crossed paths, you learned that Paige was not one to back down. Now, when her choices are coming home to you or not coming home at all, her decision is simple.

Nothing changes when she leaves. You work your shifts, mind obviously elsewhere, but with what you know about her deployment, you know that you can’t dwell on it too much. You have a heftier workload now, maintaining and fixing the ships, so you get lost in the routine.

The bright spot of your week is the first letter comes a few days after she leaves. Somehow, the worn paper smells like her, and you smile at the sign of her looping scrawl, the borderline chicken scratch handwriting. It makes you think of all of the times she’d leave you notes across your house, reminding you that you’re beautiful and that she’s thinking of you. The memory makes your chest ache, so you push it to the back of your mind.

June 3, 1944

To my yardbird,

I just landed in England. It’s very busy here. It’s beautiful, too, and I think you’d like it. I can see us walking down the cobblestone streets together, maybe sometime in the future when the vendors and stalls are in business again. I would probably say something annoying and you’d shake your head, amused and trying to hide your smile, but I would know.

How are you doing? How is the shipyard? The hibiscuses we planted in May? I want to hear everything.

When I sat down to write this, I thought the words would come easy to me. I spent my entire flight thinking of what I would say to you, what I would ask. I thought it would be easy to tell you how desperately I want you and how I count down the hours until I get to see you again. Maybe God’s honest truth is that these aren’t understandings that can be summarized in one single letter – or truths that can’t be summarized at all.

Do you ever think about how you can look up and see the same sky as me, the same stars? I’ve spent a lot of time in the air. I know the clouds like the back of my hand, the way they move, the way the wind currents will guide me home. I know more about the sky than I know of the earth. In my profession, it’s hard to stay grounded – literally and figuratively, but my time with you has reminded me that there is an importance in returning to the soil, spreading my roots, seeking out a future I previously thought I couldn’t afford. You’ve given me hope, a dream, a love.

On my flight to England, I looked to the west and I saw a star. It shone brighter than the rest, glimmering and sparkling despite the fading night. As I’m writing this, I’m staring at the very same star. It makes me feel as though we aren’t so far apart right now, that you could look up and see what I’m seeing. You and I, we’re still connected, two ends of a red string coated in something cosmic and everlasting. When I look to the sky, it’s like I’m looking at you.

I will be home soon. That is my one promise to you. Until then, I hope you’ll look to the sky and look for me, too.

Yours,

–P

You draft your response immediately and send it off with the mail carrier before evening. You don’t know when it will get to her or if she’ll have much time to write back, but before you go to bed that night, you step outside and direct your attention to the western sky. You spot the star she was referring to almost immediately, the way it twinkles against a dark canvas; despite the ache in your heart, looking at it makes you feel a little less alone.

June 7, 1944

To my flygirl,

You make England sound so peaceful. I’m sure it is made all the more beautiful a country by you being in it. I would love to visit with you, when the world is all right and it’s a warm, summer day. Even if we just explore the cities, you have a way of making each moment feel more significant. You turn the mundane into a memory. Wherever you go, you leave a trail of magic behind you, and I am endlessly blessed that God has put me on this earth with you if only so I could follow it.

I’m holding up. The days are long and the nights are short and I miss you more and more each day you’re gone. According to the radios, you flew into Normandy yesterday and the invasion began. I hope you stay safe. The shipyard is busy – we are sending out more and more ships everyday for cargo and for men. Even more come back for repairs. I rarely get a break as of late, although I know my job is an important one. The hibiscuses are healthy, but they bloomed a little brighter when you were here to care for them. I don’t know how you do it. It is as though these things know you – they know you’re gentle, and kind, and that you have this nourishing, uplifting factor about you. They know of your love as well as I do, of what it is like to be without it.

I find myself writing and then pausing. I have so many things I would like to say to you but this paper can only hold so many of my thoughts. I agree that one letter is not enough to express myself fully. However, I know not to worry. You are thoughtful in ways most people never think to be and you have always been talented in understanding me before I’ve been able to understand myself. There are many things you know but I do like saying them. I miss you – isn’t it funny how we always come back to this? I miss you in a way that makes my chest ache. I miss having you in bed next to me and I miss the way you sing in the mornings. I miss you because you are everything I didn’t know I needed and more than I ever thought I deserved.

Remembering that you are under the same sky as me makes me feel a little less alone. Remembering that you see the same stars, the same moon, the same sun reassures me you aren’t so far away. Remembering that you feel the same love reminds me that you’ll be home soon.

With love,

Your yardbird

Over the course of the next several weeks, you continue to work. You continue to gaze at the sky before bed, imagining Paige doing the same before she goes to sleep. You write to her and you read the letters she sends you. They always start the same – an affectionate “To my yardbird” that never fails to bring a smile to your face. She tells you about her days, never once mentioning the toils of the war, only the beauty of the nature around her in spite of the damages around it. She tells you about the other women airforce service pilots – the WASPs – in her platoon and their ineffable courage. Paige tells you about the ones vying to return home to their families, too, and their unshakable determination to make it home.

You reread all of her letters when the sun goes down. Each and every one of them, starting with the one dated from June 3 to her most recent one. At this point, you have all of her letters memorized from the penmanship to the content. You spend hours with your hands clasped as you utter your hopes, prayers, a constant wish for her to be safe.

The weeks tick by. There’s nothing of note on the radio. You get lost in the rhythm of working, of thinking about Paige, of writing letters to her and handing them off to the mail carrier with the same unwavering expression of hope. You remind yourself that you and Paige aren’t done here, and that she’ll be back soon.

Then, her letters slow down ever so slightly. The Allies are pushing for one more coordinated attack, she’d written to you. I’ll be in the air frequently.

All you could do was wait. And hope. And work.

So, you do.

Four more weeks pass by. In that time span, you only get one letter from Paige in the second week, then she’s silent for the next two.

You try to not let the worry ruin your life.

On August 25, the radio at the shipyard crackles to life, announcing, “The Allied advance has liberated France. The Germans are in full retreat.”

You felt as though you could breathe a little easier, but you were still sick without the knowledge of whether or not Paige was okay. You don’t hear anything for two days.

On August 27, you’re leaving work early, a rare happenstance. Given the relative silence of the last few days of the invasion, you and the other women were able to finish repairs fully on the current batch of ships you were working on and you were waiting to get the damaged ones back from overseas. With nothing else to do, you walk your worn path back home, letting pure exhaustion and muscle memory guide you home. You’re too tired to even think, but you do glance up at the antiquities shop as you pass by. It had become a habit over the last twelve weeks, bringing a smile to your face as you remember the day you and Paige had met.

But you stop in your tracks, letting the bustle of the crowd pass you by as you gawk. Part of you can’t believe it, half-tempted to rub your eyes, convinced you’re in the middle of a dream or that the sheer exhaustion of the past three months has finally caught up with you. All you can do is stare, until–

Paige Bueckers cocks one of her signature, amused smiles, her eyes relieved and fatigued all at the same time. Her hair lacks its usual gel, the edges unruly. Her uniform top is buttoned one lower than usual, exposing the undershirt she’s wearing, and the hem is barely tucked into the waistband of her trousers. She doesn’t look injured, just like she could use a really long nap, but the sight of her makes your heart leap out of your chest.

“You’re early today, yardbird,” she comments wryly, glancing down at her wristwatch. “You got a hot date?”

You drop your bag at your feet, coming into her personal space with three quick strides. Judging by her expression, it’s clear she wasn’t expecting this reaction from you, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you cup her cheeks, standing on the tips of your toes to kiss her. Paige melts into you completely, her arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against her with an overwhelming amount of relief. She sighs against you, tilting her head to kiss you deeper, but your hands tremble on her face as you taste the salt on her lips. You can’t believe that she’s here right now. After twelve weeks of aching, of hoping, of believing, she’s here.

You break away from her when your lungs burn, needing to breathe. Despite the tears, she’s still smiling when she presses her forehead to yours, her eyelids slipping shut like she just needs to absorb the moment and breathe you in. You do the same, your hands sliding down to tangle in the fabric of her shirt. She’s firm, she’s warm, she’s alive and she’s in front of you and you have possibly everything you’ve ever wanted right here in front of you. “I can’t believe you’re here,” you whisper into her chest, your voice a little muffled, but Paige’s shoulders shake with laughter, dissolving all of the tension left in your body.

“I told you,” she murmurs, her chin pressing into your temple as she holds you close, “I’d come home to you.”

And if there’s one thing that’s true about Paige Bueckers, it’s that she doesn’t break a promise. Not this one, and certainly not the one she makes to you almost a year and a half later in her backyard when the two of you exchange private vows during a quiet, peaceful, summer afternoon, promising to love each other for the rest of your lives.

2025

As quickly as the memory comes to you, it disappears just as fast, leaving you in a daze. You blink once, twice, wondering if you’d just imagined it all or if that was real. Glancing back down at the photo in front of you, the two women embracing in the middle of a crowded street – one a flygirl, one a yardbird, their features so similar and their expressions so loving, you think that it had felt too real to be fake.

“Hey, you alright?” Paige’s voice echoes from your call, concern laced in her tone, and despite yourself, you can’t help but crack a smile because those were the very first words the aviator had said to you. Perhaps there was more truth to it than you thought.

“I’m okay,” you promise, peering down at the photos again. An idea hits you all at once. “You said you finished practice early, right?” Your girlfriend hums, clearly confused with where you were going with this. “How quickly can you get to this antique store?”

Paige doesn’t keep you waiting too long. She makes it to you in record time, the jingle of the bell above the door capturing your attention. You glance up, spotting her, and the two of you share matching smiles as she strides closer to press a kiss to your temple, squeezing your hip. “Alright,” she murmurs. “Lemme see these pictures.”

You hover silently next to her as she sifts through the pile of pictures you’d accumulated. She lingers on the black and white photo of the pilot and the shipyard worker – describing that photo as you and Paige still feels a little too weird, but you watch as her brows furrow, her eyes lighting up with something that looks like recognition. You don’t even have to ask to know that she’s feeling the exact same thing that you did.

“This is insane,” she mumbles under her breath, which makes you laugh a little, amused. Paige holds the photo gently in one of her hands as she looks through the others, finding one of two teenagers holding hands on their way to a dance, presumably, considering the way they’re dressed. They don’t look as similar to you and Paige as the first photo did, but it still brings back a sense of nostalgia that Paige picks up on, too. “You remember prom? Junior year at Hopkins?” your girlfriend asks, nudging you gently.

You resist rolling your eyes. “How could I not?” you say sarcastically. “Someone saran-wrapped the doors so tightly that the principal had to call the fire department just so we could get in.” Paige laughs. Affection blooms in your chest despite yourself, and you grin, too. “We made the best of it, didn’t we?” Paige hums in affirmation, brushing her fingers across the photo before you before picking up another one. It’s two people laughing on a porch. You can tell they’re lovers by their closeness. “Remember when I rented my first apartment and you helped me move in?”

Her lips curl into a fond smirk. By help you mean Paige stayed over every night for a week straight, delaying your unpacking and “breaking in the new crib,” whatever that meant. You’d enlisted her to help with your furniture, your decor, and building shelves, but you’d go to bed in her arms and wake up to all of your furniture in completely different spots. “Oh no,” Paige would whine, a terrible actress to this day. “Guess I gotta stay and help you fix this.” It didn’t take a genius to figure out that she was intentionally waking up at night and “inconveniencing” you just so she could stay a little longer and annoy you, but you suppose the real kicker was she never really needed an excuse to be near you, anyway. You would have let her stay for the week even if it meant she didn’t fuck up the way your furniture was arranged.

“I still dunno why your furniture kept moving,” she muses, still committed to the bit. “You ever call maintenance? Or security or somethin’?”

You roll your eyes for real this time, pressing a little closer. She raises her arm to rest it over your shoulders. You pick up a photo of a 30’s bride, her veil long over her face. It wasn’t a secret that you wanted to marry Paige someday – the two of you had been together since high school and you both had discussed as much; now, she was entering her final March Madness tournament as a Husky. The two of you were so interwoven into the fabric of each other’s lives that you were sure you would be together until one of you took your last breath.

“You look pretty in white,” she comments off-handedly, like she’s slick, but you know better.

You grin. “You think so?” you ask coyly. She hums again, a smile of her own growing on her features the more she stares at the picture of the bride. “Well, I think you look pretty good in a suit, too.”

“Oh, little ole me?” she croons, faux shyness lacing her tone.

“You’re so annoying,” you say.

“You’ve loved me since we were fourteen,” she reminds you – as if you’d ever forget it. “You’re stuck with me at this point.”

The truth was, you’d be content to be stuck with her for the rest of your life. The other truth was that Paige’s ego was already so dangerously over-inflated that it’s days away from popping like a balloon with too much helium, so you couldn’t possibly admit that to her. The third truth was that Paige knows you love her, just as she loves you, so she didn’t need you to admit it to her, anyhow. The both of you were stuck with each other, not that either of you minded.

“Let’s get these?” you request, and Paige nods, scooping up your selected photos in her gentle hands.

But it still feels like you’re missing something. You have your photos, the memory of a life long passed – which reminds you; you and Paige will be having a lengthy conversation about that memory later today – but it feels as though you haven’t seen everything the universe clearly wants you to see. So you link hands with Paige, scanning the shop once more as you search for the missing piece.

It’s Paige who actually locates it after a few moments of walking. She glances at you meaningfully, guiding you down a row of bookshelves, eyes roaming over its contents like she knows exactly what she’s looking for. At the very end of the line, there’s an old, dusty, leatherbound book covered in cobwebs laying flat on an antique table, as though someone pulled it off the shelves to read and then forgot about it. Paige exhales like it was exactly what she was looking for.

She drops your hand to brush the back of her hand over the front cover, getting rid of the dust and the cobwebs, and then immediately sneezes. It makes you choke on a giggle, the mystery and the intrigue of the moment softened by Paige’s incessant allergies, and the tips of her ears flush red as you whisper a quiet, “Bless you.”

When the cover is clean, she wipes her hands on her shorts and opens the book carefully to the front page. You peer over her shoulder again. The penmanship is in neat cursive, the ink fading with time, but still legible enough for you to read. There’s a date in the top right corner reading 1543 September 9. Paige whistles lowly, holding the book a lot more gingerly now, which amuses you a little bit.

You look at the first line, reading, “Father procured me this journal to document my life and my emotions. He believes that it will help regulate me and, in quote, save me from this phase of rebellion lest I make a mockery of the crown. I am only eighteen. Surely, he must understand that the life of a princess is not one for me.”

Paige blinks once. “Well, that’s heavy.”

“Paige, she’s eighteen.”

“Technically, like…” your girlfriend pauses to do the math in her head, “...Four hundred and…eighty sum’.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and when you reach out to turn the page, you’re hit with another memory – only this time, you know that Paige is seeing it too.

1543

“Princess, your father is just trying to look out for you. He is just…a little misguided.”

You huff indignantly as you drag your brush through your hair. You truly do not mean to be this dramatic, but indignance just seems to be the main emotion that your father manages to evoke from you. Ever since you turned eighteen, the “of age” marker determining your eligibility to officially inherit the throne, the King – your father – has been nothing short of particular. Exacting. Expectant. If you’re not studying with your tutor, you’re listening in on his meetings, learning the ins and outs of how to run a country. You’re his only heir, so deep down, you understand why he demands so much from you. There’s a short time between now and when your father won’t be deemed fit to run a country. You’re just upset that being the princess means you can’t be you anymore.

There’s a certain degree of freedom you get used to growing up in the castle. You want for nothing – everything is provided for you, no question about it. You have the best education possible, learning from private tutors all over the world – math prodigies, language experts, philosophers. Everything you could possibly want is at the tip of your fingers. As of late, however, it seems that you may just be broken.

You long to be outdoors, away from the castle and its stuffy, too large walls. You long to do things for enjoyment and not for obligation. You’re eighteen – you want to be with people your age, not the children of the entitled, pompous bureaucrats that your father rubs elbows with. You want to be you, not the Princess, not the heir to the throne, just you.

It seems there are just some luxuries that one cannot afford, not even monarchs with the world at their disposal.

“‘Misguided’ is one word for it,” you huff, trying to not catch too much of an attitude with your chambermaid, Carlotta. It is not her fault, not in the slightest, and she’s been there for you your entire life – even longer than your father has. “I do not want to be–”

Carlotta hushes you, a gentle, cautious hand resting over your shoulder. You clamp your mouth shut. “You must be careful, Princess,” she murmurs.

“There are eyes and ears everywhere,” you finish, your voice barely a whisper. “I know. I’m sorry.”

That was another thing you loathed about being a royal – the constant paranoia. It is a well-known fact that your father has enemies. Perhaps that is just a fact of life that comes with being king, a political figure, someone in charge of making decisions for millions of people. It is hard to be free when you’re tailed by your father’s most trusted knights and officers.

“It is all right,” Carlotta assures you. “Now come – you must be ready for the banquet.”

You nod, swallowing back your remark, and you allow Carlotta to help you into your gown.

The banquet goes as well as you were expecting. It’s loud, raucous, and full of minging, networking, and brown-nosing. You’re certain that you’ve never faked as many smiles or laughs as you have until today, but once it becomes socially acceptable, you sneak out the back door.

Or, as well as one can sneak when there’s a knight tasked with following your every move.

You glance over your shoulder. Just before the door slams shut, a tall figure in breathable armor slinks through the gap, following you at a respectable pace. However, there’s something that gives you pause.

As irritated as you are at the prospect of being tailed by your father’s appointed guards, you’ve made a habit of knowing who they are. Tristan is your usual suspect – he’s tall, lean, and his armor is recognizable. There’s a crest on his breastplate, signifying that he comes from a family of nobles, but this knight lacks the decorative chestpiece. Every other day, you’re then followed by Maximus. He is a little shorter than Tristan, although in place of a family crest, he has the traditional knight’s insignia – he doesn’t come from a family of nobles; rather, he’s an experienced knight who worked his way up through those ranks.

Whoever is wearing this suit of armor isn’t Tristan or Maximus, and you know that while your father makes a habit of annoying you, he wouldn’t reassign your patrols without telling you. Feeling your heart beat a little faster in your chest, you lengthen your strides, trying to get away from whoever is pursuing you without giving it away that you know they’re an enemy.

The issue with all of the country’s royals concentrated in one wing of the castle means that the large majority of the knights are assigned to that wing. That means there’s little protection through the back corridors. That means you need to find a way to get the knight off of your trail. There’s a variety of things you could be used for. A bargaining chip. An arranged marriage. Perhaps you’d just be killed entirely.

You hang a left, casting another glance over your shoulder. You don’t see the knight round the corner just yet, but you can hear his footsteps pick up speed. Realizing how dire your situation is now, you will your body into a run, thanking Carlotta for putting you in a pair of sandals instead of the heels your stylist had set out for you. The heavy clank of armor follows you down the winding halls as you breathlessly search for your exit.

To your right is a set of tall glass doors, leading into the palace gardens. Confident in being able to find somewhere to hide there, you push the doors open and run outside.

What you’re not expecting to find, however, is a tall blonde woman sparring in the dark. She spins on a dime, her sword lowering, but recognition flickers across her face once she realizes you’re the Princess. You briefly wonder if she’s a knight, too, or if she’s here to kill you, as well, but you throw all caution to the wind, deciding to trust the blue of her gaze. “Help me!” you exclaim, throwing yourself behind her just as the glass doors burst open and the turncoat knight barrels outside.

You realize, perhaps a little too late, that the blonde woman is not wearing armor. She’s dressed in a breathable navy and white tunic, the knight’s crest emblazoned across the chest, and a pair of worn boots. At the very least, she’s drastically more agile than her opponent (and taller, too, you note, although you remind yourself that there’s possibly a time and a place for those sorts of realizations).

The armored knight draws his sword, a quiet acceptance in his body language like he knows he’ll have to go through the blonde knight to get to you, but she’s rigid, confident, rising to the challenge completely.

They collide in a flurry of sparks, loud groans, and the clang of metal against metal. The blonde, to her credit, doesn’t budge, but the force of their impact sends the armored knight stumbling. Using that to her advantage, she delivers a swift kick to his abdomen, which makes the knight fall to the ground completely.

“Yield!” she barks, her blade against the soft part of his helmet.

He pauses, gazing up at her as if truly contemplating it, before his own leg jerks out, knocking her off balance. She grunts, dropping to one knee, and he uses her injury to kick her backwards as well. He digs his sword into the soil, using it to lift himself up. The knight spins his sword in his hand, remnants of dirt flying off of his blade, and he stalks towards her like a predator to his prey. All you can do is watch on in horror.

You’re so focused on the other knight that you don’t notice her fingers digging into the dirt next to her until she comes up with a fistful of soil that she launches directly at his helmet. He recoils with a yelp, disoriented, and the blonde knight locates her sword, slashing out in a quick motion and catching the soft spot where his knee bends. He staggers again and she slams her hilt into his wrist, causing him to drop his sword. She grabs it immediately, dual wielding both blades, and the checkmate move comes when she kicks his injured leg. He falls to his knees and she crosses both of the swords under his neck again, chest heaving and sweat beading at her temple.

“Yield,” she commands. “I won’t ask again.”

He lifts his head ever so slightly, meeting your gaze across the garden. You stand your ground even though you’re rattled and you can feel your pulse in your fingertips. Barely eighteen and I’m already surviving assassination attempts, you think to yourself, Father would be proud. Then, he drops his head again, defeat in his posture. “...I yield.”

By the time he finishes his sentences, the garden doors burst open and more of your father’s nights enter the garden, brandishing their blades. They catch sight of the blonde knight, swords to your attacker’s neck, then settle their gaze on you, breathing heavily but not a hair out of place. “Arrest him,” one of the captains instructs, and another knight surges forward to deal with the attacker. “Secure the Princess. Alert the King immediately.”

The garden is a flurry of activity as the knights disperse. One group leaves as they drag away your attacker. Another group surrounds you as if forming a wall between you and any potential danger. Still, you can’t keep your eyes off of your savior, the blonde woman whose cheek is slightly smeared with blood. You’re not sure if it’s hers or his, but this isn’t a night you’re going to forget for a while – not because of the attempt on your life, but because of this knight’s bravery, her spur of the moment decision to put her life on the line for you, especially against an opponent with far more protection than her.

It’s nearly stupid. She’d behaved so recklessly, but it was her job. So why do you feel so drawn towards her?

Your father arrives with a security detail of his own. You’re not quite sure what you were expecting from him, but he gives you a cursory look over, nodding in approval when he sees that you’re okay, before he turns to his men. “Who allowed this to happen?” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to, but you think he’s scarier like this – the deadly sort of calm that only comes out when someone is truly pissed. “Who allowed a turncoat knight to nearly kill my daughter?”

His men are notably silent. Your father scoffs, shaking his head, and he turns on his heel, probably ready to storm out until he catches sight of the blonde knight, standing solemnly in the corner. “Who are you?”

Her voice doesn’t waver when she answers, not meeting your father’s eyes out of respect. “Sir Paige Bueckers, Your Majesty.”

He glances at her – armorless, then he glances at the rest of the knights gathered – uniformed. “Why are you here?”

Paige hesitates, looking up to meet your eyes, a silent plea for help. “She saved me, Father,” you answer for her, drawing your father’s attention back to you. She relaxes slightly, gratitude in her expression. “I noticed the knight following me wasn’t one of my usual handlers. So I ran out here to flee and found Sir Paige.” Your father looks at Paige again, studying her in a new light. His quiet contemplation could mean a lot of things. Then, surprising everyone, you say, “Father, I want her reassigned to my guard detail immediately.”

Your father considers this for a few moments longer, then he turns to the captain. “See to it,” he orders. The captain nods emphatically. And with that, your Father returns indoors, his security detail following. The rest of the knights follow until it’s just you and Paige, who stares at you with a mix of shock and curiosity.

You nod at her, softening. “Come. Let’s get you to the infirmary.”

Paige, unsurprisingly, is not a woman of many words. You don’t expect her to initiate any sort of conversation with you given your status, but she does look at you – a lot – mostly when she thinks that you’re not aware of it. There is nothing inherently inappropriate about her gaze. You can tell she’s curious. You can also tell that she knows she has a duty to do. Her gaze flickers on and off you to scan the hallways for any sort of potential danger and her hand hovers over the hilt of the sword strapped to her waist as if someone would jump at you both from the shadows.

Functionally, she hasn’t said a single word to you since you met her, yet you battle the urge to get to know her. You know that would never be allowed – a royal fraternizing with a knight. It breaches every code of conduct and tradition that you’ve been raised to recite by memory. Despite your knowledge, there seems to be a pull between you and the knight, one that you’re finding harder and harder to resist as you watch her brows tent in concentration, her eyes studying everything about her surroundings as you lead her to the medic.

When the two of you reach the infirmary, she doesn’t say much else, either, only nodding or shaking her head when the physician asks questions like “Does it hurt when I do this?” or “Do you feel any pain here?” You do watch as her face screws up, discomfort in her features, when the physician pokes and prods at her knee.

She’s fortunate, according to the physician, that it is only bruised and she should expect to recover quickly. Taking an armored boot to the knee when you’re wearing only a thin tunic is usually grounds for a fracture or a broken bone. Paige takes the diagnosis in stride, her eyes trailing after the physician as she leaves the infirmary to fetch some herbs from the greenhouse, and shamelessly, your eyes find the knight again. She doesn’t glance at you, but you can tell that she’d like to, so you break the silence to say, “You don’t need to be so formal with me.”

Her throat bobs as she argues, “I do.” Then, as if you’d forgotten, she reminds you, “You’re the princess. Treating you otherwise would be disrespectful.”

You cock a wry smile. “And would disobeying my wishes not also be disrespectful, Sir Paige?”

She pauses, not expecting that one, and finally, she glances up to meet your eyes. Her eyes are startlingly blue, alert despite the exhaustion and the lingering pain of her battle, but they’re kind. They’re soft in a way you would never expect from a hardened knight. They’re gentle when they appraise you, studying your features, and her features relax as if she’s looking at you – truly looking at you – for the first time. “I suppose it would be, Princess,” she agrees. “I apologize.”

Your smile softens, too. “Considering you saved my life today, perhaps we can call it even?” you suggest, trying for a joking tone, and you find that it’s well-received when she chuckles. “Thank you for that, by the way. I would not be here without your courage.”

“I was just doing my duty,” she murmurs humbly. “My only wish is for you to not have had to witness that.”

“I’m stronger than I look,” you say reflexively.

Paige glances at you again, her eyes lingering on your face before a slow smile curls on her lips. “I’m beginning to see that.”

You know she doesn’t intend to say that in any sort of way, but the warmth of her gaze, the approval in her eyes, and her words alone are enough to make your cheeks flush. It’s wrong – that much you’re sure of. You haven’t known the knight for very long, but there’s something so magnetic about her, like you’ve met her before, like you know you’ll be safe with her. This conversation feels like one you’ve had before. That thought doesn’t alarm you as much as it should. Paige just feels right.

Then, she raises her hand, rubbing her face, and she doesn’t realize that she’s reopened the small cut beneath her eye. “Oh,” you say, not nothing much of it as you reach out for a piece of gauze, “you’re bleeding.” Motioning to the wound and ignorant to the way Paige’s breath hitches, you ask, “May I?” She nods and you step between her parted legs, hovering over her as you gingerly reach out with the cotton, fingers light and delicate against her skin, cleaning away the blood. You and Paige are inches apart by now, and the sudden closeness makes your hand tremble, especially when your eyes flick up to meet Paige’s. The expression on her face is almost awestruck, reverent in a way that makes you forget about how dangerous this is. You don’t realize that you’ve planted your free hand on her shoulder, holding onto her to keep her from moving, nor do you realize how her hands grip the edges of the table, knuckles white like she knows it would be wrong to touch you, but the way her breath stutters makes it so obvious that she’s desperate to regardless.

Sobering up, you lean back, red tinging your cheeks as Paige exhales deeply. The physician returns to the infirmary at that time, grinding together herbs in a mortar and pestle and muttering to herself absently. You and Paige exchange a glance, the heat of the previous moment softening as you both put some space between each other, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve stumbled across something that you shouldn’t have – the chemistry between you and the knight. You’ve always been curious and daring by nature; you know yourself well enough to know that you’ll track down that spark and see where it goes, even if it means sweeping the ashes under the rug after it ignites into something you can’t quite stop.

For now, you have to play it smarter. All eyes are on you as you prepare to take the throne from your father, and the last thing you want to do is jeopardize Paige and her future, even if you’ve already done so by assigning her to your personal guard.

Beneath the professionalism, the practiced stoicism that you see right through, you recognize that very same spark reflected in Paige’s eyes – the curiosity, the determination, the willingness to press the match to the kindling if you’d so much as asked. You know this is risky, that this energy between you and Paige is something that will splinter the foundations of the life you’ve grown so accustomed to.

And the worst part of it?

You wouldn’t even mind if it did.

Paige assimilates seamlessly into your routine. You wouldn’t expect anything less from the knight, who adjusts to her new position with a startling quickness and efficiency. Given the recent attack on your life, your father arranged to have her moved to a room only a door down from yours in the Royal Wing of the palace, believing that having her close would allow her to protect you better. She becomes your shadow of sorts, although you had to put your foot down early on in your new…partnership, and force her to walk side by side with you instead of the infuriating ten or so feet away.

“Being close to me would keep me safer, wouldn’t it?” you’d questioned her, by no means trying to be coy about it.

Paige had smiled softly like she knew, amusement and acceptance in her features as she agreed, “I suppose it would, Princess.”

She follows you everywhere – your royal meetings, your appointments with your tutors, to the dining room, and well, if she’s found in your bedroom, listening to you ramble about your latest project, then you’d say it’s for your own protection as much as it’s for the growing friendship between the two of you. When Paige isn’t worried about her professionalism, she talks. A lot. It doesn’t bother you at all. You’re content to listen to her stories, her experiences, her life, how every choice she made throughout the years led her here. Selfishly, you’d think that inadvertently, her choices had led her to you, although you don’t voice that thought at all.

She grew up in a small village a few hours away by horseback – Storrs. It isn’t well known for much except for the cold winters that the locals loathe. She’d recounted her childhood with a fond smile on her face, even the uncomfortable parts like the time she’d hurt her knee severely while sparring or when her parents had divorced. Divorce wasn’t as familiar to you, having been raised in the castle where your father remained with your mother until she passed, even though there wasn’t any love between them after your birth and their failure to conceive a male heir – although that’s a story for another day. When you voiced as such, wondering about the casualness in which she and her parents viewed their separation, she’d merely shrugged and said, “Sometimes people just don’t feel the same love that they did before. Why stick around to force something when your heart’s not in it?”

You’d felt as though that applied to a little more than relationships, considering how you didn’t want to be queen. As much as you trusted Paige, you didn’t think it was the time nor the place to drop that kind of confession on her.

While there’s no more attempts on your life, Paige sticks by you fiercely. If it were anyone else, you’d probably be pissed at the lack of independence, but there’s something about Paige’s company that you cherish, even if it’s just her standing watch at the door while your tutor teaches you philosophy. You like having her around. That thought should scare you much more than it does. For the first time in a really long time, it feels like you’re free. Growing up, you’d never had many friends. Everyone your age was always too aristocratic, too pompous, too entitled. You’d tried, but you could just never get along with them – it was always like you were on the outside looking in no matter what you did differently. With Paige, it feels like you’re shedding all of the past desires to fit in. She makes you feel as though you don’t have to fight your way inside just to be accepted. She makes you feel as though there’s always a place you’ll belong, even if it’s just with her.

So while there aren’t any more attempts on your life, that doesn’t mean your life gets easier. As you progress in your training and you begin to take up more royal duties, there is an increase in the number of suitors that make their way through the castle. Most of them have been arranged by your father, seeking to find a husband to rule next to you – or rather, someone for you to stand next to while they rule. They’re either princes of distant kingdoms, or the high-ranking sons of nobles. You hate all of them. They’re either too old, too stuck-up, too arrogant, or too…male. You’d longed for visions of long, blonde hair, twinkling blue eyes, the gentle way in which the knight spoke to you yet the fierce way she protected you. None of these men were her, and you could tell your father was becoming upset by how often you turned them away.

If you hated them, then you’re not quite sure what word to use to accurately portray the amount of disdain that Paige feels for them. You can see it in her expression alone, the white-hot hatred that burns in her eyes even as she speaks to you politely, calmly. You see it in the way she stands unyieldingly next to you, a hand poised over the hilt of her sword as if she was ready to dispose of whichever groveling idiot was trying to propose, if you wouldn’t deny them yourself. You see it in the way her entire demeanor shifts, the way she grows more confident when you’re alone and her hand curls around your waist and she dips her head down to your ear to whisper, “None of them deserve you. Not a single one of them.”

If Paige hadn’t already ruined you for anyone else, then you’re sure she ruins you completely after that.

At first, you think it’s just her commitment to duty. Paige’s entire job is to keep you safe, protected. If she feels as though these suitors would be too violent, too uncaring, too unfit for you, then you suppose she was well within her right as the princess’s protector to feel however she wanted to feel. Then, you think it’s just hate. She knows you almost as well as you know yourself, if not more. At this point, you’re both a little more than princess and knight. You’re friends who share a mutual duty to a kingdom. However, you realize all too late that it’s actually jealousy.

She stands behind you, her tall stature imposing and intimidating as she stares down the last suitor you had scheduled for today. He’s the prince from a kingdom down south. His name is Oscar and if you had to be honest, you got a bad feeling from him as soon as he strutted in, a black and red cape billowing behind him like he’s already king and has nothing to worry about. You’d even felt Paige stiffen behind you, but you promised your father you would at least talk to your suitors before rejecting them (and you were not keen on sitting through another lecture from him).

The interview goes terribly. You can feel Paige’s mood worsen the more Oscar speaks. He interrupts you countless times, talks over you, and when you do get to speak, he dismisses it like it’s trivial and continues rambling on about his success or his fortune or how well he could lead a kingdom. You knew the conversation was over as soon as he promised he wouldn’t take anymore than five mistresses and you had to stop Paige from jumping across the table and stabbing him entirely.

So, you politely tell him, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’re what I’m looking for in a potential king. I have to look after my people.”

You see the shift in his expression before he even raises a hand. You just couldn’t react fast enough to block the swing.

But Paige does. She catches Oscar’s wrist in her hand, her grip so tight that the tips of his fingers were turning purple and he was choking on pain. Then, she slams his hand into the wooden table before you, the surface almost splintering from the force of it. You can hear a sickening crunch, but all you do is raise your brows as Paige leans over you, her gaze set firmly on Oscar. “We’re done here,” she murmurs, her voice low and threatening. “Raise a hand to the princess ever again and I’ll kill you myself. Do I make myself clear?”

You don’t hear what he says, too stunned to focus on anything but the vein that protrudes from Paige’s neck, the challenge laced in her tone, the way her response has left a warm feeling deep in your belly. He scurries out with a metaphorical tail tucked between his legs, the door slamming shut, and you and Paige are left alone in the conference chamber. Paige breathes heavily next to you, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder in both consolation and apology, yet all you fixate on is the way your thoughts race.

Paige is saying something to you, but it sounds like you’re underwater. You push out your chair, standing as she rambles, and you turn on your heel to meet her eyes. There’s still a lingering fire in there although it dwindles the more she talks, concern and something else you can’t quite place taking precedence. Before you have the time to talk yourself out of it or remind yourself of how wrong this is, you curl your fists in the fabric of her tunic and you pull her down to your level.

She immediately freezes against you, the words caught in her throat releasing in the form of an indulgent groan as she finally registers that your lips are on hers. When she relaxes to kiss you back, the intensity is almost overwhelming, like the fire from earlier has returned. She grips your hips possessively, backing you into the table and lifting you onto it for better leverage, one hand dropping to hold your thigh and the other curling around the back of your neck. Paige leans forward, pressing against you like she couldn’t stand to leave any inch of space between you.

The kiss is hazy and it makes your mind spin in the best way possible. You sigh against her, welcoming the intrusion when her tongue swipes across your bottom lip, and she holds onto you like she’s scared that you’ll disappear if she lets go. Paige kisses you like you’re hers, which you may as well be. You’re hers to protect, hers to hold – not the princes’, not the nobles’, not anyone else’s.

When you both break away from each other, chests heaving, her voice is rough, low, wrecked when she whispers again, “None of them deserve you.” Her eyes scan yours, her thumb brushing across your pulse point and her breath hitching like she can feel exactly what she’s doing to you. “Not you, the princess. And especially not you, the girl whose heart is as pure as it is kind. The girl who I…”

You swallow thickly, feeling the heat in your cheeks and fighting the urge to pull her back into you as she trails off. “And you do?” you murmur. “Deserve me?”

“I’d fight a hundred men and a hundred men more if it meant proving that to you,” she vows. You know her well enough by now that you don’t need her to prove anything more to you. She already has. Your heart is hers. “This isn’t just a duty to me,” she confesses a few beats later, her voice hardly above a whisper like she’s confessing a secret. “It’s real. What you are to me is real. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

“Nothing will,” you say, confident and assured. “I’m safe with you.” Paige nods, her hands warm against your skin, and you press your temple to hers to admit, “For you, I’d run away and leave it all behind.”

You feel her freeze against you, surprise, mostly. She leans back to meet your eyes. “Princess, you don’t mean that,” she says quietly.

You nod vehemently, your fingers tightening in the fabric of her tunic. “I do, Paige, I swear it.” She softens, taking in the conviction in your tone. “I don’t want this – I don’t want to marry someone else. I don’t want to be the queen. I want you, a life of peace, where I don’t have to worry that someone will try to kill me or if I’m making a decision that will kill my people. I want peace.”

The silence lingers. There’s a realization in the wake of your declaration that in your position, you could never afford peace. Princesses don’t get peace, or a life of ease, nor do they ever get the one they love. Knights don’t get peace, or a life of ease, nor do they ever get the one they love. You know you’d give it up in a heartbeat if you could find the courage to. You study Paige’s features closely, waiting for her to speak. She swallows thickly before she does.

“Storrs,” she whispers, confusing you. “My village. We can go there – just say the word and I will take you, I swear it. I don’t owe anything to this kingdom. My loyalty is to you. We’ll be safe there, free, and you can do everything you’ve wanted – you can teach, you can explore–”

“Okay,” you agree.

Paige pauses. “What?” she asks, trying to keep the hope at bay.

“We’ll go to Storrs,” you repeat, a smile growing on your face.

“You mean it?” Paige murmurs, her voice cracking, and all you can truly do is cup her face in your hands, kissing her once more. This one is softer, the perfect seal to the promise you’ve just made to each other, and it feels more right than a crown on your head ever will. Her embrace makes you feel more secure than a legion of your father’s men ever could. You know in your heart that this is where you belong.

Happiness doesn’t last for too long.

When you wake up the next morning, you can feel that something is off. Paige is usually already awake, standing guard at your door and waiting for you to come out for breakfast. Now, there’s an unusual silence that lingers and it makes you feel on edge.

Instead of Paige at your door, you find Carlotta, wearing an uncomfortable expression on her face. Dread wraps its fist around your heart, squeezing tight, and your chest hurts when you ask, “Carlotta, what’s going on?”

“Your father has requested your presence in the throne room immediately,” she says to you, her voice shaking. You swallow thickly, afraid of what waits for you. You cast an uneasy glance at the door to Paige’s room, not seeing anything out of the ordinary, but still feeling as though something is terribly wrong. Carlotta follows behind you as you walk through the winding corridors, anxiety coursing through your veins.

The scene awaiting you in the throne room is not one you could have ever prepared yourself for. Your father sits idly atop his throne, an almost nonchalant laziness in his body language. He’s surrounded by his usual guard detail. Your body burns with anger when you realize Oscar is standing right next to him, his hand wrapped in gauze and a splint, a malicious expression on his face. But what truly devastates you, what makes fear seize your heart entirely is Paige held firmly in the knight captain’s grasp, her hands and ankles shackled. She looks no worse for wear, only disheveled and her bun mussed from an evident fight, but her eyes burn bright with hatred and something that looks like failure.

“My daughter,” the King calls across the room. Everyone directs their attention to you, but you’re not prepared for the amount of grief and shock on Paige’s, like she wasn’t expecting you to see her like this. “Come – we have much to discuss.”

There it is again. That same steely calm from the night in the gardens. Your father isn’t the kind of man to yell – people with power and trained men at their disposal have no need to raise their voices – which is why his demeanor in this situation makes you fearful. Not for yourself, but for Paige.

“I’m not a man who shies away from admitting when he’s wrong,” your father continues when you step closer. “Accountability makes for strong leaders. I’ve always told you that, haven’t I?” You scan his features, your gaze giving nothing away. He’s not looking for a response. “It seems I’ve made a mistake in knighting an individual. Where she goes, trouble follows, such as the night in the garden. And now, with the suitors.” Your father cocks his head, looking perplexed. “Prince Oscar has suffered several broken bones and a fractured wrist due to…your knight being unable to control her anger. Alas, it has come to my attention that she has also filled your head with lies, deceit, and empty promises.”

He stands, his sea of guards parting for him as he makes his way towards you, towards Paige. “If she wants to run away, so be it. If this turncoat knight no longer wants to give back to the kingdom that has made her, that has given her the life she has now, then so be it. What I will not allow is for her to manipulate my daughter – the Princess – into leaving with her.

“So,” he muses, ushering Prince Oscar forward, who gazes at you like he’s won. “We are here to make an example. The monarchy will not be mocked. My daughter, tomorrow at sunset, you will be wed to Prince Oscar. He will be your king and you will inherit the throne. And your knight –” he spits the word like it’s venom, clear distaste evident in his features, “–will be executed at nightfall for treason against the crown.”

Your ears are still ringing.

Your father’s revelation left you numb, reeling. You watched as his men dragged Paige out of the room, her eyes locked on yours in surprise, disbelief, and ever-present grief. Your father had more to say to you, but you weren’t listening. Being forced to marry Oscar of all suitors was at the back of your mind. All you could think about for hours on end was your knight will be executed at nightfall. The word executed circulated through your mind on repeat along with images of Paige’s eyes, betrayed and disappointed all at one.

This wasn’t the plan. You and Paige were supposed to run away. You were supposed to leave kingdom life behind and go to Storrs together. You were supposed to live a life of peace in a small village where the crown couldn’t possibly find you. You’re not supposed to marry Oscar, or watch the love of your life be executed. This was all so horribly wrong.

You’re confined to your room for the entire day, your father feeling as though you would find a way to escape or look for Paige. He knows you better than you’d expected. With nothing but time on your hands, you wait. You cry. You scream and you break the mirror in your room because when you look at it, all you can see is the way Paige had stood behind you as you asked for her opinion on your dress and her jaw had gone slack before she whispered, “I think you’re the most beautiful woman the world has ever seen.” You spiral, because you were so close to making it out but your father and Oscar have derailed your plan.

At nightfall, 24 hours away from Paige’s scheduled execution, Carlotta knocks at your door. She lets herself in when you don’t respond. You hardly look up, even when she takes a seat on the foot of your bed. She’s silent for a few moments before she says, “I’m sorry, Princess.”

You laugh bitterly, the sound scraping against your throat. “It’s not your fault, Carlotta.” Even if it was, you don’t want to think about it. This woman has raised you since you were a baby. You weren’t sure if you could ever handle that heartbreak.

“It’s not,” she agrees softly. She clears her throat. You can almost feel her hesitation. “I was next to your mother when she passed on,” she admits. That confession makes your heart skip a beat. “I held her hand as she was taking her final breaths. I’d loved her, you know. Your father never knew. He didn’t care to. But when I watched my life’s greatest love die, it was a pain unlike anything else I’d ever experienced. I thought a part of me died that day. Your mother, however, entrusted me with something special to her – a part of her. She made me promise to take care of her daughter – the Princess – and to this day, you are the most important person to me.”

“Carlotta,” you murmur, tears pooling in your eyes and your voice cracking. “What are you saying?”

“You love her,” she says, like it’s more fact than fiction, like it’s something as obvious as the sky is blue or the grass is green. “Sir Paige. She is your life’s greatest love. I couldn’t save my love. But there is still hope for yours.” She stands, drawing your attention as you feel her move. There is a folded piece of parchment in her hand. Carlotta presses it into your hands. “Read this, and do not lose your faith, Princess.”

Carlotta leaves before you can say – before you can ask anything else of her. Your mind spins as you look down at the paper in your hands, at Paige’s familiar, sloped handwriting. Fingers trembling, you unfold it, and you begin to read.

Princess,

I did not think I would get to speak with you after they dragged me out of the throne room in handcuffs, so you will have to forgive me if this letter is incoherent. It is difficult for me to wrap my head around the idea – the fact, rather, that I will be dying at nightfall tomorrow.

Being a knight, I had always known that my death would be imminent. My profession is not safe. My duty is to put my life on the line for the kingdom, for the king and the princess. I knew of that long before I picked up my sword for the first time. I had always imagined that it would be in combat – perhaps I would be fighting those hundred men and the hundred men more that I had spoken of. Perhaps I would be the lucky one and die of age after living a life of valor, dedication, and virtue. Execution had never crossed my mind.

If there is one part of my life that I could pick out and say is the greatest moment of it, I would say that meeting you is it. Not being knighted for the first time or my father teaching me how to wield a blade. It was you. It is always going to be you. You are my purpose, my reason for fighting. You have made my life worth it, even if we were only a short time.

I want you to know a few things. First, this is not your fault. If I knew the outcome from the very beginning, I would choose you everytime without question. A moment with you is worth an eternity wherever my soul takes me next. Second, do not give up. You are kind, courageous, brilliant – I know you will think of something. Third, I miss you. I have only been apart from you for a few hours, but I miss you; if I knew of a way to make you miss me the way that I do, I would never dare to make use of it for you are undeserving of such an all-consuming ache. The fourth is that I love you. I planned on telling you once we made it to Storrs, after I had introduced you to my family. You deserve to know.

You are my greatest love, Princess. In this life and the next I will never give up on searching for you.

Eternally,

–P

By midafternoon the day of your wedding and Paige’s execution, you can tell that something has shifted once more. The palace is eerily silent. Again. It almost makes you worry, but after considering that your life couldn’t get any worse, you decide that the silence is a problem for you in the future. For all intents and purposes, you’re still essentially trapped in your room, and you spent the better part of the night and the entire day leading up to this moment rereading Paige’s letter to you. It didn’t make you feel any better about the situation, but you try to remember Carlotta’s words to you. They give you strength when you feel like all else is failing.

The minutes tick by until you hear tapping on the glass door leading to your balcony. Believing it may only be a bird, you think nothing of it until the tapping persists, louder this time. The glass is textured, so you can’t see out of it, but you reach for the first sharp object you can find – in this case, it’s one of your heels – and you creep towards the door, pushing it open with caution.

You freeze immediately. The heel slips out of your grasp and Paige is standing before you, her tunic rumpled and exhaustion in her eyes, but she doesn’t look hurt, and that’s all you can truly be thankful for. “I was beginning to think you weren’t home,” she murmurs, a coy smile on her face that is not befitting of the moment, and you could sob as you throw your arms around her neck. She wraps her arms around your waist, lifting you off of your feet. Paige buries her face in your neck, breathing you in and sighing in relief – you’re both okay. You don’t know what to say, stammering through words that don’t make any sense, but Paige squeezes you a little tighter, shushing you.

After a moment, she places you back down on the ground, drinking you in like she can’t believe this is real. Then, she smiles softly. “We don’t have a lot of time,” she says quietly. “Carlotta is waiting for us at the stables. Get your bag and whatever else you need. She’ll take us to Storrs.”

Overwhelmed with emotion, all you can do is nod, wiping your eyes as you retrieve the bag you’d packed after you and Paige agreed to leave. You make sure to slip into a pair of more comfortable shoes and you don’t forget to grab her letter stashed under your pillow. When you’re ready, she guides you down the wall of the palace and into the garden below, creeping through the bushes until you reach the stables. You hug Carlotta so tightly that she groans, laughing, and together, you, Paige, and Carlotta make the journey on horseback to her village.

Her village welcomes you and Carlotta in – they’re definitely a little shocked, but they’re happier to have Paige back and safe. She introduces you to her family, her mom, her dad, her step-parents, her brother and her step-siblings and they all treat you like one of their own, a blended family that’s no less full of love. They own a small little shop, one that dabbles in selling antiquities and artifacts from ages ago. You can see yourself splitting time between working there and teaching the village children, but most importantly, you can see yourself free, in love, and happier than you ever would have been in the castle. It will surely be a national emergency when the King realizes that the princess, the knight, and the chambermaid have all escaped, but you think that’s a problem for someone else.

For the record, Paige does tell you she loves you – in person, not through a letter – that night after you’ve been fully introduced to everyone and her mothers worked together to make a hearty dinner for you and Carlotta. It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of having – a love that’s wholly yours, a life to share with someone who cherishes you, and the freedom to live the life you’ve always wanted. You were always destined to find this – destined to find Paige, to love her, to give her your heart completely; the two of you have always been connected by that red string of fate and wherever your souls take you next, you know you’ll find her there, waiting for you.

2025

The memory fades and you and Paige blink in tandem, your hands still resting over the book as you look at each other. Almost no time has passed, although the both of you look like you’ve lived a whole new life entirely, which you may as well have. Paige breaks the silence to mutter, “I was a knight in a past life and in this one, I have to do homework?” Her disbelief makes you laugh, all of the tension dissolving as she joins in with you.

“Says you,” you retort. “I was a princess.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “You ain’t never letting that one go.”

“Nope!” you chirp happily. Paige rolls her eyes, but she can’t keep the smile off of her face as she closes the book gently. You intertwine your fingers with hers, giving her a squeeze. “Hey, you okay?” you ask.

Paige nods, her smile widening. She leans in to kiss you softly, which makes you grin against her. “Never better,” she assures you. “I was right, though.” You hum, gazing up at her, and she reaches out to brush a strand of hair out of your face. “You are my greatest love.”

“You’re mine, too,” you promise, wrapping your arms around her neck as she pulls you into a hug that feels lifetimes in the making. “We’re timeless, aren’t we?”

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #uconn wbb #ncaa wbb

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luvyeni · 4 months ago

Text

HALLUCINATION ,, 양정인

⸃ ⸰ ⌁ jeongins love for you is too strong … ヾ

stalker!양정인・ fem!reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ g ・ smut ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ wc ・ ‎3.6k ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎| ‎ ‎click to library

𓂃 🎞️ content warning . . . stalking , delusions , jeongin isn’t well at all , sex ( sorta ) , he’s basically in a delusion the entire time he’s with you THIS IS A DARK FIC IF YOU DONT LIKE IT DONT READ IT

「 ୨୧ authors note 」 just something i wrote because hallucination is my favorite solo off the album …

he loved everything about you; the way you looked, when your eyes would crinkle when you smiled. the way you smelled, like warm sugar cookies or vanilla. the way you dress — god he loved the way you dress, the real low waist jeans that showed off your hips, a small heart tattoo on the left side of them; the shirts you wore that accentuate your curves and lifted your boobs

and his absolute favorite was the miniskirts you wore; he hated when you wore them outside, he hated that the people could see such beauty for free. it made him so mad when you’d bend over and all the boys would eye your ass, it made him want to rip their eyes out. you were his, how dare they objectify you like that — they didn’t deserve to see you all dressed up like that , that should be for him, and only him.

he couldn’t look at other girls; they were like blank faces when they tried to talk to him, their voices all sounding the same, which was annoying and screechy. but not you he, he could listen to you talk all the time, no matter the subject. hated them; all of them. he only had eyes for you, he devoted himself to you. “jeongin what are you staring at?”

he turned to hyunjin, confused. “huh?” he he asked, seungmin scoffed. “you’re staring at her again aren’t you? give it up, she doesn’t know you.” he was quick to fight back. “she does know me.” he said matter factly. “we’ve talked.” he said. “once.” hyunjin replied. “and she didn’t even call you by your name, she called you another guys name because she thought you were him, and now you’ve convinced yourself you’ll be with her.”

hyunjin wasn’t wrong; you hadn’t talked to him since that one time you called him jaehyun, but he could tell right then and there you were destined to be together, and you were gonna be together. “that’s because we are gonna be together.” he collected his stuff, standing up. “you just wait and see.” he walked away. “he does know he can’t just stalk her on social media and from afar right? he actually has to talk to her?” seungmin said.” hyunjin shook his head. “you know how he is, you can’t tell him anything.”

so what he actually never talked to you? how dare they doubt your love for each other. so what if you've never actually talked to him? you said it with your eyes and your body? why would you wear such provocative outfits if it wasn’t for his eyes. you were sending him a message. “excuse me?” he looked up from his phone. “i said are you gonna take my order?” his eyes widened and he was frozen in shock. “oh i know you.” your sweet soft voice. “jaehyun right?” close enough for him. “no that’s not right…” you said, looking at his name tag. “jeongin, hi jeongin.” he couldn’t speak, you were actually talking to him. “are you gonna take my order jeongin or are you just gonna stand there.” he could hear the teasing tone in your voice, indicating you were joking with him. “oh-oh um yea.”

“just two coffees please.” he nodded his head, ringing up your order. “mo-move to that line.” he stuttered. “thanks.” you gave him a smile before walking away with your friend. “jeongin back to work.” he quickly continued his work, smiling to himself … you said his name.

“that was weird to do you know him?” your friend asked as you walked away, you turned back to look at the boy. “im pretty sure i had mistaken him for the guy i bought the essay from.” you said. “i don’t know him , know him.” you said, picking up the coffee. “the way he looks at you is weird.” she said. “oh come on you don’t even know him, how can you label him like that.” you said. “you are so naive.” she said. “it’s gonna get you in so much trouble.” you just smiled. “please what can he do? look how harmless he is.”

if you only knew what a boy with a mind like jeongin could truly do…

as a kid jeongin always had a vivid imagination; like really vivid, while he was watching cartoons, the tiny animations would jump out of the tv and keep him company throughout the day. he parents would always ask him who he was talking to and as a kid he would answer and they thought it was pretty cute — but him saying that at 15 is way different then him saying it at 4. he learned quick to never tell people about his visions unless he wanted to be bullied.

he didn’t see anything wrong with his visions; he’d grown used to them as he got older coming into adulthood, but the world did so he kept quiet — especially when he met you.

“you like me don’t you?” you sat on his bed, wearing his favorite outfit. “you think im pretty?” he sat on the bed, nodded. “of course i like you.” he said. “and who doesn’t think you’re pretty? tell me and i’ll kill them.” you chuckled, reaching up to touch his cheek. “you’re so cute innie.” he loved when you called him that. “i just love you so much.” your hand traveling down to his neck. “yo-you look so pretty.” he sighed, you hummed. “yeah?” your hand landing on top of his hardening cock. “you’re so hard.” you palmed him in your hand. “so big.”

he hissed, his hand covering yours; moving along with yours. “fuck.” he moaned. “your hand feel so good.” he bucked up. “i want you to fuck me.” you whispered in his ear. “don’t you want to fuck me?” he whimpered. “i do -oh fuck- i do so bad.” his breathing heavy. “im gonna cum.” he said. “gonna cum so much.” his voice was strained. “please let me cum.” his hand moving with yours. “cum for me innie.” he gasped out , cumming. “oh fuck fuck fuck.” his legs were shaking; he saw little white dots in his eyes as he came. “fuck yn i love you so much, so fucking much.” he repeated over and over.

*ring* *ring* *ring* his eyes shot open; he was alone… there was no one there in his apartment; like he always was. he didn’t even allow his friends to come over. who the fuck interrupted him like this? “shit.” he looked down, the wet stain in his pants from his orgasm. he picked his phone up; answering it. “what?”

“what the hell were you doing, i have been calling you for 45 fucking minutes.” he heard seungmin said. “45 minutes?” he looked at the clock; had he been in his own head for that long. “i was busy; working on a paper.” he said. “what do you want?”

“yeah whatever, just wanted to let you know chan is throwing a party tonight.” seungmin said. “and since you don’t even let your own friends into your apartment I just wanted to know if you’re coming?” he was about to say no but seungmin beat him to it. “that girl will be here, yn or whatever her name is, maybe you’ll finally grow a pair of balls and talk to her.” the older boy said. “so you coming or what?”

he could finally see you again; maybe even talk to you. “yeah i’ll be there.” he said, standing up from his bed. “then get your ass over here so you can help set up.” and with that he hung up the phone. what was he gonna wear? he needed to impress you. “ugh.” he felt the sticky remnants in his pants… but first he needed a shower.

you didn’t mind a party; it wasn’t your favorite thing, to get blacked out drunk and have a freshman trying to get cool points grinding on you, but you did dabble in them here and there — especially when your friend knew the host. “he’s the ta in my class he’s really cool.” she said as you walked through the party. “is he really, or is it because you find your face in his lap after class?” your friend gasped. “hey i don’t not have my face in his lap after class.” your friend held her chest, before she smirked. “it’s the other way around.”

“bitch.” you both laughed, making your way into the kitchen to grab a few drinks. “told him i was gonna bring a friend, he said he was was bring his friend. he’s around your age, quiet and pathetic.” she said. “you know how you like them.” rolling your eyes. “that isn’t even true.” you took a sip of the spiked punch. “oh please, you want a guy to worship you. this guy will chan said, he said he’s the nicest guy you’d ever met apparently.” she scoffed. “which i think is bullshit because at the end of the day he is a man.” you chuckled, your friend was something else. “well he seems sweet.”

“there you are.” chan greeted the boy as he met up with him. “hey hyung.” he finally made it to the party. “how are you? almost thought you weren’t gonna make it; seungmin said he couldn’t get ahold of you.” he looked around for you. “oh i was working on a paper.” he said; it wasn’t like he could say he was having a daydream of you so vivid he came in his pants, only to be woken up much to his demise. “hey you good? you look tired.” the elder boy wrapped his arms around his shoulder. “im fine hyung, really.”

“good cause i got someone for you to meet.” he really didn’t want to meet anyone new; especially since he was only really here for you; where were you? did you get here yet? he wondered what you were wearing. a dress? pants? — or a tiny skirt that he could easily flip up and fuck you in front of everyone, claiming you; ready to kill anyone who looked at your body. “jeongin.” chan pulled him out of his thoughts. “i said you ready? she’s a really nice girl.”

he couldn’t say no to his hyung; so he followed him. he’d just let whoever it is talk while he waited for you; where were you anyway? “he finally shows up, didn’t know jerking off takes that long.” seungmin said, the guys laughing. “stop it , here they come.” chan said. “hey welcome, im chan.” he definitely didn’t want to be doing this. “im yn.” he whipped around, and there you stood in all your beauty; its like you got even more beautiful since the last time he saw you — which was like a few days ago. “are you stalking me?”

your light hearted smile; made his heart flutter, he almost didn’t hear what you said. “you two know each other?” chan asked, confused. “technically i only learned his name a few days ago, but i accidentally mixed him up with someone else one day.” you held your hand up. “nice to meet you properly.” chan pushed his shoulders; nudging his head towards you. “o-oh h-hi.” he hesitantly took your hand, shaking it. “he’s shy, don't worry.” chan said. “it’s fine.” you said. “do you want to go get a drink with me?” you took initiative, trying to make him less nervous. “go with her, don’t just stand there.” chan whispered. “su-sure.”

“good, come on.”

he followed behind you; you smiled waving at different people as you made your way back into the kitchen. “here.” you handed him a cup. “i-i can pour it.” he said, you nodded, he poured his cup, and topped yours off. “thank you.” you took a sip. “what are you in school for?” this was the longest he ever been in your space; your warm vanilla scent made him feel at ease. “oh um business.” he said you nodded. “im going for children’s studies, i want to be a teacher.” you smiled to yourself. “i love children.” he could listen to you speak forever; in fact he wish he could record you and then that way he could play it all day through his headphones. “im so sorry, i talk too much.”

he shook his head. “no-no i don’t mind at all.” he said, not wanting you to stop. “well thank you for listening to me, most people think i talk too much.” who dared to say something like that about you; he’d kill them. “it’s fine with me.” he said.

he felt like he was in heaven for the next hour; talking to you about everything, you were so lively; the way your hands moved animatedly when you explained something; he became a lot more relaxed as he sipped on his drink. “let’s dance.” you said; you were much more tipsy than he was; but clear headed enough. “oh i don’t really dance.” you scoffed, standing up. “who says.” you fixed the tiny skirt you were wearing, it exposed your thighs, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of them. “please.” giving him your best puppy dog eyes, which he immediately caved because why would he deny you anything. “oh-oh okay.”

he got up, following you to the dance floor. you spun around wrapping your arms around his neck. “is this okay?” you grabbed his hand, putting it on your waist; really low on your waist. “yes.” he sighed softly as you both moved to the beat of the music. “i think you’re really cute jeongin.” you played with the nape of his hair. “i-i think you’re cute too.” your finger traced his jaw. “we could go back to your place?”

his place? what about that room? he could let you see that room… the room he dedicated to you, covered in pictures he took from your social medias, and sneaky photos he took of you hung up everywhere. old tissues and old cup he’d taken when you’d visited to the cafe — and the sweaters, three sweaters he took. how did he get them? he waited until you would get up even for a minute or two , forgotten about the sweaters giving him the chance to swoop in and take it.

he almost managed to find the perfume you wore; it smell just like you, so he sprayed it all over the room, covering it in you; it was your room, no one was allowed to see that room, only him. “my-my place is really far away.” he said. “that’s fine, i can spend the night, right?” he gulped, he could just keep you away from that room. he could just say it’s used for storage. “it’s okay if you don’t want to.” you said. “no-no i do.” he said, you smiled. “let’s go then.” you said. “let me go say goodbye to my friend.” you reached up giving him a kiss on the cheek. “i’ll be back.” watching you walk away.

once you returned; he guided you out of the house to his car, not bothering to say goodbye to his friends, he’d see them when he saw them. the ride back to his was quiet; a comfortable quiet though. he would look over at you and you’d smile back, before looking out the window.

he finally made it back to his place, the two of you making your way to his bedroom, where you immediately kissed his neck. “mhm.” he sighed as you attacked his neck with kisses. “that feels good.” he closed his eyes, allowing you to walk him back until he hit bed, falling down. he laid back , letting you grind down on him. “do-don’t tease please.” he begged, you giggled. “i won’t.” you climbed down , in between his lap. he lifted his hips allowing you to pull his pants down to his ankles. “you’re hard.” you kissed him through his boxers, pulling his cock from his confinements, he hissed as the air hit his cock. “so big.” you kissed the tip of his cock, taking him fully into your mouth. “ah shit!”

you bobbed your head up and down his cock. he gripped the sheets, throwing his head back as you worked down on him, gagging noises. “you’re so good at that.” his hand coming up to your head, pushing your head down. “oh fuck im gonna cum.” he groaned, bucking his hips up. “gonna cum inside your mouth.” he moaned loudly as he shot his load. “ooooh fuck!” he fell back against the bed. he felt like he was floating on a cloud. “you liked that?” he nodded breathlessly. “so much.”

you climbed into his lap, he sat back up, holding you by your lower back. “i want you inside me.” you said stroking his length. “want you to stretch me out.” you pushed your panties to the side, running the tip of his cock along your slit. “fuck sit on it.” you finally sat down on him, engulfing him. “jeongin you’re so big.” you moaned into his ear as you began to bounce on him. “fuck you’re so tight , i dreamt of this.” he groaned. “you’ve dreamt of fucking me?” you moaned. “ye-yeah all the time.”

you didn’t say much else, speeding your movements. “oh fuck , if you don’t slow down im gonna cum.” he groaned; he prayed for this day, the day he could feel you around him, sucking him for all that he’d got. “please cum , i want it inside me.” you whined, he cursed. “fuck im gonna cum.” you moaned out. “me-me too -fuck- lets cum together.” he held your waist tightly. “im cumming!” you screamed out. “jeongin!”

he held you down, letting out a loud moan as he came. “fuck fuck fuck.” he groaned cumming. “oh my god.” he breathed heavily, your foreheads pressed against each other. you smiled, kissing his lips. “you’re so cute innie.”

he woke up the next morning to an empty bed; but he knew someone was there; because of the aspirin on his bathroom sink with a note. he also woke up with a hard on, the night before flashing through his mind in little bits, but just enough for him to jerk off to before class. he quickly go ready, leaving out of his apartment.

the first thing he did was try and find you when he got to campus. “yn?” you turned around facing the boy. “oh jeongin, you’re okay.” you looked really worried. “of course i am why wouldn’t i be?” he said. “you only had one drink I didn’t think you’d basically black out like that.” you said; he blacked out last night? was it after you two had sex? “what time did you leave?” he asked. “right after you past out.” you said. “i didn’t stay long.”

you looked serious so he knew you weren’t fucking with him. “you left right after?” he said. “yeah; i stayed for about 5 minutes, i gave you a aspirin and left.” you said… it felt so real, like he could still feel you on him; he could smell your smell when he woke up in the morning, he could hear you moaning in his ear, telling him you were cumming. “you okay jeongin?” he looked at you. “um yeah.” he said. “you look sick; maybe you should go home and sleep, and this time sleep on your bed and not your couch.”

his couch; but he woke up in his bedroom? “ye-yeah i think i do.” he said really confused, his mind was really foggy. “maybe when you feel better we can actually hang up; this time when you’re sober and not muttering crazy things under your breath.” you chuckled. “oh no what did i say?” he said praying he didn’t embarrass himself. “something about my sweaters smells really nice.” you chuckled, but he was sweating now. “i wasn’t wearing one.”

“did you go into any of my rooms?” he asked, you shook your head no. “no i did use your bathroom, that’s why i left the aspirin in there, i hope you don’t mind.” he shook his head. “we have the same body wash, that's funny.” he cracked a fake smile. “we can we hang out for real?” you asked. “so-soon i promise, I’m gonna go home and get some rest.” you nodded. “i hope you feel better.” you said before giving him a kiss on the cheek and walking away.

he quickly rushed home; kicking his shoes off. he made his way to the living room and the pillows were thrown around like he’d slept on it. “so i did sleep here.” he ran to his room, pushing the door open. his bed wasn’t slept in; he hadn’t slept there, but he woke up in a bed — his room dedicated to you; he b-lined out his room and down the hall to his special room. the door was wide open.

he walked into the room, it smelt like you because of the perfume he always sprayed. the pictures looking back at him as he made his way over to the bed. the bed he kept clean always, messy and unmade. pictures he took now scattered around on the bed — and the worse part , his favorite picture of you. the only picture he had that was up close of you was now on the floor stained in his cum.

he’d hallucinated the whole thing; and he almost gave his obsession with you away. he just never felt something so surreal before… which only proved that his love for you was the strongest it’s ever been; and now that you’ve invited him into your life he can now push forward into making you his. he picked the ruined picture up; his dried cum covering your smiling face — turning him on cause now he has a vision of you covered in his cum. “fuck.”

he could feel himself getting hard again. “innie?” he looked up and you were standing in the doorway with a smile on your face.

girl, you're my hallucination …

©️LUVYENI

#kpop x reader #kpop smut #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #skz smut #skz hard hours #stray kids hard hours #stray kids hard thoughts #skz hard thoughts #skz x female reader #skz fics #yang jeongin fanfic #yang jeongin fic #yang jeongin scenarios #yang jeongin x reader #yang jeongin smut #yang jeongin hard thoughts #jeongin x reader #jeongin x female reader

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emmyrosee · 1 year ago

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“I’m sorry we have to break up.”

“…pardon?”

Wakatoshi’s olive eyes peer over his book at you, brow cocked in confusion as you stand above him, your hands on your hips. You don’t look any sort of remorseful or upset; just mildly bored with the fact you’ve just walked up to him and said you’d have to break up.

Like telling him it was raining outside.

You sigh, “we’re just not compatible.”

“Do… you feel that way? Have I done something?” Worry crosses his features, trying to map out what he’s done to upset you, if anything.

“Oh! No, not at all,” you say, and when you provide no other context, he raises his brow and you must notice his growing annoyance because you shrug at him, “my horoscope says we’re not compatible. And I just don’t want to waste my time if we’re not going to make it.”

This, has wakatoshi chuckling. He closes his book and gently shifts to make himself comfortable in the dip of the cushions. “Make it?”

“Look; our signs just aren’t compatible right now.” You smile at him softly, “maybe one day we’ll be there.”

“Im sorry, you must tell me more.” When you flash him a look, he scoffs, “I was reading my book perfectly fine, now you’re telling me we’re not going to be together anymore. I need help understanding.”

You unlock and pass him your phone, his big hand taking it from you before looking at your astrology chart, furrowing his brows as his eyes glaze the contents.

“Non-compatible with leo’s, it says.”

“Yeah,” you confirm.

“And�� I’m assuming I’m a leo?”

“Sure are.”

“You’re not seriously about to leave me because the stars said so, correct?”

You cock your brow. He rolls his eyes.

“That should not surprise you,” you say, and he sighs and flicks his eyes up to you.

“It shouldn’t, but it does.”

You scoff, “how august-leo of you.”

“I swear to all of the gods, benevolent and not, do not start using this against me.”

“It’s not me, it’s you, toshi.”

tagging 🩷 @reverie-starlight @wolffmaiden @thoreeo @aliensknowmyillusions @tutuwusworld @lavishcherie @sassycheesecake @cheolattes @rrairey @dira333 @unknownspecies @fluffytriceratops

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writing-mlm · 3 months ago

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hi !! saw you write for criminal minds and would love to see something with spencer reid !! there aren’t enough male reader fics for him out there. personally i’m a sucker for reader being used as bait for an unsub with spencer getting jealous and taking care of reader afterwards if they get hurt. but no worries if you don’t want to write that specific scenario, i would just love to see any spencer content at all lol. i love your writing and hope you’re having a great day !!!

The stress of a married man

Summary: Spencer doesn’t like the fact that his husband is out there; his husband doesn’t like the fact that Spencer’s worrying. Pairing: Post-prison!Spencer Reid x Male!Reader wc: 2.4k Tags/warnings: reader used as bait, blood, attempted drugging, kidnapping a/n: while what im referring to won’t be a part 2, just now I wrote 2 separate fics for this request. i’ll try and push it out before next week and it’ll be around 20k words… and a marvel crossover…

Spencer didn’t want this. It’s stupid. It’s beyond stupid, it’s dangerous. He doesn’t care that there’s logic behind it— why should he? Not when you’re putting yourself in danger just to speed up a case, not when there are other solutions.

He twists the cap of the marker as he strains, trying to think of said solutions. None are coming to his head; none that are useful anyway. He gnaws at the inside of his cheek when his eyes dart over to you; sitting in a chair getting your appearance tweaked to fit the victim pool more. A fake mole under your eye, changing your eyebrows a little bit. You’re wearing clothes they’d found in a nearby Ross, stuff that he knows you’re itchy in because they haven’t been washed yet.

Your feet are pushed into shoes a size too small, he can tell because you’re sitting without putting pressure on them and they’re laced too loose. If you run with them they’ll go flying. Maybe that’s for the better, he quickly decides.

He doesn’t see the irony in his worry. The same Spencer who walked into a train and took off his bulletproof vest when the UnSub had a loaded gun? The same Spencer who made Hotch kick the snot out of him? Caught himself on fire and in the middle of an explosion? Stab himself and frame the other guy in prison— that Spencer Reid? Yes. Because he’s him and you’re you.

First name Spencer, middle name Risk himself for everyone else, last name Reid didn’t want you to hurt. He didn’t want you tossed in the back of some guy's van and hauled to wherever. He didn’t want you to experience the torture the other victims are going through firsthand. He just didn’t.

But you’re smiling with Tara, agreeing to let Luke slip a tracker into the thrifted bracelet you planned on keeping because it looked nice. You’re listening to Emily’s specific instructions carefully, you’re understanding the dangers that you’re about to face.

And dammit you’re still agreeing to go through with it.

“Be careful,” He’s almost pleading— no, he is pleading. He absolutely cannot keep himself composed like the others are. He can’t.

“I’ll be alive,” You tell him, messing with the clunky jacket that fits the same way a child wearing their dad's jacket fits. Lightly, you punch his shoulder. “Don’t go worrying about me; this is my specialty, Walter.” He nods, tucking his hair behind his ear because yes, it is. You had transferred from the Hostage Rescue Team after getting your degree.

He doesn’t even care that you’re using his middle name. He doesn’t catch it, in fact. He just caught that you said you’d be alive when he asked you to be careful.

“Just…” He closes his eyes, opening them when he pictures the worst. You’re staring at him from behind a paper cup of water, eyebrows raised because you’ve never seen him so worked up. So nervous before; it’s stressing you out.

“I’ll come back, man. Don’t sweat it, please. You’re making me nervous,” Shit, he blinks an apology and wrings his hands. He doesn’t want to throw you off your game any more than he already has and backs off.

You watch as he walks away, heading back to his drawing board. He messes with the marker cap again, this time chewing on it. It’s a set he’d gotten that day, only used by him, so he’s not worried about germs or anything of the sort. Meanwhile, you move over to JJ to go over the plan seeing as she’s going to be the bartender.

The plan is simple. You’re going to hang out at a local bar, the one flying the highest American flag and that has some stupidly adorable couple trivia night going on but you aren’t going to play. You’re going to sit at the bar, rolling your eyes when someone gets an answer wrong because it was so obvious even a moron could get it right. You’re going to nurse a stein of sparkling apple juice dyed to look like beer. And you’re going to get the attention of the man killing people.

Currently, you’re still on the eye-rolling part. The questions are hard, you have no idea what the fuck they’re talking about but you can hear Spencer through your earpiece saying the answers without catching himself.

A guy approaches you as you’re taking another sip of your drink. A white man, probably in his fifties to sixties, dressed as if he was a professor, and on the shorter side. So far, this is the guy. You smile as he takes the newly vacant seat next to you, his eyes immediately traveling to the jacket around your chair.

“Can you believe they don’t know the fifty-six element?” He huffs after no one has gotten the answer right and the announcer presses the loud buzzer.

“Barium,” Spencer immediately tells you.

“I know,” You scoff. “Who doesn’t know what barium is?” The man looks delighted by your answer and orders a beer. He doesn’t care what brand, just says beer and drums his fingers on the wood until JJ brings him one. He thanks her without any condensation, no sweetheart, or even a lingering look. He says a simple thank you, miss. And hands JJ a crisp ten-dollar bill.

“The youth these days,” He shakes his head as half of the trivia goers don’t get the answer to who made the laws of motion right. “They’re spending too much time learning nonessential things like provocative dancing and texting abbreviations.”

“You’re so right, sir,” You sigh. “I’m glad my grandparents raised me better.”

“Oh, please,” He laughs, holding his chest. “Call me Vince. I’m sorry for forgetting my manners.”

“It’s quite fine,” You smile. “I’m Kyle.”

“Well, Kyle,” He smiles back. This is the part where he’ll have you look away and he’ll slip something into your drink. You’ll look back and he’ll cheer for something. It’ll be strong based on the videos, you’ll be stumbling within three minutes. But even before that, he’ll talk you into leaving the bar so no one can notice. “Whaddya say about a game of pool?” He points to the pool table behind you.

You look, spotting Luke and Emily pretending to pay attention to a group of frat guys playing a game. Spencer tells you that he’s slipped the pill inside and you turn back to Vince.

“It seems crowded,” You shake your head.

“Well, cheers to two smart guys left in a modern age of idiots?” He holds up his beer and you laugh, nodding with your bottle. The drinks and you pretend to drink it. You feel it on your upper lip, it’s fizzy and you swallow your spit to make it seem real. He watches until you set it down and runs his fingers over your ear.

“How about some fresh air?” Pretending to be bashful, you get up and follow him out. He’s not aware that Luke and Emily follow, too.

Spencer watches from the van's cameras as you walk out of the bar. Vince has his hand on your waist and he’s talking about things so well it’s almost convincing. But he’s saying surface-level facts as if he’s only read the summary but not the full text. He doesn’t like how Vince speaks into your neck and how his eyes seem to gleam when you start to pretend to stumble.

You prepare yourself as you hear the red car. Because once you do, he charges you into the side and it’s enough to send someone who’d been drugged to the ground. So, you lay next to the car, pretending to fall in and out as he opens the trunk. You hear the duck tape being pulled and he steps back into your view.

“All you youth are still driven by lust,” He says, holding your face and then applies enough to cover your mouth. He puts you on your stomach and your arms strain as he ties your hands behind you. Honestly, you’re glad he’s counting you as a youth. You know the youth surely doesn’t because boy, you’ve stopped getting carded at bars years ago. Your ankles are the next things he tapes before you’re tossed into the trunk.

Your head hits a pipe and you groan as he slams the door closed. Rolling onto your side, you feel the car start and work on finding the knife in your pocket. The blade flicks up— it had been pinned to your pants just for this— and you work on cutting your way out. He hadn’t done a lot of layers, just three so you’re out of it quick enough.

His car stops, at a red light, because the car is still buzzing and he’s still listening to music that hasn’t been on the radio since there was a transatlantic accent. You take the time to rub your forehead before the car lurches forward. Working on the ankle tape, you hear the line between you and the others cut. You’ve officially entered the dead zone. They’ll track you using the bracelet from here on out.

—

It’s nearly an hour before the car stops. It’s been twenty since Spencer joined Luke in the SUV. Being trailed by local PD and two ambulances with their lights off, he messes with the FBI windbreaker jacket folded on his lap. It’s yours, it’s tailored to your arms and the collar is worn from where you continued to flip it up and down. You’ll probably want it, it’s chilly out and only getting colder.

He hopes you’re only cold because of the weather.

“It’s up ahead,” Luke warns before he parks the car. They can’t risk the UnSub hearing the cars so they’ll have to walk the rest of the way. He nods, fixing his gun as they climb out. The others are close behind and separate. JJ and Rossi go left, Emily and Tara go right, while he and Luke go straight.

The driveway, if you could call it that, to the barn, is nothing more than grass that’s been driven over so many times it doesn’t grow straight anymore. They’re sickly shades of green compared to the bright green elsewhere. He looks up, seeing the car you’d gotten tossed into, and adjusts his grip on his gun. His heart hammers, pleading that you’re okay.

A barn comes into view, the lights are on and Spencer shudders. There’s the smell of pigs nearby that makes his stomach twist before he changes his focus. The doors are ajar— some blood is on the handle. He doesn’t touch it, but it’s wet. He sees the light reflecting on it. Luke gives him a look, holds up three fingers and Spencer nods.

He gets to two before the door gets thrown open.

They jump back but it’s only you. You’re standing tall, one hand on the doorframe and the other gripping your pocket knife. His shoulders sag at the sight of you alive and able to stand before he looks at your face.

“You’re bleeding,” Spencer immediately has you in his grip, wiping the blood from your nose and lip with his shirt. It’s a lot, but considering it’s a nosebleed that’s to be expected.

“Got dropped on my face,” You explain through a wince. “The others are in the barn— they need medical. I patched their wounds as best I could with whatever was lying around,” Luke nods and radios for the ambulance to make their way up.

“And Vince?” Luke looks inside the barn and whistles. “Shouldn’t have been worried, then.” He knocks your shoulder with his fist and you wink.

“Yeah, he really wasn’t strong. He dropped me twice, once on my face and then on my back. I think my head hit a rock—“ Again, Spencer’s hands are on you as he checks the back of your head. Luke chuckles and you roll your eyes, messing with your wedding band tattoo. “I kicked the shit out of his face and then hogtied him.” You wait for a beat before looking over at Spencer. “No hogtie facts?”

“You have a shallow cut on your head, it’ll leave a small scar.” He says instead and opens up the jacket. “You should sit, we can deal with the others.” He drapes it over you and you smile, rubbing his matching tattoo.

“Okay,” He smiles and watches as you walk to sit on a log before heading inside with Luke. He looks at the man still tied up and then looks at the knife in his hand before walking closer. The man is wriggling and trying to speak, both of which he makes a point to ignore.

He saws at the tape before it lets go and quickly handcuffs Vince, ripping the tape off his mouth as hard and fast as he could manage with his shaking hands. Vince starts speaking but Spencer simply lugs him up from the ground in one fluid motion.

“Shut up.” He walks Vince out and tosses him over to the local PD before he finds you again. You’re helping the lady of the victims into the ambulance, setting the thick wool blanket over his shoulders.

“I told you to sit down,” He sighs and you spin around, hands up to show you weren’t doing anything. “Baby, you’re injured, please.” He grabs your hands and kisses your neck, hoping it’ll sway you.

“EMT said it's surface level and just a little bleed, nothing to fuss about.” He ignores the first part as he steals a kit from the ambulance, checking the inside to make sure he has what he needs.

“I’m fussing,” He beckons you over with two fingers and you huff, following him to the SUV where he sets you in the passenger seat. You watch, head on the seat as he carefully puts the items on the dashboard and cleans his hand with wipes.

“It’s cute that you’re worried,” You smile, eyes flickering between him putting on a pair of gloves and his face. “Maybe now you’ll stop being so reckless during cases.” Leaning over, you kiss his cheek but he moves back in for a kiss on the lips.

“I don’t know about that,” He smiles and gently holds your chin. “Let me know if it hurts too much, okay?” You roll your eyes but he doesn’t move so you sigh.

“Yes, doctor,”

#x male reader #x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x male reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #matthew gray gubler

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sweeterthanficstion · 4 months ago

Text

— twelve dates 'til christmas || l.s.k ⋆⁺₊❅.

christmas party / fake relationship / re2r leon! ❆ for @leonsecretsanta event! ❆ gift for @calbloodypigeon ! <3

tags: no outbreak au, rookie leon, journalist reader, gn reader but if i've accidentally missed something please let me know so i can fix it up! --- lots of stupid hallmark christmas cliches, heavily inspired by how to lose a guy in 10 days.

summary: when the leads you're chasing for your feature article for the local paper have gone ice cold, and you've just about given up hope, the rpd's newest rookie shows up like a christmas miracle and proposes a deal that might just save you. or blow up in your face.

word count: 6.1k --- i know i went over the word count IM SO SORRY 😭

a/n: CAL! HI! i'm SO beyond sorry this is late, i fucked up the timings so bad and stupidly miscalculated how much time i had left to finalise this and then i got roped into my own christmas fiasco so i was RACING against the clock to try get this out asap. BUT i hope you like it regardless!! i saw re2r leon as your wild card and my eyes LIT UP!! this was such a pleasure to write, i absolutely love writing rookie leon! (also yes i know the twelve days of christmas technically come after christmas day but shhhh) anyway, hope you have a wonderful christmas!! lots of love, amber xx

masterlist⭑AO3

It starts with a faulty office printer and a burnt cup of coffee.

You stare pitifully at the cup of coffee in your hand—if you can even call it that anymore. Half empty and completely unsalvageable, the acrid smell lingers in the break room like some unwelcome ghost of Christmas caffeine. If only you hadn’t slept through your alarm this morning, you could’ve avoided the morning rush (since it seems that nobody in Raccoon City knows how to drive through snow), and made a good cup of coffee to accompany you for the day instead of having to fight the shitty office coffee machine instead.

With a half-hearted sigh you turn the mug over and dump its contents into the bin, watching forlornly as the liquid soaks through shredded paper and old protein bar wrappers instead.

“Bad morning?” One of your coworkers, Claire, quips from across the way. A perfectly fine cup of coffee sits on her desk in a mug that reads Journalists do It With Integrity!

You shoot her a withering glare, but before you can deliver any sort of witty remark, the printer across the room coughs out a single sheet of crumpled paper, and promptly dies.

“Bad week,” you mutter, running a hand down your face before stalking towards the offending machine.

The office, already buzzing with the chaos of holiday deadlines, feels like it’s working entirely against you. The case you’ve been chasing—a string of thefts tied to the Raccoon City holiday markets—has gone ice cold. Your editor is breathing down your neck for a feature piece that you can’t write without new leads. You’ve got twelve days left, twelve days until your editor wants that final copy on her desk.

And now the printer has decided to stage a mutiny. Just your luck.

You try to print out the documents again, but when the printer does nothing but splutter, and kicking it doesn’t seem to work, you decide maybe it just needs new ink.

You’re about halfway through jamming your hand into its guts when a voice, sweet yet awkward, startles you. You hit your head on the way up, only to find yourself staring into a pair of warm blue eyes beneath a mop of golden hair.

He’s wearing a leather jacket over a navy button-down, his badge clipped to his belt. He looks familiar, like someone you might’ve run into at the bullpen when you’re down at the RPD.

“Uh, need a hand?” he tilts his head, same awkward smile unfaltering.

“I’ve got it,” you say, though you clearly don’t. The printer lets out a final, pathetic whine before dying completely. Well, now you just look stupid.

He grins, the kind of lopsided, sheepish smile that makes him look younger than he probably is. “Guess that’s a no.”

You sigh, looking over your shoulder to catch Claire hiding a smile behind her mug. You fold your arms. “Sorry, can I help you?”

“Names Leon,” He introduces himself, and it all clicks into place for you. This is the RPD’s newest rookie. The guy Claire’s been yapping your ear off about Chris yapping her ear off about. “I’m just dropping off some paperwork. But, uh… I overheard you talking to your editor earlier. You’re working on the market thefts, right?”

Your eyes narrow. “And what’s it to you?”

Leon raises his hands in mock surrender at your scathing tone, the picture of good-natured defensiveness. “Nothing! Just thought you might want some… unofficial insight. Off the record, of course.”

Your skepticism doesn’t waver. “Why would a rookie like you have anything I can’t get from public records?”

Leon hesitates for a moment, as if deciding how much to say. “I’ve been helping out on the case. They’ve got me running reports, talking to market vendors, stuff like that. Not exactly glamorous work, but I’ve been hearing things that don’t make it into the official write-ups.”

Now you’re interested. RPD isn’t exactly known for transparency, you know that much. You also know better than most that a lot can slip through the cracks of “official” documentation.

“What’s the catch?” you ask, suspicious.

Leon shifts, “Well, uh… There’s this Christmas party at the precinct. And I might have mentioned to my coworkers that I was bringing a date.”

You blink. “You’re blackmailing me with case information to play your fake-datw at a cop Christmas party?”

“It’s not blackmail!” Leon protests, his ears turning red. “It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. You get your story, and I… avoid being the precinct punchline for another year.”

You’re still sceptical, but the desperation in his voice softens your resolve. Saying no to him right now would be like kicking a poor puppy.

You stare at him for a moment, weighing your options. It’s ridiculous, sure, but then again, so is everything else in your life right now.

“Fine,” you say finally, sticking out your hand. “Twelve days. You give me what I need, and I’ll be the best fake date you’ve ever had.”

Leon shakes your hand with a grin, relief written all over his face. “Deal.”

And just like that, the countdown begins.

On the second day of Christmas, Leon sends you flowers.

Big ones. Loud ones. The kind of bouquet you’d expect to see at a wedding reception or an apology press conference. They’re wrapped in glittering gold paper—Poinsettias, as Claire so graciously points out.

“Looks like someone’s got an admirer,” she singsongs, loud enough for half the floor to hear.

Your stomach drops. There, sitting right in the middle of your disaster zone of a desk, is the offending bouquet. It’s massive, covered in festive bells and ribbon, and the card sticking out of it reads:

“To my Christmas angel. – L.”

You mutter a silent prayer to whatever God might be listening, snatching the card up like it might explode before anyone else might see. Your coworkers are already murmuring around you, though, so that seems like a bit of a lost cause.

Claire leans back in her chair, still grinning. “So when were you gonna tell me you’re dating someone?”

“Firstly, that is none of your business,” you snap, grabbing the entire bouquet in a desperate attempt to get it out of sight. The glitter gets everywhere, including your coat, your desk, and, somehow, your coffee. “And secondly—” You start, but backtrack when you remember that the deal you struck with Leon may require some confidentiality. Damn you for not figuring out boundaries sooner. “—that is also none of your business.”

You turn on your heel and you don’t stop moving until you’re outside the building, your fingers already dialing a number you swore to yourself you wouldn’t use unless absolutely necessary.

Leon picks up on the third ring. “Hey! What’s up?”

“Don’t you ‘what’s up’ me,” you hiss, pacing in the cold December air. “What the hell were you thinking sending me flowers? To my office?”

Leon hesitates for a second, and you can almost hear him cringing through the phone. “Uh, I thought it’d make things more… believable?”

You stop in your tracks. “Believable?”

“Yeah! You know, if people saw that you’re, like, dating someone, it might help sell the whole… thing.” His voice trails off, and there’s a pause before he adds, quieter, “Was it too much?”

“Too much?” you echo, your own voice rising in disbelief. “It’s not even lunchtime and I’ve already been asked twice if I’m engaged. At least take me to dinner first!”

There’s a beat of silence on his end before he says, “Okay. Let’s do it.”

You stop in your tracks. “Do what?”

“Dinner,” Leon says, like it’s obvious. “Tomorrow. You said I should take you to dinner, so… I’ll take you to dinner.”

You blink, your annoyance faltering for a second, only to give way to mild confusion. “Are you asking me out, or are you making this part of the deal?”

“Can’t it be both?”

You’re not sure if it’s the cold or the sheer absurdity of the situation that makes you smile, but you sigh and say, “Fine. Dinner. But you’re picking the place, and it better not be one of those sad 24-hour diners cops hang out in.”

Leon laughs, the sound warm enough to cut through the winter chill. “Deal.”

On the third day of Christmas, Leon takes you to dinner.

And yes, it is a sad diner.

It’s the kind of place that looks like it hasn’t updated its decor since the 70s, with faded garlands drooping from the light fixtures and a suspiciously sticky Rudolph figurine parked on the counter. Which is fine, in honesty. It’s perfect for this not-date, because that’s what this is. Not a date. Absolutely nothing about this screams romance.

Well, except maybe the crooked twig of mistletoe hanging over the entrance, but even that you’d pointedly avoided much to Leon’s amusement.

“So, remind me what I’m doing here,” you hum, pushing around your leftover pancakes on your plate. Leave it to Leon to convince you pancakes for dinner is an entirely acceptable meal choice.

“Well, we’re on a date,” Leon states matter-of-factly.

Across from you, he looks all too comfortable. You, on the other hand, feel like you’ve just agreed to help pull Santa’s sleigh blindfolded.

“Yeah, well, a date’s pushing it, rookie,” You all but scoff, setting your fork down before meeting his gaze properly. “Look, if we’re gonna do this, we probably need to set some ground rules.”

Leon raises a brow, lips curving into a half-smile, “You’re serious? This isn’t Fight Club.”

“Can’t believe you just broke the first rule of Fight Club,” you shoot back, matching his half-smile with your own self-satisfied one. “Okay, first off, who gets to know?”

“That this is fake? No one,” Leon says all too firmly, “I don’t need this blowing up in my face.”

“Likewise,” you hum. “Okay, next, how often are we gonna see each other outside of office hours? Are we really trying to sell this?”

“Well a coffee or two wouldn’t hurt,” Leon suggest. “And, uh… Physical stuff?” He asks, a generous blush dusting his cheeks.

You can’t hide your smile. “Afraid to hold my hand or something?”

“No! No— just… Don’t want to make this any more awkward than it has to be.”

“Alright, so no kissing unless absolutely necessary. And I’m talking someone-shoves-us-under-mistletoe-and-starts-chanting levels of necessary.”

He lets out a laugh, soft and boyish, and you can’t help but feel the corners of your mouth tug upwards.

On the Fourth Day of Christmas Leon takes you ice-skating. Well… Sort of.

You’d come to pick up some paperwork about the Christmas Market case Leon had promised you—an errand you figured would be quick and painless. No mingling, no unnecessary chit-chat, and absolutely no run-ins with anyone who might make this fake-dating charade any harder than it has to be.

The first hiccup comes the second you step into the precinct. You immediately spot him, leaning against the reception desk with an easy grin, chatting with some colleagues. You only recognise one of them, from the photo sitting on Claire’s desk no-less. Chris Redfield. The woman beside him, who’s donning a festive antler headband, looks oddly familiar as well, though you can’t quite place it.

Fantastic. Just what you needed.

“Leon!” you call, keeping your tone as casual as possible. You walk briskly, plastering on a tight-lipped smile, trying your best not to look like a deer caught in the headlights and to very pointedly avoid any eye-contact with Chris.

Leon turns at the sound of your voice, his expression brightening instantly. “Oh, hey! What’re you doing here?”

“Paperwork,” you reply, holding up the empty manila folder in your hand like it’s your golden ticket out of this situation. “You said you’d have it ready for me?”

Before Leon can answer, the woman next to Chris perks up—it’s then you recognise her as none other than Jill Valentine. You chalk it up to the antlers making it hard to recognise her.

“Paperwork? Wait, is this who you were talking about?” She elbows Leon in the ribs, earning a flustered yelp from him.

“What?” you echo, narrowing your eyes. Great, so he's already started mentioning you to colleagues.

Chris leans forward, “Wait, you’re Leon’s partner?”

You feel your stomach drop, the word partner ricocheting around your brain like a pinball.

Leon is already mid-spiral, his cheeks flushed red as he stammers out a reply. “Well, I didn’t say that— I mean, I said some of that, but not like that!”

Jill crosses her arms, smirking. “Well, now we have to meet you! What are you two doing tonight?”

“Nothing!” you and Leon blurt at the same time, a little too loudly.

Chris raises an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Jill before grinning even wider. “Perfect. You guys should come ice skating with us tonight, most of the Precinct will be there.”

Your mouth opens, ready to reject the idea outright, but Leon beats you to it.

“That sounds great!” he says, his voice breaking slightly on the last word. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If you could hit him over the head with this manilla folder right now, you would.

“Great,” Jill says, clapping her hands together. “Meet us at the rink at around seven tonight.”

“What the hell was that?” you hiss once both Chris and Jill have had enough teasing and they’re out of earshot.

“I panicked!” Leon whispers back, looking genuinely apologetic.

“You just signed us up for the least romantic fake date activity imaginable.” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You owe me so much for this, rookie.”

“I’ll buy you hot chocolate?” Leon tries, sweet boyish smile and all. You hate how you feel your resolve begin to soften already.

“You better make it with extra marshmallows.”

He nods, his expression softening as his smile melts into something tentative yet determined. “Deal.”

You’ve decided you don’t like ice skating. Chalk that up to the fact you haven’t been to the rink since you were eight and using a push-along penguin to keep you upright.

“This is fine,” you mutter under your breath, wobbling precariously as you step onto the ice. “Totally fine. Nothing humiliating about face-planting on ice.”

“You’ve got this!” Leon cheers from a few feet away, his enthusiasm wildly misplaced considering he’s not doing much better. He looks like a newborn deer, legs flailing every time he tries to take a step.

“Don’t patronize me,” you hiss back, gripping the railing like your life depends on it.

Behind you, Jill glides past with all the effortless grace of an Olympic figure skater, followed closely by Chris—who despite a few wobbles—isn’t much worse. They’re laughing at something—probably you and Leon—but you’re too busy trying to avoid an embarrassing collision with the ice to care.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Leon says, inching toward you with the kind of determination usually reserved for hostage negotiations. “You let go of the rail, and I’ll catch you if you fall.”

He looks just about as stupid as he sounds, you decide. “That’s assuming you don’t fall first.”

He grins, cheeks ruddy from the cold. “Have a little faith, would you?”

Against your better judgment, you release your grip on the rail, immediately flailing as your skates slide out from under you.

Leon lunges to catch you—a valiant effort, truly—which would be heroic if it didn’t result in both of you landing in a tangled heap on the ice.

“Well, that could’ve gone better.” Leon groans, pushing himself to his knees and wincing.

“You think?” you say, trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh as you roll onto your side. Your knees are sore, your pride is bruised, but when you look over at Leon—cheeks flushed, smile sheepish— it all feels a little less mortifying.

“Here,” he says, extending a hand to help you up, and there’s something strangely endearing about the gesture. You hesitate for a moment before taking it, letting him pull you to your feet. He doesn’t let go right away, steadying you as you find your balance.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice softer now.

“Yeah,” you reply, surprised to find that you actually mean it.

And somewhere between all of this chaos a group of kids barrels past, laughing as they race each other in a blur of neon jackets and mis-matched scarves. You and Leon instinctively jump out of their way, your skates sliding in all the wrong directions. You nearly crash into him again, grabbing his arm for balance as he steadies both of you.

And suddenly, you’re close. Closer than you’ve been all night.

His face is just inches from yours, his breath visible in soft clouds in the frigid air. His cheeks are bitten by the cold, his boyish grin tugging at his lips, and his eyes—God, his eyes—are the kind of blue that could rival a frosted winter’s lake.

You swallow hard, heart giving a little flutter you’d rather not think about. Brushing it off with a laugh, you take a step back, releasing his arm. “Okay, new rule: avoid the speed demons at all costs.”

“Agreed,” Leon says, but his voice a little softer now, his gaze a little firmer.

The rest of the night is chaos, as expected, and by the time you stumble off the ice, breathless and pink-cheeked, you’re smiling so wide and genuine that your cheeks hurt from it all.

On the sixth day of Christmas, Leon comes over for a very professional movie night.

The plan was simple enough: a low-key night to sort through leads and discuss the finer details of the article. Nothing more than that. Just two friends (are you even really friends?) mocking bad Hallmark movie tropes and terrible one-liners. But—as fate would have it—somewhere between the half-hearted scribbles in your notebook and the opening credits of the first movie, the evening takes a sharp left turn.

Popcorn crumbs litter the coffee table, and the air hums with laughter as you and Leon pick apart every ridiculous trope on the screen.

“New rule,” you declare, pointing at the screen with a handful of popcorn. “No more movies where the leads magically fall in love because of forced proximity. It's lazy writing.”

Leon raises a brow, smiling at you over his mug of cocoa. “Do you just... make up rules for everything?”

You shoot him a look, though your lips twitch in betrayal. “Rules are important. They keep things from going off the rails.”

“Sure they do,” he says, grinning. “But I think you might have a thing for them. Maybe it’s your love language”

You toss a kernel of popcorn at him, which he catches with an annoyingly quick reflex. The movie continues, but your attention drifts, his sweet smile lingering in your thoughts longer than you’d care to admit, and all at once you want to suffocate yourself with a pillow.

By the time the credits have rolled, the conversation has veered wildly away from work and movies. You find yourself talking about everything and nothing between here and there, the space separating you both narrowing in a way that feels very not-professional. Your leg brushes against his and his hand brushes against yours.

You didn’t make a new rule about that. Maybe you should have.

On the eighth day of Christmas, you finally chase down some of those leads for your article.

Or at least, you try to.

The holiday market is bustling with lights, laughter, and the scent of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts. It’s picturesque enough to be a postcard: striped tents draped in garlands, vendors bundled in scarves, and the faint hum of Christmas carols floating through the crisp evening air.

You’re here for work. This is professional business. Totally, totally.

“Professional” is exactly why you’re letting Leon lead you to a vendor handing out roasted chestnuts in steaming paper cones.

You raise a brow at him. “Seriously?”

“You’ve gotta try them. It’s tradition.” He says as if it’d be crazy to deny him.

And before you can even think about protesting, he’s already handing you a cone, the warmth seeping through your gloves as you eye the chestnuts—then him—warily. You pop a few in your mouth, only to find yourself pleasantly surprised.

“Good, right?” he asks, smug as anything. You scrunch your nose in response.

Next is funnel cake. Leon orders one to share, dusting himself in powdered sugar as he pulls off a piece and offers it to you.

“I could’ve got my own,” you reason, but take what he offers you anyway.

“Well that wouldn’t make me a very good date.”

“Fake-date,” you correct.

“Uhuh,” Leon hums, but he’s not even looking at you when you glance back up at him, already dragging you towards the next stall, and the next.

“I’m serious!” You call after him, trying to keep up as he weaves through the crowd like he’s trained to do this. Well, he probably is.

You don’t even realise how long it’s been until you're walking past empty market stalls, every other vendor packing up for the night. Leon leads you out into the street, strings of warm white lights swaying gently in the winter breeze.

Leon’s hands are stuffed into his coat pockets as the two of you walk side by side, your boots crunching softly against the thin dusting of snow on the pavement.

The streets are mostly empty now, save for a few stragglers heading home, but Leon leads you straight into the middle of the road without a second thought. You hesitate for half a second, glancing both ways like a habit.

“There’s no one out here,” he says over his shoulder, that lazy grin curling at the corners of his mouth. “You’re not scared of breaking the rules, are you?”

“Isn’t it your job to enforce rules?” You argue, but follow after him anyway.

When you tilt your head up, you feel the breath escape your lungs all at once. “You can actually see the stars tonight,” you murmur softly in awe, your breath clouding in the cold.

Leon doesn’t say anything right away, but when you glance over, you catch him watching you instead of the sky, his gaze softer than you’re used to. He quickly looks up, clearing his throat as if he hadn’t just been caught.

You don’t know what’s worse: the way his cheeks flush from something other than the cold or the fact that your stomach flutters in response.

And you don’t know what to do with the quiet that stretches between you, either, the sound of your steps filling it up like placeholders. You hadn’t meant for the day to linger this long—hadn’t meant to still be here, walking home with him.

Leon breaks the silence first. “You know, I thought you’d be sick of me by now.”

You glance over at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, I am.”

He laughs then, genuine and bright. “Oh thank God, I’d hate for this to actually be enjoyable for either of us.” Sarcasm laces his words in a way that makes you laugh in kind.

He’s grinning like he’s got all the time in the world as he turns to walk backward in front of you, and suddenly all at once this feels like something out of one of those Hallmark Christmas movies you swore to yourself you’d never recreate.

“You still haven’t thanked me for helping you today.” He says.

“Helping me?” you snort. “All you did was get funnel cake powder on my coat and in my cocoa.”

“Hey, I got you a quote from the candy vendor, didn’t I?” he defends, arms spreading wide.

“You mean the guy who told us about his grandma’s cookie recipe?”

“Hard-hitting stuff,” he shrugs.

You shake your head, but you’re smiling, and you hate that he notices. He spins back around to face the road ahead, walking a little slower now, like he’s dragging his feet.

“So,” you say after a moment, picking up your pace to fall back into step with him. “Why do you care so much about this Christmas party, anyway?”

Leon doesn’t answer right away. You glance over, and the grin that’s usually on his face has faded into something smaller, quieter.

“Guess I just… don’t want to look like a total loser,” he says eventually, his voice low but even. “It’s been a long first year. People talk.”

You frown at that. “They don’t have anything better to do at the RPD?”

“Apparently not.” He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, but you can tell it does, at least a little.

The two of you walk in silence for another block, and when you speak again, your tone is softer. “You know, you could’ve asked someone who actually likes you to be your date.”

Leon glances over, and for some reason, his answer catches you off guard. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “but then it wouldn’t have been you.”

You look away too quickly, your chest tightening in a way you can’t explain. He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t push him for more.

Instead, you both keep walking, the street stretching out ahead of you, the night colder and clearer than it’s been in weeks. The faint glow of your building comes into view up ahead, and for a moment, you wish it was just a little farther away.

On the tenth day of Christmas, Leon does something so absurd you briefly consider chucking him—and his ridiculous ideas—into a snowbank.

Leon shows up at your door, determined and annoyingly cheerful, with a Christmas tree strapped to the roof of his car and a twinkle in his eye that should’ve been your first warning. You don’t have the heart to turn him away or give him a lecture about how this is breaking at least three of your fake-dating rules.

Dragging the tree up the stairs is a disaster, his optimism only barely keeping the whole endeavor from collapsing. Decorating it? Worse. Leon’s enthusiasm for tinsel is unmatched, his ornament selection downright offensive. A plastic Rudolph here, a lopsided snowman there—it’s a full-scale disaster in red, green, and glitter.

By the end of the night, the tree looks more like a festive crime scene, fairy lights as police-tape and all, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The two of you collapse as you both watch the twinkling lights. A ribbon is tangled in your hair; Leon has tinsel stuck to his sleeve. The quiet settles in like freshly fallen snow, and for a moment, you forget this isn’t supposed to feel real.

You spent the eleventh night at Leon’s place. It was his idea to go over the finalities of this agreement, set your story straight in case anybody at the party asks too many questions. Make sure you're both on the same page.

But when you rocked up at his little studio apartment, it felt like he’d compensated for much more than a quick flashcard night.

Cinnamon scented candles burned and flicker, accompanied by a plate of cookies on the counter. Your half-crumpled notes quickly joined, as well as two cups of cocoa that have long-since gone cold.

“Alright, one more time, how’d we meet?”

Leon props his head up on his palm, looking like he’s had more than enough of your pointless flashcard game. “Coffee shop. You spilled hot chocolate on me, laughed, then walked away.”

“I offered to buy you a replacement!” You shoot back, hitting him atop the head with your stack of cards.

He winces dramatically, swatting our hand away. “Well I think it’s more believable if I pretend you didn’t and you bicker back. Y’know, like an old married couple or something.”

You reach for your cold cocoa to hide the way you splutter. “Woah, rookie, I only signed up for a fake-date, not a fake-wedding too.”

Leon grins, but something about him still looks oddly distant.

He kicks his feet off the barstool, takes your cup of cocoa and his to clean them away. “Have you finished your article at least?”

“Nearly,” You hum, but you’re more lying through your teeth. You’ve barely worked on it despite all the extra input Leon’s given you. Something, something, a very distracting Christmas fiasco got in your way. “I should be done by the end of the week.”

“And what happens once it’s done?” He asks, and you know in your right mind he means what happens to you. Promotion? New story? Next assignment? But instead your mind stupidly jumps to the idea that he’s asking about the both of you. What happens to us? written between the lines in invisible ink.

“Well, I suppose I find a new story to chase.” You clear your throat, “and you?”

“Go back to handing out speeding tickets,” Leon smiles through a sigh, “and I guess we drop this whole fake-dating thing, huh?” He asks, and you refuse to let yourself believe there’s any hope in his voice.

“Don’t see a reason to keep it going,” you shrug, to which Leon simply nods.

“Anyway, don’t try changing the subject on me,” you clear your throat, shuffling back through your pile of cards. “Next question: what’s my favourite holiday tradition?”

Leon shelves the now clean and dried mugs, “stealing Christmas cookies when no one’s looking.” He hums smugly over his shoulder.

You blink, “I never told you that.”

“Don’t need to, I pay attention.” He grins, pointedly flicking his gaze to the now empty plate of cookies. But you’re still hung on his words, the casual admission throws you entirely off kilter, and it seems by the twelfth day he still has you feeling that way.

You feel entirely out of place standing in the RPD. The precinct is sparkling with every Hallmark Christmas cliche imaginable—oversized tinsel, plastic mistletoe (that you’re still doing your best to avoid), and a garishly large tree that stands off to the side, completed by a shining white angel on top.

Leon, of course, has dressed the part. And damn him for looking so good in a navy suit and deep red tie to match your own attire. His presence is steady when you feel out of depth—it’s funny how he does that, despite usually being the one who requires an anchor.

“Are you alright?” He asks, leaning closer to be heard over the obnoxiously loud Christmas music. His voice is low, warm, entirely too distracting.

“Fine,” you lie with a sickly sweet smile, downing the last of your punch, “totally fine.”

Leon doesn’t buy it, and you’re starting to think he’s getting too good at reading you (which is your job, not his), but before he can press any further, your worst nightmare seems to come to fruition.

You're pulled then pushed, and before you can register what’s even happened you're colliding with Leon’s chest.

“Mistletoe,” he mutters, and when you finally lift your gaze you catch the offending sprig. Jesus Christ.

Honestly, this is your fault. You should’ve accounted for something like this. Nothing like a good bit of rookie hazing at a work party, right? Dammit. The rest of the precinct seems to cheer and chant, and you’d foolishly thought you’d left this behaviour behind in high school.

God, you wish the ground would part beneath your feet and swallow you whole right now—

“Well, this doesn’t break any of your rules, does it?” Leon asks then, and you can hear the smile in his voice, something about the way he says it makes it sound like he knows the answer.

And he does. Because if Leon’s good at one thing it’s remembering the finer details. No kissing unless absolutely necessary, you’d said. Like someone-shoves-us-under-mistletoe-and-starts-chanting levels of necessary, you’d said.

Okay, now you really want the ground to swallow you up.

Leon seems to pick up on your unease, and ever the gentleman drowns out the obnoxious chanting of his colleagues to focus on you.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he offers.

You shake your head. “It’s part of the deal.” You say firmly. You’re not going to back down now, you’re a stickler for rules, deals, and contracts. Totally not because you’ve been wondering what Leon’s lips might taste like for the past five minutes. Totally.

He counts you down, which feels stupid, but does actually help quell your nerves. What doesn’t help, though, is the way his hand slides to your jaw and his lips slot against yours so effortlessly. You forget the world exists, heart beating out of your chest before you let yourself melt into it, your own arms looping around his neck just before he pulls away.

He’s got blush on his cheeks, his eyes bright, smiling widely like he’s just one the powerball. And suddenly, all at once, your brain catches up to your heart and you realise how none of this seems to feel fake anymore.

Three days later, and your article had gone live that morning. Your editor had been quick to praise it, Claire more than proud when she’d shown up with a mini Christmas gift basket for you. But still, as the day wore on, the victory felt hollow. The article might have just been your best work, but now that the dust—or snow, rather—has settled, all you can think about is Leon and the strange ache left in his absence.

You glance out the window of your tiny office, the skyline glittering with holiday lights. It’s quiet, save for the distant hum of the city and the rhythmic tapping of your pen against your desk.

“You know, I expected a little more Christmas cheer from the person who just saved Christmas,” a familiar voice says.

You jump, spinning around in your squeaky office chair to find Leon leaning casually in your doorway. He’s dressed down from the last time you saw him after the party, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, but the sight of him is enough to send your heart racing.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice caught somewhere between surprise and something softer.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he shrugs, pushing himself off the cubicle wall and stepping inside.

You raise a brow. “The precinct is five blocks away.”

“Exactly,” he says with a grin. “Neighborhood.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. He steps closer still, and you feel the air shift.

“Look,” he starrs, running a hand through his hair like he’s still trying to work up the courage. “The other night, you said that after this was over, we wouldn’t have to see each other again.”

You swallow hard, your heart already knowing where this is going but your mind refusing to believe it. You remember how casually you’d thrown that out there, as if the thought hadn’t stung more than you cared to admit. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Well, I don’t want that,” he says simply.

Your breath hitches, but he keeps on going.

“I don’t want to go back to pretending this was all fake,” he continues, his voice steady but his eyes searching yours. “Because it might’ve started that way, but it didn’t end that way—not for me.”

The words hang in the air like softly drifting snowflakes, fragile and perfect, waiting for you to catch them.

“Leon…” you try, but your voice falters.

“I know,” he cuts in quickly. “I know this wasn’t the plan. But plans change, right? Rules get broken—and I know you hate that but hear me out—if there’s one thing I’ve learned these past twelve days, it’s that maybe breaking a rule or two isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

You laugh softly then despite yourself, a mix of nerves and something lighter. “You do realize you’re ruining my perfectly crafted narrative, right? Fake dating, falling in love…” you click your tongue, “this is all so cliché.”

He grins, stepping closer until there is almost no space left between you. “Then let’s give it a good ending.”

Before you can even give what he’s said a minute of thought, his hand is on your jaw again, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that’s unhurried and undeniably real.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close, his forehead resting against yours. “So,” he hums, his voice soft and teasing, “how’s that for a rewrite?”

You can’t help but laugh, your chest light for the first time in days. “It’s a start.”

The city sparkles outside as you stand there, snowflakes fall, the faint hum of Christmas carols from the office speakers bleed with the quiet rhythm of his breathing. Whatever comes next, you know one thing is for sure: this story isn’t over yet.

likes n reblogs r very much appreciated <3

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