#if you squint to the point your eyes are closed

[kooyabooya]

FREUDIAN

m reader x rosé // 24k words

They always say: never make a deal with the devil. Even when all fronts of temptation have you where you’re most vulnerable - you can’t afford to give in, especially if it’s the howling calls of the past whispering out. 

So you take a bite of the forbidden fallen apple anyway. Give into the fabled rumor of Judas’s betrayal. Because that’s all you’ve ever known yourself to be: gullible, foolish, naive. 

None of that has changed. Even as you’re staring at her, taking the fall. 

A look over her shoulder, furry scarf encapsulating her neck. The flash with her eyes sends you reeling, pulling your heartstring to the thinnest strand, nearly tearing it. She’s playing her role so innocently: the heartbreaker, your antagonist, a divine sin. It’s a losing game; one where you know very well, the kind of game where it was deemed unwinnable from the start. 

But when you’re holding her close, feel her face buried into the space of your neck, all of the memories come flashing back - each one feeling more right than wrong. 

“Maybe in another life,” Rosé tells you, and you’re shushing her, because the break in her voice is already destroying you on the inside, whatever she says next doesn’t even register in your ears; since she’s said the same tale before, and you’re agreeing with her regardless. 

To you, Rosé is a lot of things. A scrapbook filled with endless memories. The person to sit at your doorstep late into the night just to have a meaningful conversation. A half that’s been ripped apart. You can go down the mental checklist time and time again, and end up in the same spot as before. 

In another life, or some universe for that matter: you and her get that fairytale ending together. 

–

The incident, quite literally, comes fast in the dead of the night. 

It doesn’t hit you on the nose all at once. What does hit you is your tossed phone right onto your face, squinting at nothing when you sit up before looking down to the bright flash of your phone screen along with the number resting at the top. 

“I thought I told you to put your phone on vibrate, you idiot,” your girlfriend huffs sleepily, clearly annoyed at the random call during these late hours when slumber is the only option. Your vision is still coming about, looking over to the window where it’s still dark outside, then over to the alarm clock on your nightstand, struggling to even get a glimpse of the time - no point in looking at your phone too since you would be seeing white well into the morning. 

Like anyone else in this particular situation (not really), you pick up: “It’s three in the morning, why would-” 

“Did you plan an anniversary trip for us?” The girl’s tone on the other end is a bit on edge, looking for answers. “When the fuck were you going to tell me and why the hell did it have to be now?” 

You’re still half asleep, half awake; but the timbre in the voice sounds all too familiar - she’s got the same drawl stemmed off from you, not to mention the flurry of questions in the opening five seconds. There’s also that sense of bubbliness you’re imagining, the way that you can easily picture her sitting with both knees up, her head tilted in a way where it shows that she’s very uninterested. Or, the other form where she’s leaning forward, leaning into her phone, constantly looking down at the ground and nowhere else. 

She hates the fact that she had to make this call, and you can easily tell. You, on the other end, are trying to put the bits and pieces of the story together to the best of your memory, scratching the back of your head, trying to rattle your slow-working brain. Hanging up would’ve been the best option to follow, save this conversation for later when you can think straight. Typically, you should’ve just ignored the call entirely. 

Tragically, that’s not your style, so you answer, “Hey Rosie, been a while since I’ve heard your voice.” 

A sigh sounds off from the speaker, “Don’t ‘Rosie’ me. I just need you to confirm my suspicions.” 

“On?” 

“Pfft, stop being stupid. I’m not gonna repeat myself here.” 

You breathe out a soft laugh, and hang your head into your chest for a second, collecting your thoughts. “Yes, I did plan that out as a trip for us. Right before we, uh-” 

Silence fills the call immediately after. Despite being on separate paths, the tension still stings like a tightening noose around your neck. Not even a simple grind of your teeth and a clenched fist can serve as the probable testament to the amount of pain you and her suffered together on the tail-end of your relationship, the hope of salvaging lost long before calling it quits. 

“Still there?” Rosé asks, snapping your attention back to her voice. 

“Yeah,” you reply, hiding a sniffle through a quick cough, “I just- yeah. Details can come later.” 

“Okay,” she says, carrying on. “I got that reminder email from the travel organizer.” And at this point you’re cursing yourself and mentally facepalming as many times as you possibly could (seriously, why would you think it was a good idea to set up a reminder through that stupid auto-email service to notify her too as well?), thinking of every contingency to weasel your way out of this conversation. Rosé, however, had no idea of your present thought process, “Went through reading the fine prints of the agreement and…well.” 

“And?” You practically prayed to God that she’d not been this quick to read into the lines and decode the information. 

“Says here that the trip is non-refundable.” That is what Rosé ends with. 

“That so?”

“We can’t cancel it.”

“Too late for us to do that, no?” 

The comforter ruffles behind you, a small hand tapping the lower back of your shirt. “Babe? Who’s that on the phone?” 

You press the switch near your nightstand to put the room into an ambient lighting setting, turning over to see the lovely ruffle of bed hair and one eye open. She then snuggles herself back into the bed, covering herself with the sheets as you’re palming the side of her face to put her back to sleep. “Sorry Jennie, it’s a-” and here is where you’re throwing caution to the wind, ensuring that you don’t trip up on your words at this moment, “late night work call.” So far it’s good, and Jennie nods with a soft hum, lazy smile at the touch of your palm. She’s a bit dazed, but one good measure for insurance, you tell her, “I’ll explain in the morning.” 

Jennie blinks once or twice, dropping her eyelids while you rub your thumb across her cheek, the soothing touch sending her away to dreamland. There’s a warmth here; one where you feel safe, at home. You’ve struck out in getting with a girl like her, and the timing of it couldn’t have been more impeccable: you and Jennie were both at low points in life when you found each other, building up until the feelings couldn’t be suppressed any longer. 

(That story’s for another time. Though, a very heartwarming memory to look back on.) 

Your name, rolling of Rosé’s tongue, drags you back down. “Hello? Oh- yeah, yeah. I’m still here. What were you asking?” 

“So we’re going? Is that what I’m getting at here?” 

The inquiry lances your heart and mind, filling it with an endless plethora of uncertainties. “Wait- what?” 

“Well for one: it’s my ticket. And two: I want to go. If you were going to morph this trip with someone else, I’d understand.” Rosé’s reason is plausible, and you’re seeing a way out of this less and less. “But considering that we had the plans under our names, we’d-” 

“Rosé-” 

“It’s my ticket.” Rosé doubles down and you wince at the fact. “I can imagine you scrunching your face right now, stop that.” 

“Okay, you win.” 

“Good.” 

“I’ll get everything arranged prior in the next few days and pick you up for the airport. Talk to you later.” 

–

At the airport, not to anyone’s surprise, there is an essential bomb rush of families on top of families arriving and checking in and boarding to their set destination. Pro tip: plan the flights ahead of time (especially if it’s during the holiday season), just to avoid any sort of commotion or potential setback on your end. If the flight gets delayed, rescheduled, or relocated to another gate, that’s not your fault. 

God forbid that any of those happen since it would only prolong the amount of time you’d have to spend with Rosé. 

Very small words were exchanged when you picked her up from her apartment, on the way to the airport, and even when you did most of the work getting all of the travel plans for this ‘anniversary gift’ finalized and confirmed. As expected, honestly. Sharing a car ride with your ex was not on your list of places to get stuck in no matter what the predetermined events or circumstances are, but all the more reason to keep your eyes on the road at the time, go figure. 

Rosé’s sitting on the opposite end of you at one of the benches near the boarding gate once everything’s been checked in and settled; along with the security wing gauntlet handled by the TSA, but you’re finally here - waiting for all of this to finally be done and over with. She’s bearing no ounce of attention towards you, mindlessly scrolling on her phone with earbuds in, hoping that you wouldn’t take notice, but you do. And when she does flash a quick look of her eyes in your direction, a millisecond is all you get to dart your eyes elsewhere that isn’t on her. 

Still, you can’t help yourself when you’re mentally rolling back the years. 

Her styling is strikingly the same as it was before. A leather jacket finely pointed at the edges and crooks where it looks like the wrinkles aren’t even supposed to be there in the first place, those flowy pants that make it look like it was ripped off of a parachute and sewed up by a designer as this one-of-one piece. Then, there are the rings, and her pair of shades resting above her forehead; she’s bundled up into the seat like a little kid, an arm holding her phone as it rests along her thigh, both of her shoes are off and she’s got these cute, pink fluffy socks leaving you genuinely confused since the choice practically contradicts the other choices of clothing entirely. Really? Out of all those socks, you chose to go with that pair?

That doesn’t stand out as much compared to the other thing: her hair. 

Maybe God’s rolling the dice on you for this one. Hell, you’re even wondering if God ever rolls dice in his free time upstairs. Purposeful or not, it isn’t doing you any good the more you look at those golden, heavenly locks; braided up and tied back into her head where it doesn’t give any issue for her neck whatsoever. Not to mention her side profile, the shape of her nose, and that jaw. 

The pout she purses with her lips. It’s anything less than innocent. 

On schedule, there’s about roughly an hour or so before your flight to Paris takes off, and you’re not willing to drive yourself insane with very few word phrases spoken. So you make conversation: 

“You dyed your hair again,” you say, clutching your hoodie when Rosé’s attention falls back to you, “Gotta say, I like the color.” 

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Rosé says, pulling an earbud out and sliding both feet off the seat. The phrasing alone is still good enough to pass as awkward, sighing as she turns her head to look out the window - nothing but cloudy skies for miles while a plane touches down on the tarmac. “Blonde’s been such a comforting color for me, so I thought why not roll with it again for fun?” 

“Does bring back memories.” You slide your palms under your thighs, and cross both feet on the floor. “You had this platinum shade back when we first met.” 

“Did I? You still remember that?” Rosé grins at the sudden recollection, folding her glasses and sliding them into her handbag. 

“What do you want to get out of this?” You suddenly ask again, quickly running a hand across your chest to rid of the sweat riddled along your palms. 

“By this, you mean-”

“Our trip,” you amend. Here you’re pulling yourself back a bit - the duo of your luggage and hers acting as this barrier, hoping that the bags can serve as this proximity limiter for the time being. “It’s supposed to be for a week, with an option to extend for another day or so.” 

Rosé tugs the tied bun, scratching her neck to where you notice she got her nails trimmed and done. “A week in Paris doesn’t seem that bad, but planning it during the week of-” 

“Christmas was a bit of a stretch,” you wince with a hand to the back of your head, “It’s still a nice setting to think about, though. Cold weather, snowing, the cups of cocoa we’d drink together at a cafe? What else did I not think about while planning this?” 

Rosé just blinks at you, flabbergasted. She takes a second or longer to get a better look at your face, studying the shapes and curves of your frame as if it were some long-lost art piece that she had a vague familiarity with. Her breathing also slows for a bit when she drops her shoulders a bit, the discarded earbud now hanging as her eyes finally make contact with the floor, diminishing the gaze entirely. 

“Sorry. I had everything thought out for our stay,” you say casually, defeated. “I honestly wish that-” 

“Does Jennie know?” Rosé asks, leaning back into her chair. A premonition bubbling when she shares the same raised eyebrow directly back at you. 

You nod, which you’re half-right about. 

(“A work order in Paris?” Jennie asks you the morning after the first contact via phone call. She’s well aware of your passion for artistry and architecture, so playing the white lie of being ‘assigned’ to study in an attempt to further the progress of the team’s project was an idea worth rolling with. “How long are you going to be there for?” 

“No more than a week,” you answer, confident for no good reason. “Maybe a day or two more.” 

And that’s that.) 

But you zone out for a second too long. “You’re not very convincing,” says Rosé.

“She does,” you spit out again, nodding at a faster pace. “Jennie knows the surface level of this whole thing, at least.” 

“Hah,” Rosé breathes, stretching her neck with another glance. God, even the slightest sound of her laugh sounds the same as it was before - licking the rim of her lips where it meets her teeth, treating herself to the pulled cup of yogurt she bought as a snack to kill the waiting time faster. “Should’ve been honest with her,” she tells you, “I think there wouldn’t be anything wrong if you said my name in the first place instead. Lessens the risk of the possible conjecture.” 

The audacity, it makes you scoff as Rosé carries on with her meal, fixing her lips along the plastic spoon, carelessly nodding and humming while you’re twisting your attention to the passing planes in the air and the trucks rolling along the taxiway. You’re trying extremely hard to not fall into the conscious habit of looking - when the eyes are zig-zagging their way from the ceiling and to the distance of the nearby gate. Somehow, it always falls on her. Always. She’s got her jacket off to compensate for the stuffiness, honey skin radiating, the sleeves of her shirt pooling over her arms, foot underneath her other knee, delicate and unbothered. She’s a time capsule - the kind where you bury deep into the ground and never even think of uncovering years later. 

You thought you could move on, but here she is: within arms reach.  

–

If you thought sitting across from her waiting to board was torture, being next to her was extremely worse. 

Luckily, the aisle seat opened up next to yours and hers, only for it to be taken at the last possible minute, destroying any chance of creating that space between you and Rosé. This part here gets juicy: Rosé opted for the window seat and considering that the aisle was already taken, this puts you right smack in the middle of the row. She also raised the armrest set between you and her, making your final line in terms of creating a temporary vicinity practically nonexistent. Nothing will happen in a fourteen-hour flight, right? Rosé gives you the quick rundown of what she wants for her in-flight meals when she can put her legs onto your seat while you go to the restroom (and wished to stay there for the rest of the flight, but you know damn well enough that you can’t), even when she’s saying to not freak out if her head falls on your shoulder while sleeping - also, don’t mind if I grab onto your arm if I’m watching some scary movie. Every excuse seems like a death sentence added on to prolong your suffering. 

The man sitting next to you weaves the discussion about the cold air from outside being brought into the cabin, some aerospace thing about the insulation and great air conditioning, but all you can give is a forced hearty smile and these nods of agreement as his wife says something embarrassing to butt herself into the talking bubble, rolling your eyes at the pair out of spite. 

You’re giving your two cents about how you liked cold weather (out of all things to discuss for God knows why), and the couple takes your opinion well with open arms and minds. The wife leans over to see Rosé, glancing over before turning her head back to the window, putting two and two together: 

“Are you two also going to Paris for your honeymoon?” She asks, the man also taking the hint with an ‘o’ shaped mouth. 

“Uhh, that’s a bit of a tough question to answer,” you chuckle nervously as the wife makes the quick inference, carrying on with the long conversation (which was very one-sided from this point on) about how she and the man sitting next to you are so in love, their plans for their honeymoon and anniversary. You can’t help but be intrigued and infatuated with how you’re able to see love bloom right in front of your eyes. They ask you if there are any recommendations and you being the goody-two-shoes that you are, it only gets them to keep talking still. In the midst of all of this Rosé peeks over your shoulder, hand to your elbow as a sign to shut you up, but you send the same elbow back to make her stop. 

Eventually, when the plane does move onto the runway and up in the air, the couple continue their monologue of how they met, their dreams, their occupations, what they like to do in their free time, the names of their cats, where they see themselves in the next five to ten years. Rosé then looks over again, lending her ears to listen to the lovely story candidly as you see her eyes filled with so much awe and wonder; she finds it funny too, and you’re seeing what she’s seeing: because that would’ve been the case if you and her had not split. 

All the infinite possibilities you’re thinking off, it’s spilled right in front of you, and it gets you thinking. 

–

(Midway through the long flight, you’re not even getting a wink of sleep when Rosé’s tossing and turning in the seat next to you. Some are watching assorted movies, you could hear a kid cry a few rows back, the usual experience. 

Her knee hits your thigh as you’re scooting your butt away from her, unwilling to make a shape with her body, pulling the complimentary blanket up to her neck. 

“Did you ever think of getting first class for the trip?” She asks, irritated. “My seat’s getting kicked from behind, and I can’t put my feet on the ground.” 

“I’d be paying an additional two hundred or more to get it reserved,” you tell her, making yourself as comfortable as you can, leaning the seat back. “The next best thing was econ, so deal with it.” 

She rests her head on the upper part of your arm, eye mask on and everything, falling asleep soon after.) 

–

Upon the arrival gate, you do manage to get a few hours of shut-eye, backpack in hand and a trailing Rosé behind when crossing over the inside of the airport, voice conveniently drowning out the same kid who was crying not long ago during the flight. 

“I can’t believe you let me sleep for six hours. Six hours.” you’re complaining, and rightfully so. “Look at you, who managed to sleep for pretty much the whole time. I had to take it on the chin, listening to their entire life story when I could’ve watched whatever you were watching while you were snoring away.” 

Rosé has her shades on, hiding a bit of her puffy face and eye bags. “So? What’s it to ya? I’m not the one who decided to lean over and eavesdrop on their lovely conversation.” 

“I was checking if our row was in the correct spot.” 

She chuckles. “Yeah yeah, keep coming up with the lame excuses buddy.” 

“You-” 

“Try every alibi you’ve got in the book, but I know you well,” says Rosé victoriously, sideswiping her way in front of you on the auto walk, rolling her small hand carry around to sit on, taking a breath. She rolls her neck around, stretching - an arm at a weird angle facing down, extending her leg between your feet. Personal space was going to be an issue, you’ve already drawn up that conclusion; considering that you sat with her for roughly about fourteen to sixteen hours with the occasional retreat to the bathroom and the awkward indulgence with one of the flight attendants, you dread how the living situation will be once you and her get to the hotel room. This might be hell for you, but only time will tell which circle you’re finding yourself in. 

“That should not have taken you that long to get our thing set up together,” Rosé lightly berates, handing over her luggage to you once you’ve hailed the provided ride accommodation from the travel company. “If I were the one handling this trip, I would’ve hit points x, y, and z in less time than you. Do you not know the basic cues to kill a conversation?” 

You don’t answer. Because arguing isn’t gonna get you anywhere with her. 

(Telling yourself lies was a strength, but also your curse as well. Somehow you keep getting away with it.) 

You roll your eyes at the rhetorical question, placing all the bags into the trunk of the cab. “C’mon, don’t play the bad cop here. You know damn well that I’ve always been terrible at getting myself out of situations like those. It also didn’t help that she and the couple on the plane sounded so upbeat and enthusiastic.” 

“It’s okay,” Rosé says, patting your shoulder as a form of truce. “Besides, that’s how you met me technically.” She gets into the cab soon after, settling into the backseat. 

And you take a second to internalize the said phrase, scanning the horizon of the cityscape in the backdrop. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” you’re muttering to yourself, getting into the cab with Rosé, with most of the ride pretty much quiet as you’re both looking out the opposite windows. 

–

For some added context, Rosé waltzed into your life on a random Tuesday morning in the first week of fifth grade. 

It’s something straight out of a coming-of-age movie or slow-burning romance novel: up until that point, you’ve had boys as your deskmates through the grades with one of them being your close friend going forward. 

She would change all of that - a bit pathetic now that you’re looking back at it: her being the first girl that you would ever talk to let alone sit next to you for the entire school year - but you didn’t mind though, since she was easy to get along with. 

As the days turned into months and into years, you and Rosé shared everything and in between with each other. From exchanging your favorite cartoon shows on a Saturday afternoon when there was no homework, which subject was the favorable one to learn, favorite colors, why she didn't like playing sports compared to you, the blown-out-of-proportion drama over who was the popular girl in school at the time, the score you got on the last math test, what were you going to do over the summer break. There was never a moment where you or she filled in on anything worth sharing. 

Rosé knows everything about you inside and out. The same could be said for your end of the table. 

You’ve created the progressive drawn-up schematic well into high school. Her occasional gossip debriefs, the endless rants about that one teacher who would always give her a hard time, whether or not she should go to the dances (dragging you as her plus one, where she came extremely close to back in junior year), worrying about her near-perfect grades to the point she would overcomplicate every single minute detail that pops up with every last check before turning in an assignment. Then, there’s the crushes. Her occasional flings - to which, she had multiples of them, telling all of the unnecessary details of what she did with the guys on every date, sharing with you all the pros and cons of what her ideal type is. 

But here’s the thing. 

She was giving you all the signals for you to not notice. All the boxes in her list where you checked off nearly every single one of them. The realization itself came to you on a late night when she was passed out on the coffee table, papers on top of papers of notes before college admissions being submitted, turning a blind eye away from the few bottles of soju she consumed to power through even when you said that it was a terrible idea. 

The small intake of alcohol helped you connect the dots right then and there: you were in love with her. 

Playing it safe was the name of the game. And on your part, it was justified to keep yourself at a distance from Rosé, not putting any sort of risk in ruining the long friendship you’ve built with her. Why lay everything on the line with someone who occupied half of your brain already? 

“You won’t know unless the leap of faith has been made,” Lisa says to you at the time, and that's probably the only source of assurance you ever needed to hear. 

So, you make that leap.

A simple line or two is all you said where Rosé’s eyes go wide when you see her off at the front of her house, nothing else to be said when her weight collapses on top of you for an overdue hug. Talk about romantic confessions, am I right? 

Once word went around various friend groups the both of you were in, it didn’t come off as much of a surprise. Most people had already made that conclusive pairing long before you started to read into the social cues and fast glances without you knowing. What mattered in the end was that you were finally with her after all this time. 

It could’ve been written in ink right there and then: she was your first crush, first girlfriend, first kiss, first relationship, first love. 

That should have been the end of the story. The greatest score you could ever pull off in your life. Job done. 

–

(Until it wasn’t. She would eventually be the first terrible heartbreak you would ever have to endure. 

First time for everything, remember?”)

–

“You’re kidding.” Rosé deadpans, walking into the open space of the hotel room, scanning. Her first reaction then shifts once she drops her bags right where they are, walking around the singular king-size bed, showered in rose petals formed into a heart with two towels folded up into quaint but cute swans resting with both of their beaks touching at the top. “You can’t be serious.” 

Your hands go straight into your pockets, the corners of your lips pulled flat, indifferent. “Isn’t it the thought that counts?” 

Rosé bears no mind to your bland answer. Granted, she’s partial to the fact of going through this whole trip with you, patting the head of the towel swan before turning her attention to the table at the corner of the room, a bottle of champagne kept cool in an ice bath. “I’ll give you points for the effort,” she sighs, “Care to tell me how much you paid for everything in this room?” 

The cork goes flying once you lay your bearings, approaching her as she pours the golden liquid into the arranged champagne flutes, handing it over before she spills some of it over the counter on her own.

“I put in a request, that’s all.” She nods in acknowledgment while you take a nice, quick swig of the beverage, hoping to let it sting in your throat as you try to ignore the insane price tag, gazing past the window and to the nearby buildings. “Some of the stuff was extra, well, perks and all.” 

“That so?” Rosé breathes, chuckling. You watch her down an impressive amount, humming at the taste. There’s an old film happening here, impossible to ignore. Her hair’s a little messed up, eyelids dropping low. You have to stand down here, don’t get any funny ideas, tilting your head slightly when the glow of the streetlights below hit her face, radiating, see her lip pulled back between her teeth-

Snapping your attention back to the city skyline was a good mental call. Clearing your throat was even better; anything worth grabbing to consolidate. 

You look over again to see a smile from the side, “It’s so beautiful at night.” 

A pretty sweet view to turn back on, and you agree with her. 

“I’ll go shower first,” Rosé says after clearing her throat, “We’ve had a long day anyway.” 

“Yeah, go on ahead.” 

She then puts her flute back on the table before walking back to her suitcase. You keep your body forward and your feet where they’re at, looking out into the city some more until you eventually hear the shower running. The thought crosses your head again, thinking about all of the things you did to get into this position - moments where you failed to think logically, it’s a mess in your head at this point. 

(Of all people, why did it have to be her? Being practically stranded in the city of love is one thing, but, maybe this is God or the universe trying to make good for your sake - who knows, only time will tell.)

–

This journey may be an ascent to a refined sense of closure or a descent back down into hell; how you look at it is entirely up to you. 

“Do you think I’m contagious or something?” Rosé huffs out in annoyance, tossing a nearby pillow in your direction, forcing you to look up at her sitting upright on the bed - you on the couch at the other end, hoping to create some distance in whatever way you can possible. “The bed’s big enough for the two of us.” 

“I find it better to not entertain that risk.” 

“You slept on the floor in my room multiple times.” 

“Okay I- you- well,” you stutter, words bouncing all over the place as your fingers grip tight into the book in your hands, “that’s different.” 

Rosé then folds her legs up, knees resting underneath her chin. You’re lucky that the reading light hanging over your spot is enough to hide the growing heat of red rising to your cheeks. Ever since she was the one to end things four years ago, contact with Rosé had been pretty much nonexistent, and for good reason. It was already hard to lose your best friend and past lover in one go, but here she is again acting like nothing had happened between you two. Maybe she’s doing what you did: engaging in conversation - though every dreadful second has been painstakingly difficult, looking back to see her head go sideways, an inquisitive gaze written all over her face, the small quirk at the corner of her lip every time she smiles - in your eyes, she’s still the same as before, there’s no difference. 

“It’s not a risk,” Rosé says, placing her head back up against the headboard, “I’m just saying that the couch over there looks uncomfortable.” 

“I’ll manage. Thanks.” 

Rosé then grabs another pillow within her reach, and places it beneath her forearms, straightening out her legs on the bed. “Idiot,” she hisses, the tone almost as a projection. 

That catches your attention: her attitude. She looks away when you twist your head towards her again. “What was that?” 

“Nothing,” she pouts, “I was just trying to get some talking going.” 

Look, playing defensive isn’t wrong by any means. Tactically, that’s the best way to approach things that you’re unfamiliar with. Rosé’s mannerisms, her habits, the quirks she does, you have every trick from her in your personal playbook. You can try to run and hide all you want, but sometimes taking things head-on is the only way to go. 

Rosé here is just- existing. You can tell that she’s far removed from creating any sort of effort into talking; aware of the lingering tension and awkwardness she left all those years ago. Above all that, she carries on with her one-sided conversation - which is sort of relieving to listen to, just hearing her voice, rambling about anything and literally everything that she could bring up. There’s that quick recollection of all the instances, all the times where she would tell you about the countless things where shutting up wasn’t an option. Her outlook on life hasn’t changed, and you admire that she’s bright and passionate about how things work in the world. 

“It’s a bit relieving,” you tell her innocently, “you here reminding me of those days.” 

Nostalgia was something worth decoding between the lines, and Rosé knows this. There’s nothing wrong with filling in what you’ve done in the past year or two, moving on after what you originally thought was the toughest period of your life. Protecting your peace, prioritizing your health - that kind of thing. 

“I know that I left you in a really bad place for so long,” she implies, coming to terms for her actions. Hoping to not open up the old wound, sugarcoating it. 

“We were at different points in our lives,” you console. You’re not so entirely sure of yourself if it’s the alcohol talking or the foundations of your inner walls crumbling. “I just thought that-” 

“Don’t.” Rosé commands, crossing her arms over the pillow. “Don’t.” 

“Okay, but still - I just wished that it didn’t have to end that way.” 

It goes and it goes. Rosé keeps her gaze fixed on you as you’re nodding, mindful of what the words are but not saying it. Instead, you keep it lighthearted and put it in a positive perspective and it may be worthy of a few snaps of her fingers.

The late-night convos are a little relaxing, so you’ll take that as a plus. 

–

The first ‘actual’ day of the trip is pretty uneventful. 

Nothing too substantial to report other than the fact it was a mix of cloudy skies and rain from time to time. 

Rosé insisted on following the itinerary, walking around the streets, and trying out various cafes handpicked by her. Then there’s the usual landmarks within walking distance too: the Arc de Triomphe, the Grand Palais, and no point in going to the Eiffel Tower since there was zero visibility at the top, so you divert to the Notre Dame Cathedral and try again a different day when the weather clears up. 

(Without a care in the world, she runs up the sidewalk and turns around, arms wide open: “We’re not in Kansas anymore are we?

You give her a face of genuine confusion, “What?” Her face falls flat and you’re left there saying: “What.”) 

Aside from the good food and everything around you picturesque and as ‘fresh inspiration’, Rosé takes this opportunity to capture whatever stood out to her: candid pictures of you on film, other city goers doing their everyday routine, in addition to the photos she took at the different landmarks. She has you taking pictures of her, not as a possible memento. No. But you can’t turn her down whatsoever - you just can’t. 

–

(All of that is about to change, and the rain starts to pick up well into the evening. In the figurative scheme of things, you could put this as the heart of the storm; the moment where lighting can strike twice in the same spot. It could happen.)

- 

Somehow the sim card in your phone keeps bugging out every few hours or so. The reception around the city hasn’t been that bad per se, but trying to get some calls back home has been a bit of a pain - so you had to work with what you got. Texting was the second best option for reaching Jennie, hoping that you can keep the act up by keeping her in the loop of this whole getaway. So far the messages have been casual, typical fill-ins of her day since you left, missing you. 

To compensate for the international phone rates, you managed to find a payphone. An odd surprise at best and you suppose that it shouldn’t take forever in the booth, but the pitter-patter of the droplets hitting along the glass gave a small indication that this might take longer than expected. 

The line continues to ring for a second or two longer, and then- 

Click. 

The silence becomes a slight worry, fingers gripping the phone, hoping that you could hear a hum - or that lovely violet voice that sends your heart thrumming right from the first letter. 

Instead, you hear her laugh, and a sigh soon after. It might’ve been a moan as well, you know that much. 

Another voice picks up at the end of the call, one that you’re very not familiar with: “Hel- Hello? Who’s this? Jennie, I think it’s your-” 

There’s no fucking way. 

Everything around the booth starts to fade in and out of focus. Rational thought was still in play, but barely - trying to put all of the little pieces together in a short amount of time. It’s not enough. Your jaw tightens, fighting the blood simmering through your veins. There’s too many questions to be asked, but only a few answers to take. You’re not entirely sure what these wave of emotions actually are - and it could be a lot of things: anger, fear, rage, sadness? 

“Shit. Give me the- hello?” Jennie’s voice tries to calm you, but it’s already too late for that. “Wait, it’s not what you think it is, I swear-” 

“I think I’ve heard enough from you.” 

“Babe, if you just let me explain-” 

You don’t think twice about hanging up. Your mind doesn’t even register the pain being imbued into your hands when you’re punching the glass furiously in quick succession. Hell, when you leave the booth, the realization has slowly started to set in, but the tears simply won’t come out. 

I thought you were different. 

The rain falls a lot harder now that you’ve finally stepped outside and look up to the dark sky, as if the universe is sharing its sorrowfulness as well. 

You were supposed to be different.

–

If you had the chance to put all of your thoughts and feelings from your past relationships into a bottle or glass, you’d drink it down until there’s absolutely nothing at the bottom; the pain might’ve been tolerable then. No matter how many shots it’s been, it’s still not enough. 

You don’t even remember when you first walked into the bar, but you order another shot anyway. The coat next to you still needs a few more minutes to dry up as it is. 

The alcohol stings when it travels down your throat, mind working way past overtime - thinking back of all the times when you’ve been duped, deceived, exploited - but to no avail. It's a bit pathetic that the worst kinds of people show up when you least expect it, even if it's those who you hold close dearly to your heart. Relationships and commitment to you have always been complicated; an unwritten cosmic law etched into the stars. 

In hindsight, it just really fucking sucks. 

It’s gotten so bad to the point where you’re being woken up after passing out for maybe five or ten or so minutes. You don’t remember. Your memory is in these black patches - rough blots of ink with no detail underneath as your vision slowly forms. A girl is next to you; a calm, soothing voice bringing you closer to the light. Everything’s still blurry, but you can barely make out the silhouette: dark hair, fine skin, smooth palm holding your face. It’s comforting, you start to question if this was the present reality, but you take a shot in the dark:

“Jennie?” you say, mind buzzed and speech slurred. 

“No. Dingus.” 

Ah, it was worth a shot. You can see things a lot more clearer now. Instead of the shaded dark hair, it’s the opposite: hot blonde. The texture of the jacket too is also familiar, her hand is surprisingly wet from the rain, and she sounds out of breath - like she ran here. 

Rosé. 

“What the hell happened to you?” She asks, distressed, holding your face before lightly shoving it away realizing what she was doing.

You try your best to explain the situation; but considering the plethora of drinks you had on the tab along with the alcohol in your system, you don’t actually explain anything at all. 

She could only hear the sniffles coming out of your nose. 

Rosé then takes a second look, and puts another piece of the damage together. It’s all over your face: the puffy eyes, bloodied knuckles, your irises once filled with light now an empty, deep void - like something sucked the life right out of you. 

“Something happened with Jennie, no?” The name pierces your heart at the guiltless inquiry.

“Kinda,” you answer with a hiccup at the end. “It’s all the same between me and love, honestly.” 

Rosé then draws back, your face still in her hands, internalizing the present state. You think she might’ve realized a thought right then and there, an instance where she's been before not long ago. It doesn’t take that much more for her to learn what you had done to get here; let alone who managed to hurt you in the first place. Because she’s been here before, and she now knows what her mistake was two years ago. 

So instead of running away, she pulls you in for a hug. You break down a little harder for a moment. No point in hiding. 

She doesn’t say anything after leaning back. The best form of comfort she could give were both palms to your cheeks, wiping the dried-up tears off as best as she could. Somehow you barely even manage to make eye contact with her again, afraid to even look away in the first place. 

You’re not sure if you leaned in or if she pulled you back to her, but your mind clears up instantly the second she kisses you. 

Her lips are the same way as you remember them: nice and soft and undeniably comforting. Both of her hands keep you in place, the wistful inhale of her nose matches yours, wanting more of this rising heat spreading across your faces. She kisses like she missed you and- in a partly true way, for all the wrong reasons. Gripping and clutching wherever she can, afraid to let go of you again like the last time. You or her could practically melt in this little pocket created and recall sometime later and try to decipher every little individual action leading up to this, whether or not to write this off as an act of grace or an admission of cruelty - one or the other will have you sinking at the end. 

Rosé stops herself, eyes half-lidded, pulling her swollen bottom lip like some sort of warning. 

“I uh-” Crap. You should’ve known better, but you can’t help or blame the drinks for making you like this. “I-I’m sorry. You didn’t have to-” 

“It’s okay.” 

“But-” 

“C’mon,” she persists, holding your hand and nodding her head sideways, “let’s get out of here.” 

–

You’re more aware of your actions now, in the late hours of the city - where anyone could get away with anything. With that taken into account, this is the perfect time to hide away; out of anybody’s sight and the risk of getting caught is the least of your worries. 

Rosé’s nose bumps yours when you’ve pressed her against the brick wall in some alley - calming every form of impulse as you could, but it’s futile. Her arms wrap around your neck and you’re cupping her face, tilting her head up to elicit a gasp between her lips. 

“Fuck,” she rasps, and it’s pretty when she curses. Her hands go everywhere, haywire. A last act of desperation she does is dig her fingers into the back of your head, only making your arms pull her in closer, hindering the purpose of what she’s trying to achieve. You’d let her, and that’s exactly what she’s going for here. 

“I’m a bit drunk still,” you admit, feeling the tips of her fingers graze along the nape of your neck. “So don’t beat me up if I can’t remember everything after tonight.” 

Rosé’s hand shifts to your jaw, kissing you again so easily; giving you little to no time to react. Like she’s coaxing you into thinking differently that’s better than your common sense. A few more smacks here and there happen, the cool air surrounding both of you trying to flush the heat out. 

The press of her face is anything out of the ordinary, humming into your mouth that deepens the sinking pit happening in your stomach. It isn’t anything new. 

Because that’s the impending phase of her slowly coming back to light. She was always vocal and forward with how she took on the world; leaving a mark of what she had done not far either. Her hands cup your face so tenderly, and each longing touch of her lips against yours sends a tidal wave of memories flooding back - this entity that’s all-consuming where you could only handle so much, a hand to the side of her throat where the kiss deepens, surrendering your mind to hers

Maybe it was the timing of everything, a thought to theorize with once it’s all said and done. 

“You’re broken again,” she whispers between your lips. 

“Among other things,” you darted back, sighing slowly and head lowered. But it’s the truth. “Yeah, won’t say any more.” Your eyes meet hers as you slowly retreat. 

“It’s okay.” Rosé concludes, eyes filled with so much care and empathy into them, thumb grazing along your cheek, cleaning another dry trail from the tears. “You have me.” 

My god, this woman- 

“I honestly convinced myself that you’d already moved on,” her gaze goes crestfallen, pulling her lips inward. “To think that I left you there by yourself, after everything we’ve been through. It ruined me too since - it wasn’t even your fault to begin with.” 

You swallow your pride and turn yourself over on the wall. 

Most of your mind is drawing blanks - bits and pieces of the picture caricatured through a warm mouth and fingertips. The draft in itself is a bit fucked up, sketched at the last possible minute; hands ghosting your jacket, tracing a line or two into the fabric of your shirt, trailing lower along the waistband of your pants. “You’re kidding, right?” 

Rosé snorts at the whisper, lowering her eyelids when she’s peppering your neck again with kisses. “We’re not having a problem here are we?” She says that as she’s descending to her knees, looking up so innocently like some angel incarnate - contradicting the current action she’s presenting right now.  

“Look. Rosé, we really shouldn't-” 

She pays no attention to the pleading when she’s palming your length through your underwear, thumb sliding up against the underside while your other hand settles with hers set at the side of your thigh. “Okay, I mean - like this is just wrong - you don’t- god, why are you even-” 

Rosé here, doesn’t give you any chance to breathe or recuperate the fast flow of thoughts. Her eyes remain unimpressed with a tilt of her head, closing in with the newly uncovered area at your waist, and the twist of her lips brings forth a sense that’s been lost to hidden waves of time. 

She inhales, coaxing you much to the point where you’re looking up to the sky above for some safe passage. 

“Mmmmm.” 

You might as well be fucked from this point on. At least you’ll play into the game Rosé’s putting up with her mouth all over you. 

“Oh, oh fuck-” 

It’s all in the simple movements and adjustments - the hair being pulled back to the cuff of her ear, the way she bottoms your cock down to the base and rests for a second, the graze of her teeth across the topside, sending your hips chasing for more of that addicting bite. She hollows out her cheeks to the right pressure of suction, bracing her hands on your thighs as she begins to pick up a steady rhythm. Down, side to side, then up. Down, side to side, then up. You could picture her lashes fluttering with every slide down your shaft, humming right along the skin as if she’s proffering a way of reflecting, praising with little to no words but with plump lips and a warm tongue. 

“Gotta say,” Rosé starts, after reeling back for a second, “I remembered why I loved this cock so much.” 

You’ve got her hair in the grips of your fingers, thrusting your cock back past those pretty lips, hoping to shove her words right back down her throat - which works so much better than you initially expected. The brain is working triple the amount of overtime to register and compensate for the endless rush of stimulation your body is getting; the buzz of the alcohol fading with every new layer of spit lathered across the length, watching Rosé’s head continue to bob at a faster pace between your legs. She doesn’t let you off that easily when her hand coils itself at the base, the other cradling your balls with the right amount of pressure - prompting you to use both of your hands to grip her head, making the motion as seamless as possible. You could feel her throat go slack, opening up the edges to where your cock can fill in the space - the gags alone break above the audible ambiance of rain hitting the ground beneath the both of you. 

“Fuck me.” And at this point, your level of thinking is so thrown under limbo. The sounds alone are music to your ears. A lost tune waiting to be heard again. Wanting. “Rosé, you-” 

“Ummphgh,” is all you manage to get out of her, the spit and slippery slick of her mouth the only point of contact. You look down and see it in her eyes: glassy and welled up; like was meant to be used like this, a vessel to provide and clean up the mess of every lap her tongue makes to your underside and the seam of your balls. An angel like her, her wings clipped after committing a damming act, hoping to earn them back in any way she can. When you slide your cock out of her slack mouth - slap the member across her swollen lips, eyes closed and jaw lowered as you’re leaving behind the sloppy and unmarked territory that you’ll come back to not long after.  

She nods and gags. You want to make her fucking choke.  

All of this should be drawn up as a one-off, never to be spoken of again. She didn’t have to go this far, being on her knees for you like this. Neither of you owe anything to each other. Some of this might have some meaning carried with the way that Rosé speaks with her eyes, mixed with a concoction of want and sorrowfulness, opening her mouth so wide for you to take with no remorse.

And when you cum deep into her throat, it’s all in her eyebrows - the way she accepts, poisoning your morality just like that. 

The pulses do die down eventually, and Rosé tilts her head to the side to give you a better look at her swallowing your release; wiping her lip in a slight relishment, damp hair falling in front and her fingers dancing along the line of her jaw - internalizing the rewarding ache. Her eyes shimmer in the low lighting, her skin covered in this spreading glow of pale and glistening. Most of her lip gloss is gone, now mixed with the layer of smeared spit all over your cock. You’re cradling her head delicately, thumb grazing the temple and some of the ends of her hair, giving you a list of things to fix. 

Rosé smacks her lips, and runs her tongue against the upper profile of her teeth. “Well then,” she starts, “hope that was enough to calm your nerves for the time being.” 

You’re trying extremely hard to slow your breathing, watching while she brings a wrist to her face, wiping up the damage. 

“We’re so fucked up,” you barely say, clearing your throat. 

“Between us?” Rosé implies, finally rising from her knees and patting your shoulders down as an out-of-touch way to comfort, “That’s old news, buddy.” 

You pull her in a bit again, placing the distance of her face to yours a little over the double digits. There’s no point in ignoring her gravity, the way that you find yourself a tad magnetized, bringing out a side where it was for her and only her. She could be an entity of a higher being, probably God’s given gift from himself which you once had lost. A blessing and curse that’s managed to find their way back into your arms again. 

“Now that I think about it,” you’re saying, combing some of her blonde locks before ghosting your hand just above her head, “You’ve always been the same as before.” 

Rosé’s eyelids dip, peculiar, curious. That sly grin at the corner of her lip laced with the dimple trailing not far after, it’ll do you numbers. It’s happened before. 

But she puts a hand to the side of your face, a soft smile to seal the whole act up as she starts to peel away. “Think you can walk to the hotel in a straight line without my help?” 

“You’re gonna leave me outside if you get there first.” You answer jokingly. 

She might as well if she wanted to, and you won’t be that far behind. 

—

Hangovers. They’re the worst. 

Normally in times like these: you’d lie in bed facing up to the ceiling, playing back all the events and instances in your mind to the best of your ability, and then get washed by the feeling of regret or questions of why you did actions a, b, and c. Fuck around and find out they say, that’s how the learning experience goes. 

Although this would be the exception- 

“That’s all it took for you? Just the voice by itself?” Rosé asks you the morning after, tending to the wounds on your hands, easily stacked at the wrists, and caring for them with a mother’s touch. “If it were me, I would’ve hung up by the first five seconds of silence.” 

“Here’s the thing: I’m not you.” 

Rosé rolls her eyes and puts the attention back to your knuckles. She grazes them with her fingertips once the dried-up blood has been washed away and sealed with a bandage. Her hands alone may look small, but the size has been apparent compared to yours. “You broke the glass from that payphone booth, didn’t you?” 

“If I kept retelling you what I did, would you believe me by then?” You ask flatly. 

“I’m just-” she stutters for a second when she zips up the first aid kit, “-surprised, honestly - and don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen you angry before. I didn’t expect it to be that serious.” 

“Wow. Way to beat around the bush I guess.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“I know you are. Slightly.” 

Rosé leans back to get more of you in view, examining the new patches to cover the temporary pain left because of your actions. The repercussions don’t have to be said when it’s already shown. Good thing you brought gloves for a reason - a proper excuse to keep your hands warm when the weather gets colder. 

“Are you okay?” She asks after a brief period of silence. 

Your head twists back towards her. “Hm?” 

“I’m being genuine. Are you okay?” she says to you again, this time leaning to place her elbows on the table. “When I picked you up from the bar, you looked wrecked.” 

“Which I was. So, you’re not entirely wrong here.” 

Rosé then curls her fingers, resting her chin on top of them. Her eyes were full of concern. She doesn’t have to do all this - the nice, good girl willing to reconnect and rekindle even though you and her both know that things ended in a rough patch prior. She didn’t have to agree to go on the trip with you, but the intentions here are good - for the most part. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” The inquiries from her keep on coming. 

“I think we should come back to this topic when I’m in a better headspace,” you tell her, and she doesn’t bother asking anymore. “What about-” 

“Huh?” 

“I was gonna say something about, well-” you clear your throat before wiping the lower half of her face before finding the right words to deliver the next topic, “last night when we-” 

“Don’t expect you to remember much. Being drunk is a valid excuse,” she tells you, crossing her arms together with a little furrow in her brows. “One-time thing. No strings attached. Got it?” 

“Are you sure?” 

She nods convincingly. “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

“Okay,” you murmur, massaging your temple. 

“Okay,” Rosé echoes, knocking on wood twice for good luck. “I say we go out then.” 

“What? Where to?” You dart back while she stands up from the seat, shuffling away to her luggage. “Uh, hey-” 

Rosé snorts a bit, lets out a hearty laugh, one full of pure mischief. “I’m hungry. And we can put off room service for another time.” 

–

“How many cafes have we been to in the past hour?” you’re asking Rosé, jaw dropped at the abundance of people waiting for their coffee orders ahead of you two. “Jesus, with this amount of caffeine, you’re gonna give me a heart attack.” 

Rosé’s head turns, sipping the last bits of her beverage from the previous place you two were at, shaking the cup now full of ice. “Don’t give me that.” She laughs. “Jisoo was the one who recommended the places to me.” Her head leans back to get a few ice cubes in her mouth since the crunches are satisfying to her. “If anything, it’s your fault that you can’t keep up with-” 

“I’d rather prioritize my health than drain it all away with a lot of drinks and a heart condition.” you sigh, taking the hint of her waving the cup in front of you to throw out, looking back out to listen for the number of your order. (They’ve been alternating from counting into the high forties and low twenties. It’s all confusing how any of this is efficient.) “Though the pastries and drinks have been amazing to try, so I thank you.” 

She looks up at you again, flipping some of her back over her shoulder, flaunting a little shimmy of her shoulders. Like she’s aware of the praise, the compliments, the credit, and everything else lying underneath the verbal nuances. “Perks of having me as your foodie guide for the tour.” 

“You’re so stupid,” you say, gaze dropping down to your feet in disappointment. 

A nudge to your shoulder is all she gives before turning her body away. “Such a bitch.” 

“Preaching the truth,” you reply - a hum in the timbre, playing into the banter. “That’s why they paired both of us together: toothbrush and toothpaste. peas in a pod-” 

You flinch a bit when she raises a hand, but you can’t help yourself to laugh as she surrenders the idea of making a scene in public. It’s all good fun in the end, a breath of fresh air. 

Then the matcha order gets called up, perfect timing. 

–

You and Rosé do celebratory cheers with the clear plastic cups, swirl the tea inside before drinking a good third of it down, nod, and acknowledge the amount in addition to the taste. She then asks you to give it a rating - where you place it pretty high on the given scale. 

“That’s really good,” you say, wetting your lips for another sip. 

“What’d I tell you?” Rosé asks after, all comfy with her drink in both hands, watching you take in another swig because why not? “This place might be the best one on the list.” 

“You mean Jisoo’s list,” you tease. “But sure, you can claim this list as yours since she’s not here to protest against it.” 

“Right. I’ll do exactly that.” 

You take notice of the same gaze that she’s been holding for the past few minutes now. It’s probably too late to realize that it's a honey trap: the more that your curiosity gets the best of you, the more likely that you’ll forget about everything else. A good look at her rosy cheeks, the stray strands of blonde hair sticking out because of the fuzziness that her scarf is emitting, much to the point that you can’t even see her neck beneath all of that. 

“Sorry,” you’re saying, leaning your head sideways more to get a closer look. Nobody’s falling for it, especially not her. “There’s a stain right about-” 

Rosé keeps her hands right where they are in holding the drink, eyes glued to your hand ghosting her face, the slightest touch where you’re cupping her jaw to keep it in place. You do manage to get the small mess off but make no other move. 

She turns her head slightly towards your hand, parting her lips; and a part of your head starts to flip internally. 

“What are you thinking about right now?” Rosé proposes, you think it’s intentional like she wanted you to do that. You can see it in her alluring shade of whiskey, clouded with mystery, shrouding a burning sensation behind those irises, blinking prettily. 

“If I told you, it won’t happen later.” 

“Oh yeah?” Rosé tuts, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth, and dips her head a few inches. “I’m intrigued,” her voice is a witch’s spell. She scoots herself towards you, closing the bubble away from the world, the moment alone stretched longer than usual. 

“I shouldn’t kiss you,” you tell her, practicing caution. A last reminder thrown up in an imaginary white flag. 

“But you could, right?” Rosé says in the sheerest hint of innocence, but the message says all sorts of corruption, "Where's the harm in that?” 

Setting yourself up for the mind-meld was always a tall task, especially with a girl like Rosé. You could rationalize how the universe has managed to put you on this tightrope, with no hope of making it to the ends; the only choice would be to embrace this fall from grace, and feel every emotion. 

She inches closer, the intent clear as day. “Y’know,” the tension is already hanging low amongst the both of you, “I’d be okay with it.” 

–

(Look. Saving yourself the embarrassment was always going to be a lost cause. Consider it as a premonition, the tug of anticipation of playing things out the way they are, rewind the clip or recording to catch something new every take; a wish to alter the cause and effect. No matter how you look at it, what’s done is done.) 

–

The intimacy itself gets thrown out the window, and finding a proper hold would be a lesser worry to think about. Rosés frantically slithering out of her overcoat, biting your lip in what you assume is an accident, and pressing her into the wall catches her off guard and she bumps into your face. Your thumbs are at her cheeks, holding her face in place, and the hooded eyes get pulled away; you’re thinking, she’s thinking -  and all she can say is, “don’t start having second thoughts now.” It’s another green light from her to pick up where you left off, feel her arms have no sense of direction until they finally rest around the crooks of your neck and shoulders, quick draws of air passing through each other’s lips until you and her eventually fill in that space once more. 

Even if there’s no label between you two now, the knowledge is already present there in the low lights. 

“Let me remind you,” you’re telling her, smiling as her tongue clashes with yours, scrunching up your neck as her hands are working fast to slip you out of your top. “You started this.” 

Her chin tilts up, grazing the peak of your jaw, lips trained on yours and kissing like it’s second nature; since she exactly remembers how to wind you up, unraveling. The scrunch of your neck goes away once the top falls along the floor, making out with you for what feels like it’s been forever. 

“Maybe I did,” says Rosé, landing another kiss on the line of your chin, hand caressing the back of your head, unwilling to let go of you. “And can I be honest? I don’t hear you complaining about it.” 

“Now why would I?” 

She leans back against the drywall, arm up as if you were holding her by the wrist, but you aren’t - at least, not yet. Puffs her chest up with the help of the arch behind. “That’s the question,” she answers, hand palming the seat of your pants, fingers curling slightly, “That’s always the question.” 

A window of opportunity is here. You can see it. She could lay out all the hints in front of you and you wouldn’t need all of them to figure her out, because you know: she loves being so forward, only for her to be held down, give her little to no wiggle room where her hands can leave major damage, the teasing; you’ll shut her mouth up with a pillow to her face or your hand and watch her eyes crunch together until she breaks. There’ll be times when she wants to rush, and you’d go slow, then vice versa. The grip you have on her hip isn’t nice, and you’ll keep kissing her, be very meticulous in the approach, and make her go insane. 

Her muscles, let alone her body tense at the touch, shying a smile away as if she’s afraid to admit it herself. “But I gotta say,” Rosé whispers, her breath canvassing over your lips. “Doesn’t this feel nostalgic? Like old times?” 

And here is where you’re practicing plausible deniability: since she’s right. A brief flash of all the times; all the instances that occurred in the past. She’s got her shirt off, and it helps jog the memory a lot more too - how you’d hold her down and just revel in the whimpering noises that escape her mouth, embracing every acre of her body; it’d be so easy to mold into her, you know from experience. 

“Okay seriously,” Rosé’s saying, the rush of bliss spilling all over her face when your hands trail up and down the sides of her waist. The smile she’s bearing is a whole lot more apparent now the more your mouth is left slack open, eyes ogling without doing a single blink. “I forgot how you like to take your sweet ass time in adoring me - fuck, it’s even worse when you’re not even saying anything, like, at all, I swear to God, please, just-” 

You’re paying no attention as you’re scouting out the different pieces that need peeling away off her figure. The shirt’s already off from the start. You manage to stop your hands from dancing along the waistline of her pants, hold her leg up as you’re pulling from the cuff at the bottom, keep her second-guessing with a few kisses to her stomach, brush your nose along the lace of her panties and scrape a bit of your forehead into the line of her bra. There might be something wrong with you; but hey, she’s on the same boat as well. 

Once all of that’s off and disregarded, you’re claiming long lost territory - marking up everywhere to be examined at the scene of the crime when it’s all done and dusted: her chest, her neck, the collarbones, her nipples already primed to the point, the subtle hint of muscle in the abs, you’re finding a way back. 

Rosé’s breathing is heavy with heat over your ear now, palming her pussy folds now exposed to the open air. “Yes - okay. Okay. I get it- jesus,” she’s stuttering as the reaction starts to traverse throughout her body. Your fingers are dancing along the dangerous area, playing with fire. You can remember the nerves being so responsive, and electric, it’s beautiful to watch in real time. “Look- you win, I’ll help. Whatever you need. I’ll do it.” 

“That so?” you ask. She’s holding herself in place as best she can along with your hand, an acknowledgment, take account of the slick soaking the grooves of your fingers. You kiss her and smile against her lips - teetering on the edge of cruelty and excitement. “Jokes on you sweetheart, I knew you’d always be good for me.” 

The devil is already in the details: pinning her to the wall and burying your fingers into her cunt. She keens when you slip in one finger, then two. Her sighs, singing this harmony that urges this need for it to be silenced; so you get your lips to the line of her collarbone - or, her lips resting right above the cuff of your ear, leg curling to the backside of your thigh, rising to the end of your ass. You let it slide when she pulls you in deeper into her body with her arms, the weight of your front crushing her chest a bit, which she’s okay with. 

“There.” Rosé does a mix of a bob and a shake of her head, “yes, oh-” 

You’re building an idea. One that hasn’t seen the light in your mind ever since the preceding one was ripped apart from you so suddenly. She keeps on gasping as you find the spots - the familiar ones where you’ve killed her before, pressing deeper and deeper into the stretch of that satisfying warmth spreading into your hand. The trembling in her body is already a stark implication of your craft becoming true. A little of a wiggle here, the push of the stretch, opening her wide. Her eyes fixate on yours, and her mouth loosens with each parting breath. 

“Y-you-” 

“There she is,” you murmur, the lower half of your face twisting into a sinister smile. 

All she could do was nod, like she was admitting; almost as if she wanted this. 

“Hold still for me,” you’re instructing, and the tone in the phrase is so gentle that she agrees to the request easily. She’s surrendering herself to you. An unspoken truth in itself. You can see the twinkle behind the rings of her irises, her shoulders drop as a result of all the muscles and bones finally relaxing after being so pent up. Something shifts in you, maybe an act of desperation; a moment where your ego is fractured. It happens when you’re pressing your cheek against hers, whispering into her ear as you put your fingers back into her cunt: “You’ve missed this, so much, haven’t you?” 

Rosé winces. You can feel the clamp in her pussy and jaw. 

Her nose scrunches as well, doing everything she can to not unfold the stricken nerve, so she mouths instead. “Yes. God, yes.” She can’t focus at all when her head hits the back of the wall and you’re leaving your lips into her neck. “I regretted it - so much, so fucking much. Wanted you to forgive me, to come back and-” 

Shit. She got you there. The honesty alone might come as a shock to you. 

“I tried so hard to move on. To forget,” she barely breathes, her voice clearer than ever, like she’s ignoring the fact that you have two curling digits inside that unbelievable cunt of hers, gripping, thighs pressing together into your hand and keeping it there; a makeshift shackle. It didn't take much to push her buttons and rile her up, get her cursing and spilling out incoherent nonsense since she can’t think straight due to the rubbing from the bottom of your palm. “The apology was there, but you were already gone-” 

The more she speaks, the more she sends your common sense down into a spiraling cyclone. Your hand keeps working her leaking slit while the other hikes up her leg - let her carry the weight in holding your body as she’s mindlessly humming against your mouth; even though she’s still trying to speak, that’s fine as it is. Maybe you’re doing yourself a favor jumping face first into this hell, or Rosé herself is just helping you get there faster- 

She knows what she wants. It’s a bit pathetic, a contrast to her condescending attitude that’s been peeling away little by little. Her slick is so smooth around your fingers, twirling and sliding with no care for her responses at all. You could kind of hear her say ‘I'm sorry’. Almost, you’re not entirely sure, but the endless nods and welled-up tears prove that there’s a psychotic factor occurring in your mind. 

“Gonna cum for me?” you ask, and she puts on this faint smile before her head lolls up and back towards the wall. “Your hips are shuddering by the second.” 

Rosé doesn’t say anything except for the staggered breaths from your hand working her and giving no care to fucking with your fingers. She tries to grip onto something; a hand, shoulder, the back of your head - whatever she could try to get her mind to not focus on you. It’s pointless. The precipice and final peak of her high is there in her eyes; locked to your face, focusing and unfocusing. 

She cums. And she looks strikingly astonishing when she finally melts down. 

“Cat got your tongue?” You ask again, expression slightly satisfied as the arms around you hold her down, pinning her. “That’s too bad, ‘cause I was gonna say that you look good like this-” 

Her hips buck forward, pussy gushing a bit more on your fingers, wetting them. “God, y-you- fuck-” 

A pinch of her clit is all you give her and she’s practically not there anymore. 

The cries coming out of her reverberate around the room. Her mouth is still hung open when you relieve some of the pressure of your face on hers, eyes slowly trying to blink through the orgasm as much as possible. The front of her body falls forward, her cunt piping hot - or well, that’s just the final part of the warmth washing over with the need for another outlet to take it all in. 

“Maybe I should just let you have it, huh?” you tell her as you get your hands to her waist and thigh again. “Do you think you deserve my forgiveness after what you did?” 

“Yes, yes.” Rosé answers. You’re finding it hard to be convincing - as if she couldn’t say it any other way when you’re hovering her over to the bed and the nodding starts to become more frantic, desperate. 

When she finally lands back first on the bed, you don’t give her any room to breathe as her body naturally arches when you’re pressing your weight on top of her again. And that’s the venom working its magic through your mind and body; she’s managed to get you craving for more without doing much. 

This is her checkmate to you. She wants you so fucking bad that if you don’t get your dick inside her in the next few minutes, the damage to follow after would honestly be catastrophic. 

In all fairness, you want her. It’s that simple. You’re willing to hold her down and fuck her senselessly, give her no care until she’s a pure puddle of mush. The hand holding you is calculated, precise; palm to the side of her face as she sighs at the touch. Gentle, yes. Her head tracks yours as you admire the winding mess that’ll get worse eventually. 

“I want you to say it,” you tell her, accidentally leaning down to bump your nose with hers. “To be sure. Rosé, I-” 

“Need you-” Her body tenses while her mouth drops to a new low, the sudden shift in her body too much to bear. You manage to wrap yourself around her, sliding slowly; spreading her legs wider until that ache rests on your muscles and hers. The drag of her fingernails on your back keeps your attention on her, zeroing in on the tightness of her waist when you’re adjusting to the right angle and depth, suspending you not to think about anything else besides her. “Like this- oh, yes- right there, fuck it’s so big, holy shit-” 

“Christ,” you hiss; Rosé’s front rises to where your stomach is, squirming until you get a proper hold of her hips at the crease where the top of her legs are, putting her in place. You’re shaking your head here, trying to stay conscious; Rosé’s eyes fall to the back of her head, blinking lethargically. Her cunt’s smoothing out all the ridges and veins, clinging with a melting grip that you’d want to bury yourself in for as long as you’re with her. 

She bites down a cry, and the whines can only be covered so much when she’s eating away at your face, hips snapping up slowly. 

You use the adjustments wisely, watch as her expression carefully unravels right in front of your eyes, until you have a proper hold of her legs where it’ll hurt, pulling her into your cock. The first smack of skin and drive up her spine snaps - like a cable cut, a live wire - the thread of curses and the cauldron of praises fall out so nicely past her lips. She locks her arms around your back, get her pussy in a position where you can take it deep and wreck her like clockwork- 

“Okay, okay. I get it now- jesus girl,” you moan out, the sound partly broken, “You win. I, fuck-” 

So you manage to bury your dick inside her, saying her name and it freaking destroys her. Some of the slaps of skin match your heartbeat from time to time, the pace nice and consistent, kissing to comfort as she swallows down the first wave of sobs.

“Yeah, yeah. You know - you’ve always known,” Rosé groans. “Ugh-” 

“Talking too much,” you mutter right back at her, breath hot and all over the skin of her cheek, pressing, a slight grin forming between your lips. “You don’t sound sorry enough.” 

Her face then matches the same lazy smile, tugged at the corners. You’ve barely made a dent into her and it isn’t enough. The focus is clear; right in her eyes, lidded and glossy. But she flutters her lashes shut, nodding profusely again, when you’ve nudged your cockhead into the spot where you’ve killed her before, another move made. “Yes I- I am. I am, I am, I am.” 

There’s not much to follow up on. The pace is already set. The one-two; slide out and drop the pin right back where it belongs. Rosé pulls you in with her lips, ankles linking to the backside of your thighs, holding her by the middle of her waist. It’s a natural transaction of sorts, the opening of old terms - matching what one wants along the other. 

Maybe you’re returning the favor in a way with her - which you are. Your vision is already becoming hazy, the clamp of her cunt all over your cock the only point of focus and consciousness keeping you sane. Nothing else outside you two mattered at this moment, hidden away within these very walls of the room as Rosé’s hips started to stutter again when you bottomed her out. 

And when she whines, a high pitch rather than a lone note, the part has never been made clearer. 

You remember how you’ve fucked her in this fashion: burying your face into her chest, nails digging into the scalp of your head, holding you so close and tenderly - like she was afraid of losing you again, powering through the second time she cums all over your cock, the mixing of her sobbing and sniffles when you’ve pushed her over that edge once more, urging you to keep sinking into her willingly - even when the precision starts to lose its fine touch. 

Even when her body starts to go limp, you play the nice gesture of raising her legs a little higher, getting her ankles planted right to the small of your back, opening up the deep, melting hollow of heat underneath you. 

“Rosie. Oh, Rosie- my Rosie-” you mumble softly beneath the repeating hymn of your name on her tongue. “My god, you’re fucking crazy.” 

“I want it- want you,” she sighs, palm to your cheek as her eyes lock with yours again. Christ, she knows what the fuck she’s doing, you need to fuck her properly, get your cock embedded right in her cunt where the warmth is at the hottest, filling her up and sliding smoothly along her slick walls to the point where she’ll have to repeat in the request - will you? Please, you fuck me so well - I swear, right there, this pussy’s always been yours, nobody else’s- 

“How I’ve missed this,” you confess. The drag of her fuckhole is that lethal, and reverts you to old ways. The regret will cross your mind again soon, you’re sure of it. 

“Cum baby.” She tells you, basically letting you do so. The velvety walls are just too much for you to handle. You could feel the coil tighten in your abdomen, the grip of her legs in your hands now leaving their red marks across her pale skin, cock hitting the same spot of her cunt over and over, relentlessly pounding and grinding her lower half into a mere puddle. “I want you to cum.” 

The air within you gets sucked right out of your lungs, boiled over to a stream of strained groans and heavy exhales - two more strokes inside her creaming cunt before you grasp on the last bit of energy to tug yourself out, painting all over the fine plane of Rosé’s waist, pumping your load out. A hand gets planted to the side, holding you upright, her voice also in its high octave, begging and speaking in tongues as the ribbons of white find their place across the blush ambered skin. 

“Fuck- holy fuck,” she sighs again, eyelids lifting up as you hobble over from the sudden blood loss from your head, bumping into hers as you tap the numb of her clit with your tip once, twice, the loose sobs sounding heavenly, pulling you back to your senses. “Oh god - it feels so good all over me. Yes.Yes. It’s so good, keep teasing my pussy like that, I know you love it, shit-” 

Even after getting her brains properly fucked out, the slurs of her words spilling out are still coherent. You take a moment to breathe, calm down the irregular heart rate as best you can, and watch as Rosé takes a fingertip to her stomach and collects some of the mess left by you. She’s so shameless, tattered, reaping the reward in all of its glory. 

“Satisfied?” You ask, rubbing her lip. Her blush is amazing to look at, a slut like her owning the part as if she’s meant for it. It’s true. The afterglow makes her ten thousand times more alluring than how she was back at the cafe when she planted the idea of those dirty thoughts slowly formulating in the back of your mind. All you have to do is just look at her- 

It’s easy to read and take a step back; because giving her more would be a guarantee on the cards. Her palm lands on the left side of your chest, feeling your heartbeat. You indulge in pulling a wisp of her hair off from her forehead, those doe eyes looking up at you while she treats herself by licking up your load off her fingers. 

She hums. It’s only the two of you. Everything you or her ever needed is trapped in this space. 

Rosé teases with the tip of her tongue, showing the evidence being down into the space of her mouth - in her throat, seeing her neck bob up while her head tilts to this sultry gaze, a damming smile forming again, hinted with a small peek of her teeth. She then manages to get a hand around your length - fingers still soaked with your cum, languidly pumping without care - since the reaction could be substituted as a reflex. “I think you have more to offer for me.” 

“God, Rosé-” you say, and she just laughs; the sound alone is impossible to ignore, but her snark, the words and things she tells you from time to time - it alters your brain chemistry. She’s always been like this. 

“What? Am I wrong?” She asks, ghosting your upper profile to give you the hint that she needs some breathing room, rolling herself over where her back is now in view, and not to mention her fucking ass- 

“No, you’re not,” you answer, hovering over the nape of her neck, pressing a few kisses down the curve. “If anything, you’re doing a terrific job of keeping my mind off of certain things.” 

Her knees dig into the mattress, lifting her backside to the front of your hips, her slick still there, smothering the top of your length. You hold her down from the shoulders and slide your knees up to the proper placement. She’s giving an offer, alright - one that you simply cannot refuse. 

“Good.” Rosé chuckles, breathing low as you’re grazing the head of your cock over the pucker of her ass, teasing it around her folds. “I hope I can keep up the work for you. Make you not worry about any other thing besides me. God that would be amazing. Can you? For me?” 

“Make me fuck your brains out as my only worry,” you concur. “Doesn’t sound that bad to do again.” Her head dips down into the sheets when you’ve got your cock slowly working its way back into her creaming pussy, hips becoming flush with yours, relishing in the perfect fit - the gorgeous press of those walls, it does something to a man. 

You’re imagining the widest smile on her face, knowing that she’s won you back. It doesn’t make sense yet, the bits and pieces of your mind not lining up with the actions. Rosé’s yelp gets muffled, in response to the press of her lower half into the mattress, hands pressing both asscheeks together, tightening the noose around your length, letting the drag make your cock throb even harder. 

“I’ve fucking missed this,” she rasps, the last exhale shoved out of her once you’ve managed to nudge your cock back inside her. The latter of everything is this: the steady breaths, the audible slide of slick, and the slap of skin. 

A hand reaches out to her hair, holding her head down to the mattress along with the rest of her body, arm slithered to the underside where the waist is, a placeholder as your hips snap forward. The whimper she lets out is a clear implication that your bag of tricks is doing a number on her. 

“Taking me so well. God, Rosie. This pussy is amazing. Look at you,” you praise, growling as she continues to babble beneath your touch. 

And the innocent giggles can hide so much of the absolute pleasure she’s enjoying. She’s a real-life venus fly trap: pulling you in with her smile, her eyes, and her charisma; only for you to be wrapped around her little finger and quite literally, her leg. “How cute. You were full of shit not that long ago. For a second I figured you’d be having second thoughts.” 

You smack her ass and grab both sides of cheeks on her face. A statement. A warning. 

“Watch your mouth,” you grit, and you swear that you’ll stay true to your word. 

“Alright, just- ah, fuck me, like that. Your cock hit that same- hngh! Please, just fuck me like you mean it. Rail my ass until I’m on my knees apologizing. I promise, just dick me down-’ 

The pace picks up and you’ve lost all remorse. You’ll bounce her cunt on your cock regardless if she’s asking for it or not. In the present case that she is, giving it to her was an easy decision. Her pussy is the missing piece of a puzzle that you always wanted to complete anew, and it’s right in your hands and on your hips. 

Rosé’s face twists over her shoulder, eyes fluttering in unadulterated pleasure, tensing and unraveling each passing stroke you have on her. The secret’s already out: you missed her, and she missed you. You’ll have the desire to take this moment away and put it in a chest, only for it to be tossed to the bottom of the sea, where no one else will know of its existence. 

“Have me over and over,” she says, “if that’s all you ever wanted, I’d let you.” 

You weren’t sure what you were getting yourself into, and when you’ve made her cum the second time, and third soon after - she’s a sobbing mess, voice wrecked, you’re also there with her, she’s got you by that much. 

–

The first snowfall meets the cloudy skies when the light peeks through the drapery. Or at least when your vision is coming around while Rosé’s posture straightens when she sits up - clutching the comforter from the bed close to her body as she looks over her shoulder to you. Her friz of bed hair is apparent at the ends, not to mention her bare back, the first hint of red marks at the bottom of her neck - you’re drawing the assessment up as you go. 

“Cold?” you ask, leaning your head back into the pillow behind. “That’s a shame.” 

“Says the one who doesn’t have anything on along with me,” Rosé chuckles, swirling around facing you. You’ll be left there to just observe and stare more times than you can probably count on your own ten fingers. 

Then she lets the blanket fall; her version of a curtain raiser. 

It isn’t anything new really, but you catch yourself blinking a lot faster than usual; the blotches of red spread across her chest, mixed with the paleness of her skin. Her waist emulates this hourglass shape that almost looks unreal for one to have; there’s also neck and collarbones, and you’re looking everywhere from her face to her hips - lustful would be an understatement of her efforts. 

“You could give me one of your hoodies again,” she’s saying, sliding her hands into the crease beneath her shoulders, looking down to the crimson marks. 

“Tempting.” 

She tilts her head the other way, a soft hum reflected off her smile. The rosy blush is a highlight; the reruns of all the moments with her keep coming back, and you’re certainly here for all of them. “You can’t turn me down.” 

“And if I did, it would be a tragedy,” you say, pulling her into your embrace as she spins around again, her hand scratching the side of your head, nose buried into the curve of her neck, “thankfully, that won’t happen with you.” 

“Let’s go exploring the city today,” Rosé proposes, back arching to the adjustment of your hold. “I can put in a reservation for that one restaurant with the fancy snails and seafood.” 

“Isn’t that like-” you snort, “eighty percent of the restaurants around here anyway?” 

“Only if you’re not looking deep enough.” 

“Your call,” you agree, turning your head to put a proper kiss, tasting the sweetness of cherry or strawberries. Her fingers trail across your forearms while yours are grazing her waist, her breasts - you’re one for physical touch, a little too much for your liking but in this case is it justified? Absolutely. Who wouldn’t? “I can carry you to the shower if you’d like.” 

Rosé’s eyes close, fluttering. Lips pulled inward to a smirk. She’s enthralled with the notion - the affinity of how you treated her before. “Mmmmm. I think: yes please.” 

–

(So you do carry her. Frankly, your fingers digging into the plush skin of her ass, sinking her back onto your cock; palms holding the tile, then slipping - her back to the wall as her feet dangle past your backside. Rosé’s moaning into the shell of your ear one second, kissing you the next - like the world would end at any given moment, hands pressing your face deeper into hers in the wash of rain above, encouraging you to give in. 

She was doing whatever it took to creep herself back into the nook of your mind, and so far it’s working; rewriting your nerves and synapses, corralling with her tongue and lips in all the ways that swept off your feet before, her grin against your chin all the easier to bite down and swallow. “You swear not to tell anyone about this, promise me.” The only telltale point of accountability laid out on the table, in the space opened between your lips and hers - a brief pause, stalled negotiations, ending with an everlasting proposition that you’ll submit to when she finally says: 

“Not a soul. Promise.”)

–

You’re shrugging your shoulders up to your ears, hoping to keep in some of the heat trapped in your body. An instinct; and with the right amount of layers of fabrics, it makes the job a whole lot easier to do. Simple as that. 

Rosé eventually did manage to steal one of your hoodies from your luggage. Not that you were complaining about it. As much as you hate to admit it, the girl did have a knack for styling different articles effortlessly to the point where you can’t even tell if she’s wearing your clothes or her own. She’s got a red scarf for today’s outing, properly complimenting the other shades below while she’s fixing her appearance in the mirror of the restaurant, patting down her hair with you coming right behind to transfer some of the warmth onto her. 

You’re getting a few whiffs of her perfume. Cinnamon and something rustic, cozy, and she just gives you a beaming smile off the reflection in front of you. Her hand goes into the pocket of her overcoat: a small digicam, turns it on and points it to the mirror - telling you to act candid or cute, whichever one happens to come first. The pull of your arms brings her closer to you, a familiar movement and rhythm when you leaned over earlier while getting ready, talking all sly and prettily as she creams all over your cock. She’s thinking about it also, even while the camera clicks. 

“Would you look at that,” she exclaims, capturing the photo as a personal keepsake, and showing you the photo on the screen soon after. “We look good in this for once.” 

Rosé notices your whole body freeze, rolling your eyes, “Uh, was that supposed to be an insult?” 

Her face shifts to a quick scowl, taken aback by the question suddenly. “Why? Would you rather have me tell you that you’re fucking ugly instead?” 

“Not true. But, hah. That does sound a lot more like you.” 

Your gaze goes back to the glass, and Rosé takes another funny photo for the memories, looking over to the corner of your eyes as the snaps from the camera continue for a few seconds. “How’s my jacket?” 

She pulls the hood to her nostrils, eyelids snapped shut, and inhales. The grin she has all over her face proves to be a clear indicator that the signs are all pointing towards positive. Her figure is still in reach of you, her front opposite to yours. “Comfy, for one,” she then looks up to your chin, syrup eyes looking up with a gentle gaze. “It’s a distinct smell. A one-of-one.” 

“Corny.” 

“And?” 

“Pretty,” is what you end off with, petting her hair which earns you a nose scrunch. “Want me to add on?” 

“You could tell me that I’m special, your angel, or something. Maybe say that I look good, y’know - to boost my ego. You being my one and only, the dream guy I’ve wanted for as long as I liv-” 

“Don’t push your luck,” you’re grinning, because she’s planting the idea so well, the keywords and points of inference to decode and analyze. She’ll inflate your ego so much that you’d have to hold her down in your hands and fuck some proper sense into her - ‘cause it’ll happen again -  probably because she deserves it, which is true. 

–

Later, and by her arm linked to yours, Rosé pulls you into this music club. A jazz bar, or- just a place where they were having an open mic night, the songs having the earworm effect to the point where your feet are following hers. 

The place opens up inside where the seating arrangements are segregated in pairs in the middle from the stage and outwards with the usual booths set at the sides. Some people are sitting, others are dancing, and then there are a few who are just casually conversing and really having a great time. But the wave of nostalgia is hitting a little harder than usual as they’re all riding along with the music. 

“This place is nice,” she tells you, gently bobbing her head along to the cozy ambiance of the band playing on the stage, tugging the cuff of your sleeve towards some open seats to rest your legs and take a breather. 

When you do finally settle your bearings, the seat under you becomes a lot more comfier, taking in the sights and sounds of the live music being performed right in front of you. It wasn’t that long also for the drinks to come flowing in; only this time, you’re more in line with your inhibitions and common sense all because there isn’t any impending stress plaguing your mind. 

Once the setlist’s been played through, the main lead of the band calls out to the audience for anyone who would be interested in singing on the open floor. Pretty straightforward: just name the song for the band members to play and give them a few minutes to get adjusted to the demands of the piece; gotta say, they’re pretty good at what they do. 

“I’m gonna go up there.” Rosé snatches your attention with her spontaneous plan. “It’s been a while since I sang in front of anyone” 

You chuckle, because you remember how she was back in the high school choir years ago. “You’re serious?” The question comes off as rhetorical alone, but you sense that burning passion inside her that fuels everything in her enthusiasm. “By all means, go for it.” 

“Got a song in mind?” She asks, hand resting on your forearm. 

“Don’t have anything in particular,” you answer with a shake of your head. “Surprise me.” 

With that, Rosé shoots her hand up high into the air. The band leader spots her out instantly and calls her up to the stage. Everyone’s eyes are drawn towards her - a mix of applause and whistles to solidify the encouragement, and here you are stuck in your seat hoping that nothing goes wrong while she’s up on stage. You have faith, and it’s just enough to stick by. 

Her introduction is cute to watch; the way that she sounds sends your heart flipping for a millisecond: “Hi my name is Rosé. I’m not from here, but I’m super excited to perform for you guys tonight and I hope that you guys enjoy it. Thank you.” 

You’d have to admit, she does look good when the lights are all on her. 

She picks two oldies that you remember vividly because of your parent's music taste, and the final song catches you off guard, because of the way that she presented it- 

“I’d just like to dedicate this last song to the number one that I hold most dear to in my heart. So if you’re listening to this, wherever you are, I hope you know that I will always root for you - even from afar.” 

-being a classic Bruno Mars song since that’s been one of the few artists she’s been playing on repeat for the entirety of the trip. Her head moves and tilts in alternating directions, really just feeling out the music. 

Once the final chords of the song get played out, the club erupts with a mix of cheers and claps, congratulating her for providing a wonderful show. The gratitude comes out naturally and she gives her thanks, occasionally landing her gaze over to you before looking elsewhere. She realizes the yearning, like how she sensed it while examining the art pieces up close as you were a few steps away. 

It really gets you thinking, just how much you’ve fallen deeper back into the abyss with her. 

–

At some point, you realize that you aren’t getting enough sleep as you’d like. 

And no, it’s not because of the exhaustion of burying your cock deep into Rosé’s cunt, the slide of her folds becoming a relapse of an addiction long locked away. The lines become blurred between right and wrong, considering the incessant begging she keeps putting towards you where you give her exactly what she wants. 

She’s laid on top of you, skin touching skin. You make do by clinging onto her small body since she likes that. 

Rosé looks up, palm to your cheek, thumb canvasing the surface. She leans down for a peck - you lean up to meet her in the middle. Everything about this feels safe; your heart’s beating with a rise in tempo, every move of her hand and head an electric current across your body, the quick blitzes of craving for one another, pulling her close, wrapping her in your clothes, blowing air in the sensitive spots that get her going, whimpering. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: the ex.” She says to you, both hands now to the sides of your face, holding you like an award - a trophy. 

“First of all, ouch.” 

“Don’t take it to heart since you dicked me down not too long ago.” Her face turns over, listening to your heartbeat, legs tangling underneath the sheets. “It sounded a whole lot better in my head, so I thought why not say it out loud,” her tone filled with relief. “I’ve always spoken from my mind anyway, so how is this any different?” 

“That’s-” 

“I’m kidding,” Rosé laughs, “well- partly. I didn’t mean to hurt you again if that’s what you wanted to hear,” in a way she’s right; what also doesn’t help is her hand slithering down your front, to your hips, fingers coiling your length in record time. 

You gasp, tensing up all the muscles in your body. “Fuc- Rosie-” 

“These thoughts that I have, they’re the worst,” she’s telling this like some gospel - a fabled story or prophecy from an oracle, twisting and jerking your hardening shaft while sharing the madness of her hippocampus. “Well? What are you gonna do about it?” 

When she slides you right back into her volcanic heat, your mouth drops. “I think we can figure that out together.” 

She sighs, pressing her lips against your cheek, grinning. Her lower half has a mind of its own: grinding down and settling, where she stays. 

–

You make love with her again. And she screams; it could be heard far and wide past the walls. A guarantee, you said. A promise. It's only you and her, after all.

–

There are multiple ways for one to sign off on their death sentence: a contract, a hearing, a proclamation; where one’s resolve is pushed to the brink where everything that transpires after has to be seen to the end until the lingering thoughts and repercussions are nothing more than just a distant memory. You knew what you signed up for when this trip had its inception, what’s to come when you’re put face first with someone who was supposed to be part of the last chapter in your story. Things like these can be rewritten on a new page for starters, but still keep all the details intact. 

Rosé could be your judge, jury, and executioner for all you know - and still be the one to lure you into the dangerous pits of temptation. 

“Holy shit,” you grit, voice tattered; Rosé’s head dips down as she plants both of her hands on your waist, and adjusts her legs until her heels are rooted into the mattress, testing the angle with an unprompted thrust by you. 

“Don’t move too much,” she commands, the slide of your cock in her pussy slow enough to make you want to rush into it. “I’ll ride you like this. You don’t even have to do a thing.”

“God-” and the giggle she lets out in tandem with her devilish grin serves to be too much for you to bear. A lift up in her squatting position, and her petite ass slams on top of your balls - the deadly pin drop. “Fuck- you’re so good at that.” 

A rise and fall. A one-two in stopping and gyrating. She’s riding you so delicately - in contrast to your style of holding her close to your chest and impaling her upwards. You feel the edge of her palm at your chin - to your bottom lip - and you bite down gently into her hand. 

“I wanna feel it - all inside me,” she’s telling you, a phrase projected into existence, a claim. “Want your cum,” her confidence brightens so much when she’s the one in control, “so fucking bad.” She slides her feet out from under her, grinding harder against your hips, laying her body flat against yours, raising her ass again and back down; the angle is much more deeper than you anticipated. “Using this pretty cunt all for you. I know you like it.” 

“For fuck’s sake,” you growl, and it’s a swear in itself, “can’t get enough of you - this pussy is a dream.” 

“Uh huh,” her face crinkles when she ups the pace. “Tell me all about it. I’ll be your good little girl for you, babe.” This role isn’t her forte, but if the opportunity presents itself, she’ll own the part with flying colors. You could hear and feel the slick spread up to your waist; every gush, smack, and dragged-out moan was all part of a symphony created by you two. She effortlessly bottoms your cock out, and she whines. 

Your arms slither around her back, keeping her in place. She whispers a ‘yes’ in your ears, and licks your temple. 

“Grab me, fuck me. Make me yours,” she murmurs, happily kissing along your cheek as you spread yourself wider, getting the proper measurements right to ruin her. 

The rest of the world fades out as Rosé’s breathing fills up your brain. “Rosé- I’m gonna- fuck-” 

“Oh god- Yes! Baby, I’m close- keep going-” 

When you inevitably cum inside her - filling her up, you’re coaxing through her sobs. Driving your shaft deep where each exhale is a staccato. Your lips find her neck, marking up skin, drinking in the sweat, fucking through her orgasm to the point where she’s pliant and quivering - tiredly nodding in approval and satisfied. 

–

You’re no diplomat, but the advisable action of keeping your phone on do not disturb, limiting contact with anyone other than Rosé was entirely justified. 

(By common sense, how could anyone keep in touch with their significant other after the heinous acts that they’ve committed? Our lives are not defined by any one action, but rather the sum of our choices. Everyone has their reasons - more or less - and sometimes, some don’t even need a reason at all.) 

The messages do pile on throughout the week. Various texts at different times, all on different days. Each one is more desensitizing than the last. 

jen: can you please call me? 

jen: i’ll explain everything 

jen: i’m worried sick 

jen: pls just come home

You’ll deal with clearing out the notification bubbles sometime later when the time is right. 

Rosé’s in the bathroom, door open to slip some of the excess steam out, towel to her bust. Most of the water is soaked into the cloth; her hair is half dry - half damp, combing a little at the ends with a brush, leaning on the door frame. “You think you can help me with something real quick?”

“Hm? And what would that be?” you ask, slipping on a shirt. 

She’s in the middle of the walkway now. 

“Just need some attention in a few spots,” Rosé says, very nonchalantly. Pulls apart the towel from the two folds, lets it pool at her feet. Her being naked isn’t enough to sway you into pushing her back into the shower and well- yeah. She knows it’s gonna take a lot more than just that. “Preferably the ones where you didn’t touch earlier, to be more specific.” 

“Could’ve said you wanted more,” you laugh. “Didn’t have to sugarcoat it.” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Rosé asks, deadpanning. She sways her body where her bare ass is now in view, hips moving side to side on the balls of her feet, looking over her shoulder to solidify the image. “We got a little more time on our hands and besides, it’s Christmas Eve.” 

You’re back following her in a heartbeat. 

–

You may be sloppy and shameless, but you are also very intricate in how you approach things. It’s in how your mouth moves: precise, calculated - licking down her slutty little waist, to her clit, getting everything you’ve ever needed between those glorious thighs of hers. 

On your knees like you’re in reverence, you’re worshiping Rosé’s pussy; hoping that she could give you the blessing of eating her out like it’s your one-way ticket to heaven. The insides of her thighs press inward, her fingers in your hair pulling you exactly where she wants. 

Rosé almost slides off the bathroom counter when she finally cums. She’s yelling her heart out, hissing through her teeth. Neither of you are thinking about the possible noise complaint that you’ll get for the sixth time this week. 

“Fuck, yes,” she huffs, pressing your head harder with her legs. “Yes- yes, just that.” 

You raise yourself and give your fingers the fill, nipple between your teeth while the knuckle curls inside- 

She grasps at your neck - like you’re going off to war and she’s bagging on the chance she’ll never see you again, “Baby, I can’t say this enough,” she rasps, whining a high pitch when you hit her favorite spot, “I literally need you to ruin me,” and you nod, because you will. 

Doesn’t take that long for her to cum again soon after, figuratively off the cliff face first. Her body goes limp, eyes glossy, panting as if she’s dehydrated. She keeps her legs closed, your hand caught in the crossfire, hoping that you’ll stay once the sun shines after the storm. 

Once the clouds of lust finally pass the both of you: 

“Good use of our time actually, what do you think?” 

Rosé looks up to you, hand on her cheek, wiping the dry stream of tears. 

“We can still go,” she sighs. “I just need a few more minutes because, fuck, can’t think straight when you’re staring at me while I’m like this.” 

“Saying that I went too far?” 

“No- but,” her groan makes you chuckle, “that’s not it. It never is, I-” 

“I?” you carry on with the overhanging thought. 

“I know that you have different sides, but this- this one is just- I don’t know, to me, it just feels right.” 

She manages to get herself up from the edge of the bed, legs a bit wobbly but manageable. You’re patting down her overcoat and adjusting the scarf around her neck, cupping her face. Her hands find yours stacked on top. 

“Not letting me go, hm?” Rosé asks, humming. “That’s not very kind.”

“Want me to carry you? ‘Cause I can most definitely do that, if it makes it easier,” and it comes off so casually. You’ll stay true to your good intentions, worrying about the punishment for the crime later. 

Rosé nods, and looks down, kissing the crown of her head. She’s entrapped with this spell of desire, unsure of who got it first. It’s boundless, even when you’re hugging her. Boundless, and you’ve concluded that it’ll stay. 

–

(The muddled wet-suck of her cunt. The grip. Her listless sighs and whimpers of praise plague your brain. You're having your fill; filling her up with your cock like old times. Like it's meant to be.

You fuck her again, and all it takes is one look, and she knows. It's plastered in those rosy pink cheeks at that lip bite that makes you crave her more - it's maddening.

An untethered devotion: you could give her everything she ever wanted.

If it takes the space left open in her heart, you'd pledge yourself to get her back without a second thought.)

–

The time’s ticking; the sands in the hourglass are almost at the bottom. Part of you is torn between finally getting this trip over with and stirred that you and Rosé will probably never see each other again in the coming days. Aside from the rough, raw sex, you also realize that it’s been pretty refreshing to reconnect with the girl that you shared a good third of your life with and fall into old habits as if nothing had ever happened between you two. 

You’re starting to reminisce on how it had all gone wrong. 

Rosé, without a care in the world, stares up into the deep blue sky. The Eiffel Tower still has some guests visiting, sightseeing, and enjoying the present company that they have. You have your phone in your hands, taking pictures of everything within distance. Each click that’s pressed is a reminder of what little you will have to cling to once this fever dream is all done and dusted. 

She’s a bit out of arm's reach from you, enjoying the brisk weather and the overall ambiance that’s happening with the people around her. Her digicam in one hand, phone in the other. At some point she’s recording a guy that’s playing with his accordion, going down his list of Christmas carols, happily nodding along to the joyous tunes. She keeps on snapping photos wherever she happens to see or notice first. Canvassing the area, like a lighthouse with her phone in hand- 

Until her camera finally lands on you. She’s snapping a photo of you. You’re snapping a photo of her. 

(It’s a gunshot without the smoke. Yours and her version of Halley's comet flying over you. The realization settles in: you both fucked up.) 

You stand there motionless - phone lowered and you just look at Rosé. She does the same. Time halts to a standstill as the both of you just admire one another. Your expression is stoic while her’s is filled with an expression that’s told by her glossy eyes and uneven breathing. 

She moves without fail, running towards you; before you know it, she’s jumping in your arms, clinging onto you so hard that it’s nearly suffocating. Her sniffles are a lot louder now, and you start rubbing the back of her head in the same motion that you know brings her comfort. 

“Hey-” Rosé stutters, burying her face into your collarbone. “I- I just, God, I’m such an idiot-” 

“There’s no need for that,” you whisper, “I know. I know.” 

Like always, Rosé’s face is in your hands yet again; wiping away the tears and cradling her as if nothing else had mattered. You chuckle at the sobs she lets out, and she hits your arm. “Can we-” you’re rubbing her head still to help gather her thoughts, “can we go back to the hotel now? I think we’re good for today.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll do that. Okay. Let’s go back.” 

–

(Midway on the walk back, you decide to bet it all on the line. If it doesn’t happen now, the chances of it happening later become less likely.

“I need to stop by somewhere for a sec,” you’re telling Rosé with a sudden clutch of her hand to stop her. “Wanted to surprise you with a gift.” 

Rosé furrows her brows together, but shakes her head, smiling. “Promise you’ll meet me back at the hotel?” 

“Won’t be long, I promise.” You reassure, kissing her and her hand soon after.) 

–

You’ve never been so fast to come back to someone in your life, bouquet of roses in hand like those tv melodramas that always milks the simple moment for absolutely no reason. This might feel like one of those moments, all honesty considered, but who’s really to judge when you’re preparing for the inevitable. 

The keycard slots itself in, followed by the click of the lock once closed. You notice that the lights were already dimmed - the actual preference you and Rosé agreed on after the first night, the only difference was the trail of undergarments leading to the open area of the room. 

And that’s when you see her. 

She’s knelt on the bed, a singular rose in her hands. Her outfit is uncovered by the layers of pants, hoodie, and scarf - revealing a lingerie set on her that you’ve never seen before, painted in scarlet red. It highlights her natural complexion, not to mention her hair - she’s the literal image of your long-lost wet dreams come to life. 

“Like what you see?” Rosé asks, staring while you remain motionless. 

You drop the bouquet in your hand, not for dramatic effect of course, but in utter shock at how well the fabrics meld onto her clad body. 

She takes the hint, moving herself closer to you, on the edge of the bed while your hands ghost her figure - unsure of where to even begin. 

“I’ve said this countless times before,” you say, heart rate spiking when her palms land on your chest, “but you look amazingly good in that.” 

Her hand pulls you by the neck, and gives you a quick kiss after that. “Why thank you,” says Rosé, lip caught to her teeth when your hands slide across the lower plane of her back, resting above her ass. “I had a few other options in mind, but I always knew that your favorite color was red.” 

“Aw. So thoughtful.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“I will.” 

Rosé laughs at that. Aside from the figurative meaning, she’s aware that you can back that up. 

“Do you know why? Why I broke up with you then?” Rosé asks, face shifting to a wistful gaze. Your body freezes at the sudden question, wide eyes locked with hers as open as they can be. She twirls the rose in her fingers for a few seconds, places it at your middle, finding her words. 

“Still can’t put all of that together, you know.” You’re telling her. 

“We were young back then. We still are.” She confesses, palm to your chin as you’re doing the same. “I thought that you didn’t care how we were - like you didn’t love me anymore. Even at first now, you were such a fucking dick-” 

“Ros-” 

“Shut up, let me finish. It made me realize at that moment where I- I tho-” her words are becoming more and more shaky, you can tell in the irregular breathing, “I thought you fell out of love with me.” 

The harsh sting of truth still hurts when you’re thinking back on it for a second. It wasn’t a one person show, however, but you contributed to most of the downfall of the relationship in the past. You’ll own up to the mistakes somehow, someway; if you had the chance, you’d do it without a second thought. 

“It made me realize, this whole trip, I saw the old you,” Rosé confesses, keeping her emotions at bay as best she can, “Like how did you know that I’ve wanted a dream trip to Paris for the longest time? How long did you work on this before we- oh, right.” 

You’re laughing a bit here. Could be the psyche of trying to not come to terms with the feelings. “Use your words, it’s okay.” 

“You treated me so well this past week, putting up with my shenanigans and such, forcing you to walk wherever I go but I’m just- fuck. It fucking sucks with how we are now.” 

“I’m still hurt too,” you admit, wiping a tear off of Rosé’s cheek. “I hoped that us being here would give us some closure - which is working, but I also hope that we can still be happy as friends once all of this is over.” 

Rosé nods, sniffling. “Won’t be easy, but we can try.” 

You seal your lips with hers, finally breaking the dam of longing that you’ve been holding back until now. Her mouth burns a hum down her throat, hands weaving across your shoulders, the passion instantly infectious. 

She pulls away with a heavy sigh, “Prove it.” The words match her eyes of determination and urging. “Make love to me.” 

You’re not far from her, and you’ll follow no matter what. 

Her face is hot: scorching and engulfing at the same time. She’s quick to slip you off of your jacket - your hands fiddling with the lace decorated all over her body, pulling on your bottom lip, giving you no chance to regroup and re-hit the areas that you want to take; she’s prioritizing in keeping you close, unwilling to loosen her arms once the grips have been set. 

The fingers find the small latch of her bra, feeling her chest rise in your other hand. 

She’s peeled you off of your shirt, claiming scratches on your skin. 

You’ve got an angel within your reach - from the echelons of heaven and earth above. She’s gracing her presence onto you to the point where you will do anything to prove your devotion to her, hoping that she’ll grant you your deepest wishes - and make you forget about your darkest regrets. 

Rosé’s so responsive and you love it. Her octave goes up a key when you’re fondling along lone breast; dividing and conquering in two places at once with your other hand palming the dampness of her panties. She pulls you onto the bed, a lasso of truth that you’ll always submit to. Whispering sweet nothings, begging you to keep going; telling you more, more, and more. 

Your eyes, no matter how many times you’ve dozed off into the distance, have always landed back on Rosé in some way or form. Amidst everything, you’re magnetized to the way her eyes looked now: dangerous, wanting, hooded - as if the shades of lust have completely taken over her thoughts and with her as the vessel to carry all of those bad deeds out, as if you were the only one who could control this growing feeling. 

When she finally settles on the pillows, the heat’s already become too infectious, her face flushed and lips generally parted, waiting for your return. You go for her neck, and her body tenses, back arching and heels sliding up the sheets, unsure of where to rest as you’re catering to her lovely neck. 

“How bad do we want this?” you start, fingertip to your lip before wetting it. “You up for it?” 

Rosé bites her lips as always and nods. “Fuck,” she gasps, taken off guard by your lips to her collarbone again. “I want it.” 

A press deep into the slick center of her panties only solidifies what she’s implying. 

Her hands work with yours, sliding her out of the last piece like clockwork, her tongue clashing against yours as she shuffles herself up against the headboard, but you lean down to keep her in place. The sooner you pin her down to reach her soft spots, the more likely she’ll break within minutes - it’s all part of the plan. 

Giving her a heads up wasn’t an option, and that’s proven so when your fingers slide up against her slick folds, getting a feel for what’s to come when you eventually push inside and spread her open, teasing by dipping no more than your fingernail into her cunt, rubbing her clit to up the sensitivity. 

“You fucking tease, I know- ah-” she spits, squirming at your touch, the friction becoming a necessity. Her inner thighs press together, holding your hand hostage. That only prompts you to traverse your fingers deeper into her pussy, and she moans. “R-right there.” 

She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, or her legs, let alone her entire body in this state. The pleasure is too much to bear, and the snowball effect keeps on building. You kiss her again to keep her mind off the finger fucking you’re doing to her; she digs her nails into your forearm, pulling you by the neck to deepen the lip lock. As much as you’d love to eat her out into the night, the way that she is right now is just enough for your satisfaction. 

“God, yes- fuck-” 

You know that she’s almost there; all it takes is a little push. She’s grinding her hips against your hand, the three digits inside her too much to handle. Each whimper and moan and sigh she lets out is nearly bittersweet to hear and witness - pitiful that she got herself like this for you, and there’s nothing that she can do about it. 

“Gonna make you cum so much,” you say huskily, pressing your forehead against hers as you feel her eyebrows mesh and rise, unsure of what to focus on. But you know exactly what it is, and it’s that euphoric rush that she won’t admit to having a craving for. “Can you do that for me? Be my good little girl and do as I say?” 

Her bobbing goes frantic; she doesn’t care either way, it’s happening regardless. 

“These fucking fingers,” Rosé grits, her first words that aren’t an ‘mmm’ or ‘ah’ or ‘hah’ in a while. “Baby, baby, holy shit, you’re fucking me so well with your hand, I’m so close- shit, I’m so fucking close.” 

“Yeah? Let go, Rosie. I want to see you cum for me.” She pulls you in to keep her mind off of your hand, hips bucking at an insane rate. You could feel the shake in her thighs, sliding in and out of her cunt - the press of your thumb on her clit an additional point of pressure. Her eyes open and close, lazily matching the pace of your fingers and steadying. 

All it takes is one more slide; one more press, and she’s fucking gone. 

The sight is the holy land you’ve managed to see time and time again: watching her cum on your fingers. It’s in the rosy blush spread on her face, and you’re pretty sure that she’s squirted a bit onto your arm, but you bear no mind to that. 

“There we go, would you just- look?” You’re enamored, amazed. Your Rosé is so pliant and willing to let you have control so easily that it shouldn’t be this straightforward to do. 

“God, the fucking mess. Rosé-” 

And the sigh is just heavenly. 

She’s shaking her head in disbelief. Your fingers are still inside her, hauling past the edge of her orgasm that she can’t do anything about it. 

You eventually give her a minute or two to breathe. Because she deserves it. 

Unfortunately: one thing was never going to be enough for someone like Rosé. 

Because she’s the kind of person who will always want to see things to the end. Usually, there’s a pause, a breather, probably the overhanging thought of what you’ve done to her again for the thousandth possible time on this trip - in these four walls - a glass of water would also suffice, or a bathroom break, but not tonight. 

Rosé’s fingers are fast around the button of your pants, and you get the hint right away. You can easily tell from the glint in her eyes that if you don’t take her cunt and fuck her apart the way that she wants, there’s certainly going to be irreversible damage. This is all you are doing. It’s the match of madness that you don’t want to admit but accept wholeheartedly. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re insane?” You ask, hand coiling her waist, pulling her close, thumb at the edge of her belly button. 

“Hmm, I think someone has, but I might need a refresher of sorts,” Rosé replies, a sultry smile as she watches you lick up her mess spread across your digits. “Add that to the number of things you’re willing to fix.” 

“Who said anything about fixing?” You dart back, reining her in by the waist, listen close to the stack of laughs, break down with every rumple and fold you do to her arms and legs. 

She glances at your throbbing cock waiting at her entrance, slipping the tip right in as a test, the rest to follow along until the noises coming out of her are broken, relieved. 

“Okay,” she’s saying, shimmying down your length, and raising her hips. “Impress me.” 

So, you get one thrust in for good measure, her hands braced around your back and legs finding a foothold around your hips. “How’s that so far?” 

Rosé’s fucking arch. Her pussy grips around you like a fist - hot and tight. She looks up and then at you, softer, prettier, and you’re beginning to wonder if it was ever worth getting stranded with her for a week and not ending up like this. It’s in the sound, the feeling; fucking her in this fashion: sliding yourself in and out of her so nicely. Clinging. Dragging. Every night after the first has always been like this. And the things she says: 

“Bet that feels good, right?” Pulling you from the back of your head, leaning down. “Just keep- keep, fuck, baby, like that. Holy shit, I fucking can’t-” 

Here she goes again: the praising. She’s scratching your scalp, patting your back. Nails down your spine. The tempo has her gasping in a sweet tone. “Have you like this and fuck, goddamit,” you sigh, and she looks at you like she knows what the fuck you’re talking about. 

You snap into her hips a little harder the next stroke. Pounding deep in her cunt was the eventual endgame. Her stomach dips with her next breath. Sucks her lips in. 

Oh, and that whimper; that bubbling whimper mixed into a wail of some sort. She’s looking at you; deep into your eyes where she wishes to see that part of that universe she knows she should’ve never left in the first place. Her smile is lazy. She’s got that fucked-out gaze written all over her. 

“Too much?” you say, diving into the curve of her jaw to where she moans at the contact. 

“Never,” she mumbles, cock drunk at the continuous pressing you’re doing inside of her. 

“Good,” you rasp. 

“Baby, baby, baby,” Rosé purrs, nails clawing away the skin and sweat off your back, clutching, “Please keep fucking me.” 

You bite a patch of skin away from the underside of her chin. You would rather be on the back foot here - dialing it down, but she won’t utter a complaint; she wants to feel this, how hard you can be with her. She’s taken you plenty of times before, getting her so wet at the thought of fucking her raw and dumping your load until it’s dripping down her inner thigh, watch her gasp and beg for the taste when you pull yourself out and she’s almost at the edge too. 

“Not leaving you until I’ve had enough,” you’re panting, carving your dick down to the base, thumbing her clit, a twisted evil smile painted across your lips when she’s wailing out of her mind - the mere image and sound of it is obscene. 

The pace is unrelenting, it wasn’t long until she’s cumming over your cock again, and again, and again - cutting off all the tension that’s building up in her spine as you’re holding the shivers spread across her body, unable to fight back but let you take her pussy so fucking well that the noises are bouncing off the walls, mix the heat into the open air, slide yourself out and slap the head of your cock on her swollen folds before letting her walls clench around your shaft. She might be fucked out, but you know that she still wants it. 

“Please-’ she’s pleading, and you know. You can tell from her face and body alone that she’s not done yet. 

You’re leaning down on top of her again, hooking your arms underneath her shoulders that makes the upper profile of her back fold at a ridiculous curve, and fuck her down that you’re hitting all the right places-

Her chest is heaving, nothing more than just sputtering pants - something that Rosé doesn’t register in her head right away; the air gets trapped at the bottom of her throat, swallowing, her eyes crinkle as there’s no sound coming out. 

You land your lips on hers to ease her mind. “In your nose, Rosie. Like so. There we go. Leave your pussy to me. You’re so good, you’re so so good.” 

Rosé’s head knocks into yours; a fierce wail pierces your ears. You can feel the clench a little tighter when you bottom yourself out; her stomach is moving in a concerning motion. Her gaze on you is almost a mix of shock, tears welling up in her eyes. 

You’re kissing her again, swallowing her cry. “Shhhh.” you comfort her. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” you hush, wrapping your arm to her lower back so she can stay close. “You can cum again baby, I won’t hold you back.” 

Her head goes sideways, the first domino to fall. You can see her mouth shape into something coherent - probably a dragged-out wheeze, okay, fuck, just, yes. 

“More, please, give me more,” she says. “Your cock, its- fuck, baby- I-” 

“I know sweetheart,” you croon, impaling your cock deep in her cunt. “I’m working with you here. You’ll let me use your pretty little pussy whatever way you like, huh?” 

It’ll be seconds before Rosé cums again, the wear and tear your minds and bodies are having are reaching its peak. The other times of fucking were just a competition of who can get off the other first. This time it was different; now it was getting someone over the edge first over the other - no telling how far this has gone on the scales of fucked up. 

She mouths a ‘yeah’, and the situation has never been more clear. You have to fuck her. You can’t help yourself. The nodding is only prompting you to keep going, her voice completely shattered. “Just- use me.” 

Right in the clamp of her melting cunt. In the tightening of her legs. 

“Fucking-” she’s sobbing at this point; you’ve got yourself in the prime position to where your cockhead hits the deepest spot of her cunt. “s-so good. That’s so fucking good, you’re pounding me so well-” 

She shrieks when you’ve pushed her past that brink. You’re entirely certain that it was your doing. 

This was the swan song you’ve sought out to hear. A hymn played in a time of reflection - collecting your thoughts and offering them to Rosé, hoping that she can accept your blessings and absolve you of your crimes, ordaining yourself to all good actions from this point moving forward. You’ll take this liturgy for as long as you’d like; worshiping her body and listening to all the psalms that are coming out of her mouth, holding her close as she rides out the lasting remnants of her orgasm - your name as a saint’s prayer and one that she’ll keep on speaking in tongues with over and over and over until she believes it to be true. You confess, through these harsh thrusts into her cunt with your cock, choking on the vice with a vicious finesse at the angle. 

(You’d wish you stayed at the cathedral a little longer than you did that day; confessing your sins was always going to be easier than pouring a heart out for someone who ripped it right out of you.) 

“Amazing,” you praise, and Rosé does this mix of a smile and a wince when you’re wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. Her hands guide yours down to the crease of her hips, enabling you to rock her cunt down like the lovely woman that she is. 

Her voice is rattled, helpless. Like she’s been chopped up, the cracks clear as day where the faults formed. “Want- want it- I want your cum, so fucking bad, please-” 

You grin when she grins, finally reaping the reward when you tug yourself up and splatter your cum all over her body. Her chest does this circular motion, arms digging deep into the mattress beneath her, wanting her skin to be soaked so well with your release. She can’t stop moaning. She doesn’t want to stop moaning. 

“Finally,” she sighs, whimpering, mouth twisting to a satisfied smile at the corners. “God, it’s so fucking much.” 

Her hand picks up the mess spread across her waist, wraps it around your cock in no time flat. The laugh she lets out when you groan is just sinister. 

Two can play that game.

She freezes when you slide your cum-soaked cock back into her dripping cunt; listen closely at the mere gush as you slide in once more. 

“Babe-” 

You push. 

“Think I can give more, just for good measure,” reassuring, and you hold her down so hard that the next load you give is caught deep inside her cunt. 

Pushing it all back in, where it stays. 

Her eyes pinch - and there’s no voice to be heard. All that’s shown is her slacked jaw, the air in her lungs passing through, soon filled with the shape of your lips pressed against hers. 

"It's so- it's so fucking warm inside me, baby-"

"Yeah?"

Rosé sniffles again as her body tries to shudder out the cum leaking from her slit. You don't let it happen though.

You keep breathing her in; she brackets your hips with what little strength she has left. It doesn’t take much, and you know. 

Because Rosé’s got you right where she wants, to the point where your bodies are so well molded into one where each heartbeat and thought are the same, feeling the suction of her pussy wrapped around your cock like it’s the missing piece. Half of ones together make a whole. Your cock fits so well. Above the soreness and debauchery. Once the mess is finally made. Where you’ll want to keep your cock warm and settled until you or her have finally had enough. She’s speaking nonsense still; and you just- keep- fucking going. Fucking into her cunt like it's the only thing you know how to do. Even when the throbbing subsides. 

Until you decide to fully embrace her. 

The heat’s still present where it stays; you don’t even make a move to clean yourself up - it’s too early for that. Instead, the sheets are pulled over you and her, take her fingers in your hands, and hold them right as they are. 

You look at the clock on the nightstand; a little before midnight. “We’re showering together, right?” Rosé pouts her lips, burrowing her head into the space of your collarbone, hand held up and over scratching your hair. 

“Yeah,” she says, nestling her head further up against your chest. “A few minutes here, please. With me. Stay with me.” The disarm is already in effect, and you wonder if you’re at the right place and at the right time; where your heart should be, it’s a brief period of pensiveness. 

–

You blacked out. When your vision comes to, there’s nothing much for your eyes to see except the endless void of darkness that stretches over the room until the glow from the streetlights below breaks through the window. Each blink you do makes you wonder how much time has passed - along with the countless questions of what’s to come next. The thrum of your heart pounds heavy against your ears, but you’re breathing, and alive. You also notice that the space on your right side is a lot lighter compared to earlier, the quick rush of anxiety plaguing your mind. 

That all changes when you look out the window again, specks of white floating down gracefully. 

It’s snowing again. 

“Oh, you’re up,” Rosé’s voice instantly reels you, towel wrapped around her neck and in some comfortable clothes. “I was just about to wake you.” She crawls back on the bed to your side and kisses your cheek. The moment alone holding your heart in limbo. “Sorry, I thought I’d get ahead and use the shower first. You looked so peaceful sleeping.” 

Only she would be the one to blame for that. 

“Why are you dressed up?” You ask, fixing your posture and leaning into Rosé’s face for another quick kiss. She draws away playfully, wagging her head a ‘no’ that makes you lean back as a result. “We would’ve saved water if we went together.” 

“It’s fine,” Rosé tuts, ruffling your hair. “Go shower and get dressed. I wanna go for a walk.” 

“Really? Why? Right now? It’s late.” 

“But it’s also Christmas,” Rosé adds, walking away while you’re finally sitting on the edge of the bed. “We won’t be out for long. And besides, what’s wrong with a little more cardio?” 

You give her a smirk at the end in agreement. Her feet are cemented in place until you reach forward with an arm, pulling her in. Once reeled she tilts her head in surrendering because she knows that you'd be clingy without explicitly saying it.

She's back on your lap. She's yours. She can be yours again. A wish that you want to make true.

"Gonna let me go?" Rosé asks, giggling, and you kiss her.

"Maybe," you answer, leaning up for another peck since it's not hurting anybody. "Just wanted to tell you Merry Christmas."

–

When the snowflakes hit your skin, part of you on the inside is jumping for joy. It’s even better as your ears are filled with Rosé’s contagious laughter, running up the sidewalk and picking up clumps of snow in her hand. 

You make sure to be right behind her, for as much as you can.

–

“This whole thing has been a blast,” she says, slowing her pace when you and she are on the edge of a bridge. In the late hours in the city, where anyone could get away with anything, it’s just you and her - five feet apart from each other, walking along, wandering wherever your feet go. “An absolute dream come true for me. For us.”

The snow starts to land on your head along with your shoulders. 

“Part of me makes me wonder,” Rosé continues, hands wrapped around her long scarf, keeping her neck warm, nodding her head side to side when her eyes eventually land on the sea of locks put on the fencing of the bridge. She knows exactly where she is. You know exactly where she took you. “Would any of this be different if we didn’t go our separate ways?” 

“It’s a pretty good thought,” you tell her. Your exhale shows your warm breath dissipating into the cold air, causing you to bunch up your shoulders to your ears to make the heat stay. “Makes me wonder if you’d put it in your old diary back in middle school.” 

“Hey. Fuck you.” 

You shrug your shoulders with a smirk and walk closer to her. “I know you. You would.” 

Her feet stop at a random padlock just underneath the railing. She slides it into her palm, examining it. It’s not anybody she knows in particular - just the fact that what stood out to her was the neat handwriting of the initials drawn up in a Sharpie. You feel her gaze on you when you approach her side, taking a closer look at what’s in her hand, slotting your palm underneath. 

She keeps staring at the lock, leaning your face into your chest. You bury your nose in her hair, thoughts trailing to someplace where you don’t want to think about anything else. 

You point at another fancy lock decorated with gems. She points out an old-fashioned one next to you. 

‘Hey,” she says once more, looking up. The lift in your eyebrows serves as the appropriate response. Silence starts to grow between you two, the gust of wind blowing through your bodies. 

Rosé tries to read into your expression: stoic and mysterious. She knows that you’re not one to vocalize your thoughts out loud - instead, you stay quiet and listen obediently, waiting for your turn to speak when it’s the right time. A soft smirk spreads across her lips, knowing exactly what’s going on in that brain or yours. 

You wrap your arms around her and rest your chin on top of her forehead. “I think you have a general idea of what I’m thinking about right now.” 

She’s laughing into your chest, unable to look up. You look down to see what was taking her so long, only to realize that she’s hiding her tears away from the world. 

Somehow, like before, you know exactly how to comfort her when the emotions are starting to boil within her. “Rosie.” You’re saying her name softly, clutching her tighter now, the grasp of your fingers reaching to where you wish for them to stay. 

“I just wished that maybe-” and her voice breaks. Composure is starting to weigh down on your shoulders; heart rate rising in uncertainty. “Maybe if weren’t such idiots back then, we-” and the sentence doesn’t even get finished there. She’s trying so hard to put her thoughts into words, “like maybe in another life we weren’t like- well, this.” 

Her face is back in your hands, the tears building and spilling all at once. You give her a look of sorrowfulness - hopelessly, desperately, longing to make her realization a reality. 

“Memories, Rosé,” you’re telling her, “they’re all just memories. We don’t need the memories. Depreciating yourself isn’t gonna make anything better because we both grew.”

The tears well up in your eyes, too. You may be broken, but she’s also the same.

"I hope you can forgive me for a lot of things; for cutting you off and leaving you in the dark," she tells you, jaw twitching - unable to make eye contact, linking her fingers with yours, "but if there's one thing you choose to never forgive me on, my dear, is the fact that I wasted all your precious years."

(I know, you’re saying to her, in tandem with a verse that you’ll recite as penance once you and her part ways. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care about any of that. I just want the both of us to be there for each other, no matter what happens in between.) 

–

As of now, you’re mentally checked out from all the logistics once everything’s been checked in at the airport, waiting to board. Rosé’s dozed off on your arm. She thought that it was a good idea to get less than the usual six hours of sleep and her current state serves to be the consequence. The scarf draped around her shoulders was yours, adamant in wanting to save another keepsake from you; she claims that it looked better on her. (Which is a bit of an insult, you think. Though it’ll do the job of covering up the bruises along her neck just fine.) 

But, things are played out differently in the final act of the return trip. 

You hear her flight announce the boarding phase and tap her shoulder to wake her up. She shoots up instantly, blinking. Everything else falls into place: gathering her belongings, rolling up her luggage to where she can grab and go, fixing up her appearance with that one pair of sunglasses that she likes so much, but doesn’t wear just yet. You walk with her to the main walkway of the gates, getting all of the last looks you’ll possibly have in these last few moments. 

The familiarity with distance affects the healthy human mind to think of it as some sort of curse rather than a luxury - depending on the situation, you’ll take it with a grain of salt. 

Her arms are folded with her handbag and jacket, staring at you so eagerly. “So, you just gonna stay quiet this whole time or-” 

You scoff, because it’s the truth - and so like you. “Uh- well, I was just wondering,” you say, scratching your head shamelessly. “Are you sure you want go forward with this?” 

Rosé bobs her head for yes. The decision’s already been made; no point in changing it. “Unless you want to create a shit storm with our friends when we get back, then by all means go for it.” 

“Right.” you deadpan. “Just for accountability.” 

“If things do go south, you know where my flight’s headed. And given the present situation that you’re in, I’m in no position to make that choice for you,” she says, looking over to the tv board to see where her boarding gate was at. “Guess this is it, " she declares, sighing, "any last things or words you want to do or say?” 

You say something. And you do something. You pull her in for a hug, get the last whiffs of her coconut scented shampoo in her hair; she kisses you. You kiss her forehead as her eyes flutter shut; you hold her a bit too long for your liking, but tells you that she doesn’t mind. Don’t be far away, okay? At least let me catch up for once. 

She tells you: never. It’s a running inside joke. The classic game of cat and mouse, an old fabled goose chase; you’ll keep going after her even when you don’t expect it to happen. She’ll lure you back in so easily that all it doesn’t sound terrible as it seems. 

–

When you do settle on the plane, you have your moment of getting the window seat. Your eyes are getting familiar with the arraignment, how cramped the leg room is, the assortment of movies you know that you’ll sleep through. There’s a lot of things circilng around your head; either one at a time or all at once. This fever dream is coming to and end, and you’re left torn to not tell the tale. 

You check your phone and turn off do not disturb, taking in all the notifications that you missed the past few days. The work messages, fill-ins with coworkers and friends; then there’s Jennie’s messages. 

“I’m so fucked.” You manage, muttering under your breath. Tongue tip to your teeth to mentally prepare youself for what’s to come. 

–

(You keep thinking about that night on the bridge, holding Rosé in your arms - in midst of the cold weather hitting you. She tells you that this getaway was everything to her, and it’s the simplicity in the delivery that makes you want to share those snap-shot moments with her even more. Nothing else mattered to you: managing to fall in love with her all over again. 

We can try, you’re saying, we can always try again, and she smiles through the tears. You and me. Together. Properly.

“I’ve always loved the idea of starting over. It’s exciting. All of these things. All of these moments we spent together, it just felt right,” and her gaze goes crestfallen. “Never really thought that I’d come back to you, and I couldn’t be more proud.” 

And once you’re way up in the sky, it does feel like some sort of whirlpool back into the reality of life, the final fade to black shot - you look out the window and ponder: a choice can be made still. All of the stars have to align at just the right time for it to happen. It can happen. You could alter the course of the story if you just made the right calls. Maybe you will. 

Your gaze falls down to the ocean below - and maybe it’s a long shot, winding into a pipe dream. 

You’ll never realize what you can do unless you take the chance.) 

[neferaskingdom]

♡ Where's My Chocolate?! | LN4

Summary: Where Lando has a massive chocolate addiction but his trainer put a ban on it. How's a man supposed to live without his Kinder Joys? or his Kinder Maxis? or his Kinder Eggs? or his-

LANDO NORRIS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

Lando was practically vibrating with excitement as he unlocked the door to his flat. It was the off-season, the glorious time when he could finally eat what he wanted without Jon breathing down his neck about "his unhealthy eating habits" and "lack of diet discipline." The crown jewel of his freedom? The stash of Kinder chocolates meticulously hoarded over the year.

He burst into the kitchen, opened his sacred candy drawer, and froze. The drawer was half-empty. Half-empty.

Lando stared in disbelief, his hands gripping the edge of the counter like he was about to faint. He began rifling through the contents, counting and recounting the chocolates as though they’d magically multiply.

"Babe!" he yelled, his voice cracking. "Where’s my chocolate?"

Y/n strolled into the kitchen, holding a cup of tea, completely unfazed by the brewing storm. "Hi to you too, Lando."

He spun around, clutching a Kinder Maxi like a lifeline. "Don’t ‘hi’ me. My stash is gone. Did you—" He gasped dramatically. "Did you eat it?"

She blinked at him. "What? No!"

"Then who? The Easter Bunny?" he shrieked. "It was full last week!"

Sipping her tea, she said casually, "Oh, Jon called."

Lando’s face went pale. "Jon? My trainer, Jon?"

"Yep," she said, setting her mug down. "He told me to keep an eye on your candy consumption. Said something about ‘self-control’ and ‘preventing cavities.’ Apparently, you have a chocolate limit now."

Lando stared at her like she’d just betrayed him in the worst way possible. "You’re lying."

She shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"No," he said, his voice rising to a dramatic wail. "You can’t do this to me! I’ve been waiting all year for this! This is my moment!"

"Your moment?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Lando, it’s just chocolate."

"It’s not just chocolate! It’s freedom! It’s happiness!" He dropped to his knees, clutching a Kinder Egg like it was a dying bird. "This is cruel and unusual punishment!"

"Alright, Shakespeare," she said, stepping over him to close the drawer. "Get up. You’re not a toddler."

But Lando’s resolve was already solidifying. He wouldn’t be defeated so easily.

That night, Y/n woke to the sound of faint rustling. Bleary-eyed, she reached over for Lando, only to find his side of the bed empty. Squinting in the dim light, she followed the noise to the kitchen.

There he was, crouched in front of the candy drawer like some sort of gremlin, surrounded by half-opened drawers and cabinets. He was whispering to himself, "Where is it? Where did she put it?"

"Lando," she said, crossing her arms.

He froze, slowly turning his head to look at her. His eyes were wide and wild, his hair sticking up in all directions. "Oh. Hey. Fancy seeing you here."

She pointed at the mess around him. "What are you doing?"

"Uh, night yoga?"

"Yoga," she repeated flatly.

"Yeah, it’s great for flexibility," he said, attempting a stretch that ended with him knocking over a jar of flour.

"Get back to bed, Lando," she said, grabbing him by the arm.

The next day, Lando devised Plan B. He called Oscar.

"Mate, you have to help me," Lando whispered into the phone like a spy in enemy territory.

"What now?" Oscar asked, already regretting picking up.

"She’s hidden my chocolates. All of them. I’m dying here."

"And what do you want me to do about it?"

"Smuggle some Kinder Eggs to me. Discreetly."

Oscar sighed. "Absolutely not. She’ll kill me."

"Oscar, please! I’m losing my mind, mate!"

"And I’d like to live, thanks."

Lando groaned, hanging up dramatically.

The coup de grâce happened at Max and Kelly’s house. They had invited them both over for lunch, and for a brief moment, everything was going fine. That is, until Penelope came running into the room, tears streaming down her face.

"Uncle Lala stole my chocolates!" she wailed.

All heads turned to the pantry, where Lando was caught red-handed, stuffing his face with what was unmistakably Penelope’s stash. His cheeks bulged like a hamster’s, and he froze mid-bite when he saw everyone staring.

"Lando," Max said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That’s for my kid."

"I’m...uh...testing for poison?" Lando offered, his words muffled by chocolate. He was already edging toward the door, trying to shield his loot from view.

"Seriously?" Y/n said, marching over, her voice a mix of frustration and disbelief. "You’re stealing from a child?"

Lando clutched the Kinder Joys tighter, his eyes darting around the room like he was calculating an escape route. "You don’t get it! These chocolates—" he paused, clutching the candy dramatically to his chest, "—are essential. I need them more than Penelope does."

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "You’re a grown man, Lando! Have some self-control for once."

"Uncle Lala should go to jail for stealing my chocolates!" Penelope said with all the righteous fury of a five-year-old, pointing an accusing finger at Lando.

"If loving chocolate is a crime, then lock me up!" he declared, crouching lower and hissing dramatically at anyone who dared approach him.

"Oh my god," Max groaned, rubbing his temples. "I can’t believe I’m witnessing this."

Kelly crossed her arms, glaring at Lando. "You’re eating a five-year-old’s Christmas stash, Lando. Have you no shame?"

Penelope, who had been standing quietly until now, stomped her tiny foot. "Uncle Lala, give it back! Mommy says stealing is bad!"

Lando froze, looking genuinely wounded. "I’m not stealing," he said earnestly. "I’m redistributing the wealth." He paused, then added with a whisper, "For the greater good."

Max raised an eyebrow. "You’ve lost your mind. Put the chocolates down."

"Never!" Lando shouted, clutching the stash tighter and attempting to back into the pantry.

"Uncle Lala!" Penelope shrieked, rushing forward to tug on his arm. "You’re a meanie!"

"Lando," Kelly said, exasperated, "Give P her chocolates back please"

"I can’t!" Lando wailed dramatically, holding up an empty wrapper like it was his salvation. "I’ve been oppressed for weeks. Weeks! Do you know what it’s like to have Jon ruin your life?"

"I’m going to call Jon," she threatened, pulling out her phone.

"No! Not Jon!" Lando cried, dropping to his knees and scrambling to hide behind Max. "Anything but that! Please, I’ll do anything! I’ll eat kale. I’ll run an extra five miles tomorrow. Just don’t call Jon!"

Max stared down at him, torn between amusement and second-hand embarrassment. "Lando, mate, I think you’ve hit rock bottom."

Lando peeked out from behind Max’s legs, his chocolate-smeared face a picture of desperation. "This isn’t rock bottom. Rock bottom is no chocolate at all."

Penelope crossed her arms, looking unimpressed. "Uncle Lala, you’re being very silly."

"You’re right," Kelly said, scooping up Penelope. "Lando, apologize to my daughter and step away from the pantry."

He clutched one last Kinder Joy, giving it a sorrowful look. "I’m sorry, P. But you’ll understand one day. Love makes you do crazy things." He kissed the chocolate dramatically before surrendering it to Kelly.

The lowest point came a few nights later when she woke to Lando’s sleep-talking.

"Kinder Maxi...so creamy...so sweet..." he mumbled, drooling onto his pillow.

She stared at him, half amused, half exasperated.

By Christmas, she couldn’t take it anymore. The sight of Lando moping around the house like a sad puppy had broken her resolve. So, on Christmas morning, she led him to the kitchen, where a decadent chocolate cake sat waiting on the counter, accompanied by a wicker basket brimming with his favorite chocolates—Kinder Maxis, Kinder Eggs, and everything else she could get her hands on.

Lando froze in the doorway, his eyes wide as they darted from her to the cake. "What’s this?" he asked, his voice tinged with awe.

"Merry Christmas," she said, her smile soft but brimming with excitement. "It’s all for you."

His gaze flickered between her and the cake, his expression shifting from disbelief to pure, unfiltered joy. "You… you did this? For me?"

She nodded, and his lips parted slightly, his eyes shimmering as if he might actually cry. "You’re the best girlfriend ever," he choked out before pulling her into a bone-crushing hug, his arms wrapping around her as he swiped some of the chocolate frosting.

She laughed against his shoulder, the warmth of his embrace making her cheeks flush. "Do you love me more than chocolate now?" she teased, her voice light and playful.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his face alight with a cheeky grin. "That’s debatable," he said, dragging the words out as if he were seriously contemplating it.

Her eyes narrowed in mock offense as she gasped and pretended to reach for the cake. "Fine, I’ll just eat this myself—"

"No!" he yelped, grabbing her waist before she could step away. With a quick, smooth motion, he spun her around, his laughter filling the kitchen. "Okay, okay! I love you more."

She tilted her head, her lips quirking upward. "Prove it," she challenged, her voice daring but soft.

For a moment, the world seemed to pause. Lando’s grin faded, replaced by an expression so earnest it made her heart skip a beat. He stepped closer, his hands sliding up from her waist to cradle her face gently. His thumbs brushed against her cheekbones as he leaned in, his gaze locking with hers.

When his lips finally met hers, it was like warmth spreading through her veins. The kiss started tender, his lips soft and lingering as if he were savoring the moment. But then he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and the tenderness gave way to something more fervent. His hands moved to her hair, fingers tangling in the strands as he pulled her closer, pressing their bodies together until there was no space left between them.

Her hands found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatshirt as she melted into him. She could feel his heart beating rapidly under her palm, matching the rhythm of her own. The faint taste of chocolate lingered on his lips, making the kiss feel all the more intoxicating.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting against each other as they tried to steady themselves. Her cheeks were flushed, and Lando’s eyes sparkled with a mix of giddiness and something deeper.

"Alright, you win," she said, laughing softly as she looked up at him. Her voice was teasing, but her eyes held a warmth that mirrored his own.

Lando grinned, his dimples making an appearance as he leaned in to peck her lips again, quick and sweet. "How did you get Jon to agree to this?" he asked, his voice still slightly breathless as he glanced toward the cake.

She smirked, stepping back to grab a fork from the counter. "What Jon doesn’t know won’t hurt him."

His laughter was loud and unrestrained, echoing through the kitchen. "You rebel. I love it."

She handed him the fork, watching as he eagerly sliced into the cake. "Keep up with your training," she said, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter, "and I might sneak you some chocolates now and then."

"Deal," he said, shoving a forkful of cake into his mouth with a contented hum. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste before looking at her with a wide, chocolate-smeared smile. "Best Christmas ever."

[haikyu-mp4]

Call me maybe

“did you hear about suna? he likes osamu’s coworker and he’s always in onigiri miya to see her, but i’m not judging or anything!” – @cosmiicdust for my Gossip Event.

word count; 709 – gn!reader

“You know, I really appreciate you comin’ around more often, Suna. It’s nice-”

Bla bla bla, said the voice in Suna’s head while Osamu talked. He was resting his chin on his hand as he leaned on the counter in front of his friend, but his eyes only watched you, bopping your head to the low music on the little radio beside you.

“What’re ya lookin’ at?” Osamu suddenly asked and turned around, sounding slightly more annoyed than his previous bla bla.

Uh oh, Suna thought. Time to make something up.

“This.” Suna pointed to the pen cup beside the registry, which could be considered in the same line of sight as you were to him. “Why do you have an MSBY pen? I need to get you an EJP one.”

Osamu made a face that Suna immediately tried to take a picture of. Unfortunately, he corrected it again before he had the chance. Thankfully, he didn’t have any drinks in his mouth when Osamu spoke his mind. “Be honest, do ya have a crush on me Suna?”

“What?” Suna practically yelled, by his standards, until Osamu shooed him aside for the new customer to order. The volleyball player stood to the side, completely bewildered by his friend’s question until he heard a little giggle. It was you, looking at him over your shoulder with a humorous grin.

Suna squinted playfully, lifting his middle finger to pretend he was scratching his eye and subtly flipping you off. You gasped soundlessly, then lifted the closest kitchen knife as if a threat. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach and he shunned himself mentally while all you saw was a goofy smile. He’s so whipped.

Next time he’s in Onigiri Miya, Suna couldn’t shake off Komori on the way. The two took their usual table that wasn’t nearly close enough to the register for Suna to watch you, and Komori was yapping away so much that he didn’t have the chance to hear you either.

The gods must have heard his prayers, and his god for the day was Osamu Miya. Osamu sent you out into the restaurant to wipe the tables, and Suna nearly got whiplash turning to see you lean over the first table.

Unfortunately, any connection to a possible god left the chat when Suna’s mind started wandering. He couldn’t help it when you leaned over the bigger tables, making sweet little sounds of complaint when you struggled with certain stains. Suna wondered if he could make you louder than that. Actually, he knows he could. And his hands would fit so perfectly on your-

“Suna! What the hell man?” Komori poked Suna with the third pair of chopsticks, which he had accidentally grabbed earlier. His teammate hissed in pain and clutched his chest, looking at Komori in betrayal.

The sound of Suna’s complaints alerted you to their presence, and Suna let out a less-than-manly squeal when you were suddenly right beside him. “Chest pains?” you asked, eyeing where he was now clutching his heart.

Komori had to physically hold back his laughter while Suna looked up at you with a huff. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“I thought you might need something, seeing as you were staring me down earlier.” The teasing glint in your eye only made you look like an angel to him.

Finally recovering at the realisation that you caught him staring, he decided he liked you way too much to back down now. He held up his phone, screen towards you and accidentally showed off his stupid background of some old meme with Washio’s face plastered on it. “No one has better access to Osamu blackmail than you. Let’s be friends, yeah?”

You raised an eyebrow, fairly appreciative of him starting with friends even though you suspected he liked you in the same way you liked him. “I did hear about your crush on the boss. What’s in it for me?”

Suna chuckled, pearly whites sharp like a fox. “My number.”

Your cheeks flushed red, holding a hand out for his phone and entering your number after he unlocked it, and it felt better than a kill block ever could.

This marked the beginning of a wonderful partnership, in every sense of the word.

masterlist

[solxamber]

HELLO!! Hi!! My goodness I really hope I'm not too late!! I really love your works and had been way too busy these days to scroll on here like usual. Seeing that you have a holiday event had caught my eye and the whole thing makes it so cute!! I was hoping maybe you could do Heartslabyul, 7, Fluff or pomefiore, 4, comedy!! Happy Holidays and thank you so much for working hard with these events!! ❄️🤍

thank you so much! Happy holidays <3

(I'll take any opportunity to write for my wife :) I'm also running out of title ideas someone send help)

Perfectly Reasonable Reaction || Vil Schoenheit

For the Holiday Event! || Prompt: "I'm NOT jealous" ; Genre: Comedy

It was just another day of being the prefect/unofficial errand-runner/problem-fixer/therapist at NRC.

This time, you were helping a nervous first-year untangle a charm spell gone wrong. With zero magic to your name, this mostly involved you holding the instructions and squinting at the text like it was written in ancient runes (which, frankly, it might as well have been).

“Okay,” you said, pointing at the paper. “Try… flicking your wrist, but like… less aggressively. Right now, it looks like you’re swatting a fly that insulted your mother.”

The freshman nodded frantically, his hands trembling as he adjusted his stance. You smiled encouragingly, even as you silently prayed he wouldn’t accidentally explode the lounge.

Across the room, Vil was perched on one of the elegant sofas, sipping tea with the precision of a king. And by “sipping tea,” you mean glaring daggers at the poor first-year while trying to look aloof.

“Roi du Poison,” Rook whispered dramatically from beside him, his eyes sparkling. “Your expression is most tempestuous today. Could it be the fires of jealousy I see in your eyes?”

Vil didn’t even dignify that with a response. He simply crossed his legs, radiating judgment.

“I’m not jealous,” Vil said eventually, setting down his tea with the kind of grace that would make royalty weep. “I’m merely concerned for my significant other’s safety. The freshman looks like he might combust at any second.”

“Oh, naturally,” Rook replied, clearly trying not to laugh.

You, oblivious to the brewing storm behind you, clapped as the first-year finally managed the spell without disaster. “See? You got it! You’re a natural.”

The freshman looked like he might cry with gratitude before scampering off, leaving you to clean up the scattered papers.

Which is when Vil swooped in like a bird of prey spotting its target.

“Darling,” he said smoothly, already taking the papers from your hands.

You blinked up at him. “Vil? What’re you—”

“You’ve been standing far too long. Sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sit,” he repeated, and before you could argue, he placed both hands on your shoulders and gently pushed you into the nearest chair.

“Uh… okay?”

Then, without warning, he sat on your lap.

Your brain stalled. “Vil. What.”

“I see this as a necessary course of action,” he said loftily, adjusting his position until he was comfortably settled.

“...For what?”

“For ensuring that everyone here understands you’re unavailable.” His arms looped around your neck, his tone casual, but his eyes daring anyone to approach.

“I was helping a freshman,” you said, biting back a laugh.

“Yes, well, he seemed very comfortable with your assistance,” Vil replied, sniffing imperiously.

“He looked like he wanted to die,” you pointed out.

“I’m not jealous,” Vil declared immediately, his pout saying otherwise.

“Oh, obviously,” you deadpanned. “You’re just… asserting dominance by turning my lap into a throne.”

“Exactly,” he said, completely missing your sarcasm.

You couldn’t help it anymore—you burst out laughing, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Vil, you’re ridiculous. I love you, but this? This is a lot.”

His cheeks pinked, but he didn’t move. “If it ensures people don’t get too close, then it’s worth it.”

You grinned, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. “Well, Mr. Not Jealous, you’re cute when you’re clingy.”

His face went a shade darker, but he still didn’t budge. Instead, he sighed dramatically, resting his head on your shoulder. “Be that as it may, you should be more cautious. You’re magicless, and people will take advantage of that.”

“Yeah, because freshmen with shaky hands are definitely my greatest threat,” you teased.

“Watch it,” he warned, but his voice was fond.

Behind him, Rook was positively vibrating with delight, a camera in his hand. “Ah, what a beautiful scene! The protective Vil, shielding his beloved with the ultimate act of affection—shared proximity!”

You and Vil turned to glare at him, but Vil’s arms stayed firmly around you.

“Remind me to confiscate that later,” you muttered.

Vil’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “As you wish, darling.”

And so, you sat there, Vil refusing to move from your lap, your legs starting to go numb, and the entire lounge buzzing with gossip. But hey—at least you weren’t helping any more freshmen.

Masterlist

[turtles-invoked]

“How come you can’t fly?” Jack asks Castiel randomly one afternoon. Him, Jack, Dean, and Sam sit at the long table in the library, the brothers sharing a beer, Jack and Cas just happy to be in their company.

Well, maybe it wasn’t as random as it seemed. Jack was curious about The Apocalypse after Dean’s possession. They explained it all in as much detail as they could, Sam even offering as much as loosing his soul and how that affected him, and then how it affected Cas. Which lead to the Leviathan’s and then somehow they ended up talking about their time in Purgatory which naturally lead to Naomi’s control over Cas and then Metatron’s betrayal which leaves them where they’re up to now at the Great Fall… at least that’s what they’ve been calling it.

All eyes turn to Cas. The conversation comes to a halt at the somewhat intrusive question. An uncomfortable, bubbling feeling begins to roll and churn in his stomach as his face begins to heat up.

He opens his mouth to start explaining but Sam had begun to answer for him, “because he fell with the angels.” He says it as if it was obvious, but when he looks around and takes in Dean’s frown and Cas’ squinted eyes and slight head tilt to the left he starts to doubt himself, “…right?”

Cas completely forgot that Sam was particularly unwell at the time of the Great Fall. No one ever spoke about his lack of wings after he became human and they were a little busy when Cas finally got what little of his Grace was left. Of course Sam wouldn’t know. Dean doesn’t even know it all, so how would Sam?

“No… I uh…” Cas started and looked around at all the faces watching him; Sam’s confused frown, Jack’s intrigued yet a little wary squint, and Dean’s sympathetic eyes.

“When I gave Metatron my grace…” he starts slowly, swallowing the lump in his throat, “naturally, I lost all of my powers, including my wings…”

“But you got it back?” Jack asks, still confused.

“Not all of it. What was left after the spell wasn’t enough to heal my body immediately.”

“But you said over time it will regenerate,” Jack argues.

“Correct, and it has, but-”

“Then you should be able to fly,” he says hopefully.

Cas shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat. Jack was looking so hopeful at him that it almost felt worse to crush that than it did to admit what really happened.

“Theoretically, yes…” he starts and spares a glance at Dean. The brothers hadn’t said anything more since Cas begun his story and it unnerved him a little.

“Since I never technically fell with the rest of the angels, my Grace should have healed them… but there is more to it than that.”

“Wait a second-” Sam cuts in leaning forward in his seat, “you didn’t fall with the angels?”

“No, at the time I was already human.”

Sam looks at him as if he’s trying to piece together everything but nothing quite makes sense.

Jack interjects this time, frowning as he asks, “you gave Metatron your grace?”

“He was played,” Dean says simply, a tinge of frustration in his tone.

Cas sighs in agreement, “while Sam was attempting to close the gates of Hell, I thought I was sealing Heaven…”

“You were going to lock all the angels away? Including you?” Jack interjects again.

This time Cas’ eyes snap to Dean who was staring straight at him. His expression remained stoic and neutral but his eyes were a little bit wider, more attentive, desperate for the answer too. Of course he wasn’t going to leave Dean, but they had never had a chance to have that conversation.

“No,” Cas says sincerely, then turns his attention back to Jack, “No, I was- am unwelcome in Heaven. Though, I would have stayed on Earth regardless.”

“Jack, we’re getting off track,” Sam points out waving his hands to backtrack to the original plot.

“Right, yes. I was tracking Metatron when a couple of his followers found me. I was captured an-”

“Alone?” Jacks asks surprised.

“Yes.”

“As a human?”

“No. No we found Metatron previously and captured him, however, he knew where the rest of my grace was. I was… dying… and at the time Metatron was cuffed… we didn’t- I didn’t think he could escape. He was weak but he did, and I was trying to… find him when some of his very few remaining loyalties found me. I was still weak…” he trails off becoming nervous again.

“Wait- you had Metatron, but you let him go so you could get your grace back!?” Sam asks incredulously.

Dean slaps his arm to shut him up, but Cas can feel the frustrated anger in Sam’s stare.

“For what it’s worth, I did not agree. It was Hannah who insisted. I assumed wrongly that the cuffs could contain him,” Cas feels his face flush with frustration. He was starting to lose track of his story with all the interruptions and emotions beginning to swell in his chest.

“All of this could have been avoided!” Sam exclaims.

“Yeah, and Cas would be dead!” Dean interjects for the first time since Cas started talking.

“I would not have survived much longer without it, I am sorry to disappoint,” he replies curtly and returns his attention to Jack’s big pleading eyes.

“What happened when they found you?” Jack asks softly.

“He…” Cas swallows the lump in his throat before he continues, “… he bound and tortured me…” he looked at his intertwined hands, talking to the table. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest, could feel the thumping in his ears as the blood rushed through his body, the embarrassment working its way through his veins.

“He cut into me with my own angel blade, but he soon realised I would not give up Sam and Dean very easily, so he…. Resorted to more… intense… measures…” Cas swallows again… his mouth beginning to dry, and his eyes burn ever so slightly. Visions of his shirt ripped opened and bloodied, flashed through his mind. He could feel the tight, pulling, bounding of his wrists as he was suspended from the ceiling, toes barely touching the ground; the stinging of each carve into his skin. He even remembers his relief when he thought they had given up, but the devastation as he realised what they had planned to do next.

“Cas, you don’t have to talk about it…” Dean says carefully.

Cas shakes his head to try and push the memories away, “I thought when they stopped they had given up. But how wrong was I…”

He shifts in his seat, leaning back so he’s not so hunched over, his hands now in his lap, still clenched together.

“They sliced down my back… extracted my wings and-” Cas inhaled shakily before blowing it out, the corners of his eyes beginning to prickle.

“We get it,” Dean says softly. Cas looks up and meets his eyes. Dean offers a sympathetic smile while Jack looks like he may pass out. His face has paled a little, mouth hung open in disbelief,’“I didn’t think that was possible…”

“It was… excruciating. Had Hannah not found me when she did…” Cas looks sheepishly to Dean, “I would not have lasted long at all…”

“It’s okay,” Dean says in that same gentle tone.

“Cas- I-” Sam was at a loss for words, “I had no idea.”

“Of course not,” Cas replies a little too short.

“Have you tried to heal them?” Jack says quietly.

Cas gives him a flat smile, “yes. As well as Hannah and Gabriel. It appears they are damaged beyond repair…”

“May I try?”

All Cas can do is shake his head.

“Please let me try, Cas?”

At the same time as Dean says, “that’s enough,” Cas pushes his chair out and mumbles an, “excuse me,” not looking back at the table as he exits the room and heads for his own.

He can hear Jack and Dean arguing lightly with each other, but he pays it no more attention than he does the tears welling up in his eyes. When he approaches his room he shuts the door gently behind him and leans against it, sighing out deeply as the tears fall from his eyes freely.

He wipes them away and laughs to himself at his own humanity. ‘An angel crying,’ he thinks to himself. My, how far had he fallen indeed.

A knock at his door pulls him out of his self pity as well as a gentle soft call of his name, “Cas?” Cas could pick out Dean’s voice anywhere.

Cas wiped his face one more time before kicking off the door and opening it.

“You good?” Dean asks leaning against the frame.

Cas nods and tries to put on his best smile. But Dean raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms over his chest, looking straight through his facade.

Cas sighs and steps to the side to let him in, and shuts the door behind them.

He doesn’t have much in his room. His bed hasn’t been used in a couple of days, his few personal items are the books he’s snagged from the library to read while the boys sleep. Very bare compared to Dean’s.

Dean walks in and takes a seat at the edge of the bed facing Cas.

“Talk to me,” he says quietly, his hands folded between his legs.

Cas takes a seat next to Dean, hands clasped, and in his lap but he. Twiddles his thumbs, a nervous tick he developed as a human that he can’t get rid of of, “I-” but he doesn’t know what to say. Or where to start. Or how to explain it. Or if he even wants too. Because as soon as he starts to think about it again, the heaviness is back in his chest, and the warmth in his eyes returns, “-I can’t…”

He takes a moment to compose himself, to settle the heavy beating of his heart, and stares up at the ceiling. He takes a couple of breaths before looking over at Dean, his deep green eyes studying him, not judging, but observing, paying attention to every little move Cas makes. Cas looses his breath looking at him and how alluring his gaze is, so he focuses back on his hands and whispers, “I don’t believe this is something Jack can fix.”

“Why not let him try?”

“Would I be of more use to you if he succeeded?” Cas snaps before he could think and looks over to Dean again. The hurt in his eyes not gone unnoticed, but the pending answer in them tugged on his heart.

“It’s not about you being useful. It’s about you being you,” he replies in his defensive tone.

Cas sighs and looks back down to his hands. When he first lost his ability to fly it felt a lot like imprisonment. Human transportation is slow and tedious. Dean’s music and rambling did pass the time rather pleasantly, and he will admit that he does like his off key singing, enjoys it even, however it was no comparison to being able to “zap” places in a matter of milliseconds. The freedom to go anywhere in the universe at anytime whenever he wanted. Even after all these years, driving still makes him feel claustrophobic at times, something that will still probably take a while to get used to.

“Cas, you got to know you’re not here to be useful right?” Cas looks back up at him. The frown set in his brows mimicing the slight tinge of panic and worry in his voice.

Cas squints his eyes and frowns a little himself, “Of course I do,” and looks back down at his lap, “that was unfair of me to say, I apologise.”

“Good,” Dean says rather shortly.

“Besides,” Dean starts again, bumping their shoulders together, “I hated being zapped places anyways.”

Cas chuckles a little at his response, remembering Dean’s complaints of not being able to poop after they travelled together, or the uneasiness he felt in his stomach, or the one time his ear didn’t stop ringing for a whole day. Humans weren’t really designed for teleportation. But still, the weight of what he’s lost weighs heavily on his heart and mind. Always there in amongst the background noise. Deep down he knows he’s not kept around to be useful, but the guilt still lingers in the space between them whenever they have a long drive ahead, or rare ingredients to find for whatever spell they need.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“What for?”

“For telling Metatron where to find you and Sam…”

“But you didn’t…”

Cas turns to him then, “but I would have. I almost had. And for that, I am sorry.”

“Cas-”

“No Dean. I think about that moment all too often. The pain is something I will never forget, but I would have never forgiven myself had something happened to you because of my wrong doings… again.”

Dean didn’t try to protest again. Instead he places his hand over Cas’. It wasn’t until then he realises how tightly he had clenched them together. He allowed himself to relax a little, the warmth and slight clamminess of Dean’s touch grounding him.

“Can I see?” Deans voice, barely above a whisper, breaks through their silence.

“What?” Cas asks, more shocked that Dean would even want to see his broken wings than he is that he asked at all.

A blush fills Dean’s face faintly as he pulls his hand away but in spite of his obvious embarrassment he asks again, “can I see them?”

“I… it’s- they’re not… visually appealing…” he says, trying to swallow the dryness in his throat, “I don’t think you’ll be able to see them anyway…”

“So?” Dean asks, pleading green eyes begging Cas to fulfil his request.

Cas’s heart beat heavier and faster in his chest, his stomach turned a little making him feel slightly nauseated but he stood before he could talk himself out of it, because how could he deny Dean anything?

“Fine, but not here. I need more space…” and leads the way out of his room and down the hallway towards the garage.

“More space…?” He hears Dean mumble behind him.

Sam and Jack were no longer in the common areas, and for that he was thankful. Between Jack’s sympathetic need to help, and Sam’s guilt filled eyes, he’d rather not have to face either of them.

Cas opens the door to the garage and lets Dean in first. As he closes the door after him as Dean turns the lights on, but Cas immediately turns them back off, plunging the room into complete darkness, “dude?”

“No lights,” Cas says walking passed Dean towards the impala.

“Then how will you even se-”

Dean stops abruptly as Cas turns the headlights of the impala on, plunging the room into a soft yellow glow. He turns around to face him, still standing at the door.

Dean, after a moment of adjustment, makes his way over with a confused frown on his face, “oh, yeah, sure, we can’t use the free electricity, but yeah, let’s drain baby’s battery,” he mumbles under his breath, but Cas can hear it regardless of his volume.

“Humans cannot perceive an angels true form, as you already know, but you can see the shadows…” he starts, shrugging off his trench coat, folding it neatly and places it on the hood of the car.

“Shadows?” Dean asks, arms crossed while he watches Cas. He shrugs off his suit jacket and ignores the fluttering in his stomach as Dean’s eyes track his every move.

“Yes, Dean, you will only be able to see the shadows they create, not how they actually look,” he folds the jacket up neatly too and starts undoing his tie.

“Wait, Cas, hang on,” Dean says now standing in front of him, “are you-? I was asking about your scars…”

Cas freezes, stomach dropping, his fingers still on the knot of his tie, and looks into Dean’s eyes. A wave of embarrassment floods through him and warms his face and chest, definitely reddening.

“You were willing to show me your wings?” He asks incredulously, as if it’s the most sacred thing that Cas could do for him. And it kind of is. Exposing himself this willingly, and openly, is kind of intimate. He has never voluntarily showed anyone or any angel his wings without the intent of intimidating them. He imagines this is how humans would feel when they are perceived completely naked for the first time, excited but terrified all at once.

“I-” he tries to speak but his voice cracks, stopping him. How could he not have understood what Dean was asking of him? Does Dean even realise how profound it is for him to show him his wings? Would he even appreciate the weight of such an act?

“Cas,” he says breathlessly and my goodness does Cas love the way his name sounds that way, “Isn’t this… a big deal?”

Cas swallows the lump in his throat and continues undoing his tie, more so as something for his hands to do instead of standing still and awkward, “…yeah.” He says pulling the fabric from around his neck and rolls it up in his hands.

“You… are you sure? I mean, you don’t have to do this…” Dean says taking the tie out of his hands and leaning into his line of sight to catch his eyes.

Cas takes a breath and looks Dean up and down, “I trust you,” he says slowly and takes the folded tie back from Dean and places it with his other clothes, beginning to undo the buttons to his shirt.

He untucks the fabric from his pants to reach the last button and shrugs himself out of the sleeves, catching the way Dean averts his gaze when he notices Cas looking at him.

A slight flush fills Dean’s cheeks as he awkwardly runs his fingers through his hair and down to the back of his neck, “well… what do you need?”

Cas grabs him by the elbow and pulls Dean along to the front of the car, standing back to the hood between the headlights, “your patience.” Is all he says as he turns to walk towards the empty wall a few meters in front of the car, but Dean grabs a hold of his arm before he could walk away.

“Jesus, Cas,” is all he says and Cas can’t help but tense, knowing he’s looking at the pair of pink parallel scars that run down from just below his shoulder to half way down his back. From what Cas could see by looking in the bathroom mirror, they’re thick and viscous, and were nearly impossible to heal due to the angelicness of the wound.

Dean drops his grip on him and Cas takes it as his cue to continue on, so he does, ignoring the heat in his face and tingling where Dean held him.

He stands about a meter in front of the wall, just enough space for the shadows to appear higher than his body so Dean could actually see them, and kneels to the ground. He sits on his feet and place his hands on his thighs and hangs his head low, he doesn’t want to see the look on Dean’s face when he realises just how broken he really is.

So he closes his eyes and relaxes his upper body and summons his grace. He takes a moment to prepare himself before imagining his wings unfolding and extending wide, like a big stretch first thing in the morning.

His left wing opens easily, smoothly and wide. His right, however, cracks a little like the popping of the knuckles in his fingers, and pinches at the joint before expanding out. Cas only winces slightly as a shock of pain runs down the bone and into his shoulder blade as he stretches it out for the first time in months. A wave of instant relief washes over him as he lengthens them both wide and high and displays them for Dean.

A gasp in front of him has him squeezing his eyes shut and his stomach stirring. He knows they’re not pretty to look at. His right has no feathers left, just soft fur like skin covering the bone. It’s bent in the middle where the bone was forcefully snapped, and a couple of inches shorter at the end where Metatron’s followers had begun to amputate it. His left one, however, has a couple of feathers that have slowly begun to grow back along the tip of his wing, some long, some very short and some of them fluffy. Most of them fall out after a few weeks of growth, keeping their length short. Some have fallen out now as he’s opened them up, the floor to his left littered with white gold specs of a fur like substance, almost like dust, in the reflection of the lights.

The burning returns behind his eyelids and his heart stutters in his chest. Time feels like it moves far too slow as Cas kneels on the ground before Dean, as bare as an angel can be before a human. He keeps his head low and his eyes clenched until Dean whispers, “Castiel,” into the thickness of the air between them.

He can’t help but look up at Dean through his tear filled eyes at the echo of his full name on Dean’s lips. A name he hasn’t heard Dean call him since the angels fell. A name that, he’s been called for centuries, all of a sudden sounds foreign to his own ears.

But Dean’s eyes don’t meet his, they dart from his left to his right, taking in what little of his true from he can see. Wide, and curious, and beautiful green eyes sparkling in the refraction of light coming from Castiel’s grace.

He bows his head again and mutters low on his breath, “I did say they are not pleasing to observe.”

“No,” Dean says earnestly. Cas doesn’t lift his head when he hears Dean’s boots on the floor treading closer his way. Not even as Dean kneels on the floor in front of him. But two hands cup his cheeks ever so gently, as if he were made of glass, and slowly lifts his head up to meet his gaze. This close, Cas can see the blue of his own eyes shining back at him through Dean’s, bright and blue and…

“No, they’re beautiful,” Dean declares breathlessly.

Cas’s mouth opens slightly in astonishment as his eyes well up and his vision blurs softly.

“You’re beautiful,” Dean whispers as the tears fall silently from Cas’s eyes, down his cheeks, and into the palm of Dean Winchester’s hands, “thank you,” he adds and the admiration in Dean’s voice makes it harder for Cas to keep himself together, as a soft sob escapes his lips.

Dean wipes away his eyes with the pads of his thumb before pulling his hands away to rest on his own thighs and Cas looses his breath at the sight of the righteous man on his knees before him; open, and authentic, and nothing but the purest of intentions.

“Dean…” Cas starts but doesn’t know what to say, or how to express his gratitude.

Dean shakes his head, “no, Cas. You don’t have to say anything,” he says in a low hushed tone, his eyes flicking back up to the broken one.

“…Does it… hurt?” He asks timidly.

Cas nods slowly, “A little…”

Dean nods at that and squints at the shadow, brows deepening ever so slightly.

“What is it?” Cas asks tilting his head to the side, trying to get a better read on him.

“No-nothing. I- I can kinda see ‘em,” he stutters still squinting.

Cas squirms a little under the scrutiny, “how do you mean…?”

“There’s a…” he pauses, perhaps trying to find the right words, “A-a shimmer? I guess? Kinda like.. looking through water…” he says pinching his eyes as if focusing too hard put strain on them.

Cas couldn’t help but smile tenderly at the man before him. Very rare is it that a human can see an angels true form. Even a slight peak at such a being will burn the eyes right out of their socket, melting the surrounding tissue and vessels. He’s not sure whether it has to do with Dean being the chosen vessel himself, or their profound bond, but a part of him isn’t even surprised at all that Dean can see that much. He wonders if maybe he could perceive more…

“Try and touch them?” Cas suggests quietly.

Dean gapes at him, “what?”

Cas blushes and adverts his gaze down to his hands, “I don’t know if you can… but you may try.”

He chances a look back up to Dean’s face, staring mesmerised back at him, “You sure?”

Cas can only nod his encouragement. He watches Dean process his request, the way he licks his lips before gulping and taking a deep breath as he glances up at Cas’ unharmed wing. And then ever so slowly, almost like if he moved too fast he would scare Cas away, he reaches his hand up. Cas doesn’t think anything would happen, maybe a slight ripple in the current, or a slight rush of wind as he passes through the ‘shimmer’ but when Dean’s fingertips graze the surface of delicate skin, Cas gasps. Dean’s pulls his hand back suddenly and almost like an electric shock running through his body, Cas squints his eyes closed as the most intense wave of pleasure coursed a through him. He clenches his fist and squeezes his eyes shut, and steadies his breathing.

“Cas!” Dean calls out but to Cas it sounds distant and muffled. Dean calls for him again and Cas snaps his eyes open, Dean’s hand on his shoulder, the other on his knee. He hadn’t noticed he had put his hands on him, and now his face is mere inches from his, “hey, what the hell, man?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs shaky and a little panicked, “I didn’t think anything would happen,” he admits sheepishly.

“Are you okay?” Dean pulls himself back but his eyes don’t leave his face, worried for what might happen if he looks away.

“I’m fine. Are you alright?” Cas gives Dean a once over. He appears to be fine…

“Yeah, no, I’m good, I thought I hurt you…” he admits and Cas sighs in relief, glad no harm came to Dean.

“No, no it didn’t hurt…” he says, confused, remembering what he felt… “it was…” electric? Chilling? “…overwhelming…” he settles on.

Dean nods, still not entirely convinced.

“I would like for you to try again.”

“Oh- n-no, no way,” Dean says moving to stand, but Cas reaches out, his hand grabbing his thigh stopping him in his tracks, “Please,” but the sudden movement causes Cas’s wings to flow with the movement making him wince and grunt in pain, sucking in a breath through gritted teeth, at the ache running down the right side of his body.

“Cas-”

“I’m okay. I just moved to quick,” he says slowly pulling back, Dean still watching his every move.

“Cas I- I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You wont,” he says assuredly sitting back up straight.

Dean still looks unconvinced though, his brows frowned in a deep, worried, line, jaw clenched, eyes wide and watching, “stop me if I do.” It’s not a question, but a demand. He’s telling him to stop him, knowing that if he asks, Cas would probably let him go on even if it hurts. So Cas nods his agreement and braces himself, trying to keep his body relaxed, expecting the sensations this time to come.

He keeps his eyes opened this time as Dean’s hand reaches out, trembling ever so slightly, and pauses right before he makes contact. They lock eyes and Cas can see the anxiety, plain as day, in Dean’s. He gives him the smallest upturn of his lips, encouraging him as gently as he can to continue. He hears Dean suck in a breath before ever so slowly reaching forward again until his fingertips, in a feather like touch, graze Cas’s skin ever so lightly. A feeling, almost like a tickle, dances on the skin where his fingers sit before it bolts like a shiver down his spine, soft but intense, new, and unfamiliar.

Cas shudders at the feeling, as Dean applies more pressure, still soft, still gentle, and strokes up just a little. Cas can feel the feathers pull and turn under Dean’s fingertips and it sends an almost feverish feeling down his wing and into his chest. Cas can’t help but gasp at the same time Dean exhales a, “woah.” His eyes begin to prick in the corners, and his breathing picks up pace as his grace begins to quiver, a slight tremor forming throughout his body. He squeezes his eyes shut as to not blind Dean by the bright white light glowing from within them, as a faint running softly echoes throughout the garage.

Dean pulls his hand back nervously, “hey,” he says softly, “what’s happening?”

“Sorry,” Cas whispers, tensing, trying to regain control over his grace before his reaction accelerates further gaining the attention of the other occupants of the bunker. His fists clench hard against his thighs, the muscles in his arms so tense they feel like they’re burning. He tries to focus on breathing but his body feels heavy, almost like he’s being crushed. The air feels thick, as if he’s underwater, though he can feel his body shaking, struggling to contain him. He mutters a few words of Enochian low to himself repeatedly in an attempt ground himself, but it’s not until Dean’s hands, one on his right shoulder, another on his left thigh just above his knee squeeze him gently that he can feel his body calming down, relaxing once again.

“Sorry,” Cas whispers again, his face warm and wet. He wipes at his cheek and looks at his hand, expecting a crimson streak of blood, but it’s just water, tears. He hadn’t even noticed he was crying… again. He had never done such a thing in front of Dean, or ever really, and now he’s up to number three for the day alone.

“What just happened?” Dean asks pulling back and giving Cas back his space.

Cas wipes his face dry and folds his wings back away, cringing again as his broken one collapses weakly into itself and tucks away. His timing couldn’t be more perfect, as the door to the garage swings open, and in storms Sam with an Angel Blade gripped firmly in his hand and Jack standing ready behind him, “what the hell was that?” He demands walking further into the garage, looking around. Cas’ stomach sinks with anxiety, and nervous disappointed that he had created enough of a disturbance to concern Sam and Jack.

Dean stands up then, leaving Cas still kneeling on the ground. He takes the opportunity to lean into his shadow, blocking the headlights from his view.

“Um… what’re you guys doing?” Jack asks curiously taking in the sight of a half naked kneeling Cas in front of Dean.

“Nothing,” Dean says in his usual gruff macho tone that implied ‘none of your damn business’ as he steps to the side to block the boy’s view of Cas.

Sam raises his eyebrows at the sight of them, and what a sight that must be. It doesn’t help that Cas is flushed and a little out of breath either…

“Are we interrupting sex?” Jack asks amusedly, and honestly, Cas can’t even blame him for coming to the conclusion. That doesn’t stop him from leaning from behind Dean’s stance to frown at the kid, squinting his eyes slightly as if to say, ‘why would you even ask such a thing.’

Sam scoffs as Dean chokes and sputters for a response other than a defensive, “No.”

“Then what are you doing?” Sam asks chuckling amusedly, the same smirk still plastered on his face as he watches Dean squirm under his gaze.

Dean stammers for a response, clearly uncomfortable sharing with Sam what they were actually doing. Cas takes the opportunity to slowly stand from his position on the floor, brushing off the dust and dirt from his hands onto his pants. He waves his hands over his knees and within a matter of seconds, his pants are clean again.

“An exercise in trust,” Cas says walking to meet Dean at the hood of the car, reaching around behind him for his shirt.

“And the sounds just now?” Sam asks, body language becoming defensive.

“Me,” is all Cas offers up, shrugging his shirt back on and begins buttoning it. It’s mundane tasks such as this when he’d rather participate in the experience of doing it himself rather than using his powers.

Sam scoffs at his response, looking away from him, towards Jack, and shakes his head, “fine. Yeah. Okay. Good. Well just… we’ll leave you to it…”

Cas only feels slightly bad as Sam gestures for Jack to follow him, exiting the garage.

Jack looks between Cas and Dean, and smiles cheekily before waving them goodbye and following Sam out of the room.

Dean sighs in relief beside him and turns to face Cas, running a hand through his hair, “jeez, did you have to be so short with him?” He walks over to the door, leaving Cas still buttoning his top, and flicks the overhead lights on.

“Would you rather I have told him what we were doing?” Cas asks, tucking in his shirt to his pants when Dean rejoins him and turns the Impala’s lights off. He did not answer him, though Cas knew that he wouldn’t when he asked it.

Instead he deflects, “can’t you just mojo yourself back into those,” he asks handing Cas his tie.

“Thank you. I prefer the manual labour,” he wraps the tie around his neck, only a little confused on which way it’s supposed to face before the knot is tied, deciding that he doesn’t really care which way it faces, before tucking one side over the other and looping it through.

Dean huffs, and Cas knows he’s watching him mess up the knot. Suddenly aware of the eyes on him, he looses his focus and decides to undo it and mojo it on later.

“Dude, give it here,” he offers and gently swats Cas’ hands out of the way. Cas looks down at Dean’s hands, watching as he carefully measures the length of the fabric, pulling the thicker side down much further than Cas had it before crisscrossing them.

He lifts his head, looking up at Dean then, giving him a little more room at the collar to work with. This close, he could see everything so clearly, so perfectly. How long and fine his eyelashes are, how they perfectly dust the tops of his cheekbones as he focuses on the task at hand. He could see all the different shades of green that made up the iris of Dean’s beautiful eyes. All of the individual hairs that built the perfect stubble across Dean’s jaw. The slight dryness of Dean’s lips and all the fine lines and wrinkles in them. He could practically count all the freckles that glitter Dean’s face. Of course he’s familiar with every single one of them, but it’s still beautiful to be able to carefully examine them this closely. Beautiful. Dean had called him that earlier. And it had made his heart yearn for more, more of Dean, more of their connection, just… more.

Dean clears his throat then and a light flush of pink begins to spread across his cheeks and nose, as he taps Cas’ chest, signifying that he was done. Cas blinks out of his little daze and lookes down at the perfectly tied knot, “thank you.”

Dean smiles a little awkwardly and chuckles nervously taking a couple of steps back to lean against the side of his car.

Cas finishes dressing himself, shrugging on his jacket, followed by his coat and tucking his hands in his pockets and joins Dean, leaning against the frame next to him.

“So uh….” Dean starts, and chuckles nervously, cutting himself off.

Castiel remains silent next to him, allowing him the space to find the words on his own.

“How… what was it like?”

Cas glances at Dean beside him, face flushed, arms folded, one leg crossed over the other. He doesn’t look at him, just stares down at the floor in front of them.

Cas smiles to himself and looks ahead, admiring the vintage cars in front of them, “good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Cas sighs. He could practically feel the relief rolling off of Dean.

“So the…” he trails off waving one of his hands in front of him. Cas frowns at his hand, not really sure what he’s asking him but patiently waits for him to continue.

“The shaking… and the ringing…?”

“Yes,” Cas says and nods, looking at the ground in front of him. He feels his face and chest warm as the feelings rush back through him momentarily.

“No one has ever touched them before. It was quite sensitive… overstimulating, if you will.”

“So not painful?”

“No, not at all. Just… overwhelming.”

“Good… that’s… that’s good.”

“It was.”

Silence falls between them, but neither of them move. From the corner of his eye, he watches as Dean looks around the garage, his eyes darting from one object to another, yet he makes no effort to move.

“Would you like some time alone?” He asks, not sure if he’s made Dean uncomfortable or not… He’s gotten pretty well at reading a situation but sometimes, in moments like these, he’s not sure what the appropriate social protocol is.

“No!” He says quickly followed by a nervous laugh, “ah… no. But I think I need to get out for a bit…” he admits pushing himself off the car.

“Come for a drive?” He says patting the roof of his car, leaving his arm resting along the frame, “she needs fuel, and we need snacks.”

Cas nods as Dean opens the door and folds himself in.

Cas takes a breath before pushing himself off and joining him in the vehicle as Dean turns the key and she rumbles to life.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and types away at it whilst the garage opens. Once she’s finished, his shoves his phone back in his pocket and explains, “let Sam know, just in case,” and they make their way through the tunnel, down a few side streets and onto the open road.

With the windows down, whatever tape in the deck turned down low, and the comfortable silence between them, Cas doesn’t feel so trapped. The wind in his face and through his hair feels rather nice, refreshing even, cool against his flushed skin.

Dean beside him looks much more relaxed too, although, he usually always did when they were on the road. His fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the door, half out the window. He looks at peace almost. And he drives like this the short distance to the fuel station.

Cas gets out of the car with Dean and leans against the side while Dean fills it, “I’m thinking jerky, popcorn, and pork rinds. What do you want?” Cas thinks about it for a moment… as a human he enjoyed the tastes of sweet foods, not the greesy stuff or salty stuff Dean liked. But now that he’s himself again, food doesn’t really taste the same… nor does it elicit the same emotional enjoyment… As a human he could ignore the individual molecules, but now it’s hard to get past it. However, their last movie night, the sweet popcorn Dean made him try was rather delicious.

“What was the popped corn we had when we watched the movie with the robots?”

Dean rolls his eyes at him and groans as he hangs the pup back up, “transformers, dude! And it was kettle korn, the caramel flavour I think. Is that what you want?”

“Please.”

They walk in together, Dean stuffing his arms with different flavoured jerkies and popcorn and chips. He makes Cas grab two soft drinks from the fridge and a no sugar flavoured water for Sam and at the counter he grabs a container of plum pie and a salad bowl.

Their items are handed back to them in one big bulging bag that thankfully doesn’t bust as they walk back to the car.

“Wait Cas, before we leave,” Dean stops him just before they part ways to get into the car.

Cas turns to him, curious, but a little worried seeing the frown on his face.

He digs through his pocket and dangles the keys between them, “I want you to drive.”

Cas’ mouth and stomach drops a little in surprise, his heart thumping away heavily in his chest. Dean barely lets Sam drive the impala, and now he’s handing him the keys.

“Dean,” Cas starts but he’s at a loss for words.

“Seriously. You shared something so… so big with me and I want to do the same for you,” his cheeks flush a soft shade of rosey pink at the admission and all Cas can do is stare at him gobsmacked.

“I mean… it’s not really the same thing… but this is all I have,” he says, beginning to backtrack, “and I trust you, too, Cas. I do. So please,” he jingles the keys and Cas reluctantly takes them.

“You don’t have to do this,” is all he says as Dean already walks to the passenger door.

Cas looks down at the silver keychain in his hand and looks back up at Dean who isn’t paying him any attention, or trying not to anyway. He nods to himself and takes his new place in the drivers seat, the weight of what this means to Dean not lost on him. Cas checks his mirrors, only having to adjust the rear view, and turns the key. The car rumbles to life once more, purring under Castiel’s hands. He grips the wheel tight and slowly rolls it out of the station, carful to angle it going down the drive so he doesn’t scrape it before slowly accelerating once on the road.

“You can loosen the death grip,” Dean chuckles from beside him.

Cas becomes aware of how tense he is and wipes his clammy hands, one by one, on his thighs. He adjust his grip and rolls his shoulder slightly, trying to loosen the anxiety in him.

“Sorry…”

“Why are you nervous?”

Cas glances over Dean’s way briefly, their eyes meeting for a slow second before he turns back to the road.

“I am not accustomed to driving and this is your prized possession,” he replies as if it answers all of Dean’s questions.

Dean chuckles softly again.

They pull at a red light and Cas is glad for the break. His hands had started to become sweaty and tight around the wheel again. He wipes them on his pants and returns them as the light flicks to green. As he takes off, a vehicle flies past in front of him, running the red. Cas gasps and slams on the breaks, Dean barely having enough time to brace himself against the dash as Cas narrowly stops in time before they are hit. Cas can’t move. There’s a vehicle behind him, honking, but Cas is struck still, his breathing heavy and hard in his lungs, body rigid.

“Cas, you gotta go buddy,” Dean says to him, but it’s muffled and distant. The car eventually drives around them, honking as they continue, but Cas still can’t move.

Dean gets out and walks around to his side, “shuffle over,” he says but Cas can’t move his hands from the wheel.

Dean reaches in front of him and puts it in park and nudges his shoulder, “move over,” he says again. He gently takes Cas’s hands off of the wheel which snaps Cas back into the moment. He clenches his fists a few times to loosen them up and slides into the passenger seat, his whole body hot and sweaty, uncomfortably so.

Dean drives them out of the intersection and pulls over after they’ve cleared it. He parks the car again and turns to Cas, one hand on his shoulder, the other still on the wheel, “we’re okay.”

Cas nods into his lap as the embarrassed tears well in his eyes.

“You’re okay,” he voices again.

Cas nods into his lap again as a hand gingerly cups his cheek, gently moving his head so he can look at him.

“You are okay.”

Cas takes in a deep breath then and blinks away the tears. He refuses to cry in front of Dean Winchester one more time today.

“You did everything right. I’m not mad. You saved us from a wreck. Okay?”

‘His first near miss,’ he thinks as he huffs out a breath.

“Okay?” Dean presses once more.

“Okay,” Cas whispers back.

“Do you want to keep driving?”

Cas immediately shakes his head, “no. No thank you.”

“That’s okay… but when you feel confident again, we can try again.”

“No thank you,” Cas says turning away to face the passenger window.

Dean squeezes Cas’s shoulder before he turns back in his own seat and pulls them back onto the road, “yes. I have rebuilt this thing from the ground up more times than I can count. That back there, not your fault. And even if that dick did hit us, yes I would be pissed, but not at you. And I would have fixed it, okay. There’s been nothing wrong with my baby that I haven’t been able to fix, okay. So yes, maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but I want to share this with you, okay.”

Cas looks over at Dean then. The sincerity in his voice tugging on his heart.

“Please don’t let this discourage you,” he adds as they share a brief moment of eye contact. All Cas can do is watch Dean. He can’t speak, at a loss for words once more, so he just watches him. Watches his relaxed form even after their near miss, one hand on the wheel, and the other reaches over, palm down in front of Cas. He looks down at it confused but opens both of his anyway, not really sure what Dean’s looking for. Cas looks back over to him as Dean looks over at their hands quickly and takes Cas’ left hand in his, intertwining their fingers and holding on firmly. Cas does the same and he can’t help the small smile that tugs on his lips, a new heaviness swells in his chest.

They drive the rest of the way home like this, Dean only using one hand to park the car back in the garage, and Cas couldn’t help but be amazed at how easily Dean could reverse park one handed. Dean squeezes Cas’s hand as he turns the car off, but he doesn’t let go just yet.

“You sure you’re alright?”

Cas nods, his heart still beating erratically at their intertwined hold, although the feeling is nothing compared to what Dean does next. He squeezes Cas’s hand once more and lifts his hand to his lips. Cas gasps softly as Dean closes his eyes and places a gentle kiss on the back of Cas’s hand.

Dean chuckles nervously as he releases Cas’s hand, “I bet Sam’s waiting on us,” he says low and hushed, neither of them making an effort to move, Cas not wanting their time alone to come to an end. He did forget that it was Sam’s turn to pick what movie they were watching tonight. He never did find his choices interesting, but it would be worth it to spend the evening next to Dean.

They share one last sweet smile before Dean sighs, “come on,” and they join the boys who were already sat in the Dean cave, just about to start the movie without them. Jack on a beanbag to the left of the TV, Sam in the arm chair next to him, leaving Dean to sit in the other arm chair, and Cas takes residence with a pillow to sit on in front of Dean and between his legs. Sometime through the movie, Cas leans his head back against the seat, Dean’s hands running through his hair. He shuts his eyes, and focuses on the sensations, his breathing becoming even, and all thoughts pushed to the back of his brain. And though he may not technically be asleep, it’s as close to it as an angel could get, blessed to be at the hands of Dean Winchester.

[weemssapphic]

Split in half

Larissa Weems x f!reader

This is a part two to We're not who we used to be set a few months after that fic, from Larissa's POV. It's just as angsty as part one, maybe even worse. It's inspired by the song Stick Season by Noah Kahan. Enjoy 😅

Words: ~1.5k | ao3 link in title

And I love Vermont, but it's the season of the sticks And I saw your mom, she forgot that I existed And it's half my fault, but I just like to play the victim I'll drink alcohol 'til my friends come home for Christmas And I'll dream each night of some version of you That I might not have, but I did not lose Now you're tire tracks and one pair of shoes And I'm split in half, but that'll have to do

-

“Ow - fuck!”

It takes Larissa’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness blanketing her quarters. She steadies herself against the little table by the door and squints at the floor as she searches for whatever she’s just tripped over that caused her to ram her hip into the corner of said table. 

Now she remembers - she’d changed her mind about her heels that morning and left the initial pair next to the door. She sighs and kicks off the heels she’s wearing now, leaving them lying haphazardly next to the others.

She walks towards the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the light now that her eyes have adjusted to the darkness. Pain blooms in her hip, growing sharper with each step - she can already feel the deep purple bruise forming across her hip bone. She opens the fridge and stoops down, the bright, fluorescent glow shooting straight through her eyeballs into her already throbbing skull, making her eyes water. The fridge is nearly empty and Larissa groans in frustration as she closes its door and blindly reaches for the cabinets above the stove instead, running her fingertips across the smooth, familiar wood as her eyes adjust again.

Her fingers bump into the little brass handle and she opens the cabinet, pulling out the first bottle she finds. Whiskey. She opens another cabinet and takes out a crystal tumbler, then pads across her quarters to her little balcony, clutching both bottle and tumbler to her chest. 

A chill seeps through her stockings and straight into her bones as she steps outside, and she grits her teeth as she lowers herself onto the oversized pillow she’d taken out here when she first started spending her evenings after work out on the balcony. 

It’s a lot colder tonight than it was those weeks - or has it been months? - ago. Fall is as good as over, the trees barren of their gorgeous red and orange foliage, but winter hasn’t fully started yet either, the first snowfall having yet to make an appearance.

Larissa pours some of the amber liquid into the tumbler, raising it to her lips and tossing it back in one go. It burns her throat and the swift motion smudges her lipstick, not that that matters. It warms her a little from the inside, so she pours herself another.

She supposes she could do something productive, or at least try to distract herself, but there’s not really a point - she can’t read books or watch films or even knit without spending the entire time trying to reign in her wandering thoughts. Even her work is suffering as a result.

She should’ve seen it coming, really, you leaving her. After all, she thinks bitterly, as her thoughts once again hone in on you, she had been rather absent in your marriage. Even when you told her you were moving out, that you were done trying, she could hardly wrap her head around it. Hardly believe it was actually over.

On the day you’d left, she’d woken up to a horribly loud rummaging in the closet. It was a Sunday, and she remembered the pang of irritation that mixed with her confusion, the frustration that you’d woken her early on the only day she ever slept in. She’d remembered readying herself to berate you, tasting the words on her sharp tongue as she’d pushed herself up onto her elbow - the words dying just as quickly as they’d come when her sleep-filled eyes were met with the sight of your half-full suitcase (the big one, the one you used for longer vacations) on the floor in front of the walk-in. 

Between stuffing everything from your underwear to a few framed photos into the suitcase, you’d explained your reasoning rather coolly for someone who usually wore her heart on her sleeve and cried at even comedy films - it had unsettled Larissa to see you so casual about leaving. Perhaps it was due to this that she didn’t say much. She didn’t say any of the things she should have said, any of the things you might’ve hoped she’d say or the things she wishes today that she had said. She’d watched you pack, nodding along to whatever you were saying about divorce lawyers - divorce? - and robotically seeing you to the door. 

Your tires had screeched a bit on your way down the driveway - the sound rings in Larissa’s ear as she tosses back another tumbler of whiskey.

Everything had passed so quickly after that, weeks and months blurring together. She’d signed the divorce papers in what she can, in hindsight, only describe as a fugue-like state, not realizing until much later the full consequences of her actions. And ‘much later’, apparently, translated into ‘too late’.

So I thought that if I piled something good on all my bad That I could cancel out the darkness I inherited from dad No, I am no longer funny, 'cause I miss the way you laugh You once called me forever, now you still can't call me back

One tumbler turns into two turns into three, and then she’s abandoned the glass in favor of drinking straight from the bottle. She pulls her phone out of the pocket of her blazer, scrolling to your contact as if on autopilot and staring at it as if it would suddenly come to life.

You’d forgotten an old pair of sneakers at the back of the closet. She’d told you when you’d stopped by with the divorce papers, and you’d told her to just throw them out.

Just throw them out.

It should be so easy. They’re dirty and they stink and the sole is peeling off on the right one. Every time Larissa sees them, she picks them up and wills herself to walk straight to the trash bin. She picks them up - then puts them right back, next to her own rarely-used running shoes.

Larissa clicks ‘call’. She lifts the phone to her ear as she waits, taking another gulp of whiskey. It doesn’t burn anymore.

Her throat gets tighter with every ring, a thin film of tears beginning to blur her eyes. After a few long minutes, the call goes to your voicemail - which is full - and Larissa’s tears spill over, clinging to her lashes before racing each other down her cheeks.

“Pick up, goddamnit!” she growls, her voice hoarse and wet. She tosses her phone angrily onto the floor beside her, not caring if it gets scratched.

There was a time when you’d have picked up the phone in the middle of a packed movie theater if it was her calling - now she hasn’t been able to get ahold of you since the divorce was finalized. It’s at least half her fault, she supposes, but she’s still angry at you for ignoring her. For leaving her. Even if she seemed intent on driving you away.

It’s getting late. Larissa knows this not because she’s checked the time, or because the moon is already high in the night sky, but because time always manages to slip away from her when she’s sitting out here, and because her ass is numb and her knees hurt from sitting in one position for so long. 

She pushes herself up, a bit shaky on her feet, nearly stumbling then steadying herself against the railing of the balcony. She bends, stumbling again, grabs the whiskey bottle by the neck, fumbles with the tumbler, then makes her way into her quarters, leaving her phone on the floor and the balcony door open behind her. It’s been so drafty in her quarters lately.

The bottle of whiskey is placed on the counter and, as Larissa goes to place the tumbler into the sink to be washed, it slips and shatters, shards of glass flying everywhere. She feels the warmth of her own blood on her finger before she feels the sting of the cut.

“Fuck!” 

A little bit of moonlight is streaming into the kitchen, and Larissa raises her finger into the light and stares at it, watching blood form a large bead on her fingertip, then slowly trickle down towards her hand. She sucks her finger between her lips, trying to stem the flow of blood. The metallic taste mixes with the whiskey on her tongue and, as she stands there in the darkness of her kitchen, she suddenly feels tired, so unbelievably tired.

She wants to call you again. She wants to tell your full voicemail box to go fuck itself, all she wants is to hear your voice. It’s all she wants yet it’s all she can’t do. 

-

And I'm split in half, but that'll have to do

x

Taglist: @alexusonfire @pro-weems-places @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69  @fictionalized-lesbian @aemilia19 @milfsloverblog @missdowling @billiedeansbitch @http-sam @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @niceminipotato @thevillagegay @barbarasstar @lilfartbox1 @dovesintherain @fallenbutch @lunala-rose23 @ahauandthesun @thenazwife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @thesamesweetie @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @daydream-cement @im-a-carnivorous-plant @milfomaniac @ilovetlcc @lesbiahonest24 @wastdstime @gwens0girl @larissa-weems-chokehold @makemyworldworthliving @spacetoaim22 @m1lflov3rrr @nightingalespen @jadewolf22 @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @gwens-wife

[2ndkaiser]

⋆˚࿔ WINTER WONDERLAND

Headcanons of the crew celebrating Christmas

Word count: 1287

Sorry I disappeared for a bit, I got pneumonia and was so sick I couldn’t write. Merry belated Christmas.

Warnings: Brief mention of: slight injury, alcohol, implication of bad childhood

⟡ ݁₊ . Notes: Not proofread. I quite literally wrote this in the hospital so I genuinely don’t know if this is ooc for some characters so apologies if they are.

CURLY

Assigned to put up the Christmas tree and to prepare the Christmas movie marathon.

Quietly struggled to put the tree in place and had the tree collapse on him multiple times resulting in a few trips to the medbay. Now has those round cartoon bumps on his head.

Had to pry Jimmy away from getting into a heated argument over a missing Polle ornament.

Gave everyone presents wrapped with bright pink wrapping paper with ugly gingerbread men.

Genuinely thought the wrapping was cute so nobody told them it looked like a bunch of mini disfigured Igor album covers arranged in a pattern. (I’m not saying the cover is ugly I swear I love Tyler.)

Turned the sofa into a cozy area with blankets scattered everywhere, pillows in every corner, snacks in a little basket. It’s oddly surprising how the ship could look this much like home.

Fell asleep drowning in blankets after the party, also had the deepest sleep of his entire life with arms wrapped around pillows, drooling, weighted blanket on his side. No one knew he was there until Anya woke him up the next day.

JIMMY

Assigned as the tree decorator. Reluctantly let others put up their own ornaments too.

Couldn’t find a star so he made one himself with paper and yellow markers stolen from Daisuke, hence the crumbled origami star sitting on top of the tree.

“Accidentally” knocked over the “make your own hot chocolate” bar because it was decorated better than his tree. Framed Curly.

Secretly was really excited to cuddle under blankets and watch cheesy, poorly made Christmas movies. He misses how lively the city looked during the festive season and crappy Christmas movies seemed to fill the void just fine.

Has a peppermint flavored candy cane addiction. Ate a whole box and stole a second box to store under his bed.

Told everyone he hated his gifts but if you squint really closely you can see a slight smile on his face while opening every single one as he’s finally experiencing the childhood he didn’t get to live.

Never knew he was so bad at tree decorating. The tree fell over multiple times and he had to start over twice. Threw a tantrum and claimed that Curly did a bad job at getting the tree to hold up.

ANYA

Assigned as the hot chocolate bar organizer and the decorator alongside Daisuke.

Made those really cozy “customize your own hot chocolate bars” with different flavors, toppings and mugs. Even decorated it with mini gingerbread houses and snowmen. (Yes, I’m talking about the bar Jimmy knocked over.)

Was in charge of decorating the hallway and put up polaroids of the crew on the walls which ended up never getting removed after the party.

DIY enthusiast. Made heaps of ornaments and painted a lot of them, she invited Daisuke to paint some too.

She even DIY-ed some decor—snowmen made out of white blankets rolled into balls, snow globes made out of a picture stuck on a jar lid screwed onto the jar with water and glitter… that type of stuff.

Got the crew to add songs to a Christmas playlist that would be played during the party. Sadly got all her own songs removed by Jimmy. It’s okay she added them back and put laxatives in his hot chocolate when he wasn’t looking.

DAISUKE

Assigned as decorator with Anya and also the food organizer.

Had lots of fun taste testing all the food while Swansea was cooking. Literally stood by him half of the time with a look in his eye equivalent to whining “can I try some?”

The whole counter at the kitchen was turned into a buffet. At this point the countertop couldn’t be seen and it was completely covered in food and decor. Was really proud when Swansea complimented how it was arranged.

Hums a few Christmas carols while arranging how each plate or bowl was placed. Was actually a perfectionist and didn’t let anyone toucv anything.

Drew a festive yimpy and pinned it beside OG yimpy.

Bow tying might just be his hidden talent, he tied bows out of ribbons for everyone’s presents. Possibly a ribbon bender if you get what I’m saying.

Ate a serving of every dish before the party started without anyone knowing. Woah wait who did that? Wasn’t him. Actually no food was missing at all. Who mentioned food again?

SWANSEA

Assigned as the cook. Hell yeah Swansea get it unc. Also made a bunch of decor.

Honestly I think the crew used some of the cryo pods to store frozen ingredients, that's where Swansea gets a whole turkey from.

Cooking made him feel like he was on earth again, it made him forget how lonely space was. He whipped up a few dishes made from his wife’s recipes. It reminded him of when he used to cook for his family with his mother and wife. Good ol’ days.

There’s a massive light up snowman decoration he made. He actually messed it’s face up a bit and left it with a permanent lazy eye.

Daisuke and Anya placed said snowman in between the door and one of the vending machines. Swansea let out a funky dad scream seeing it. Has a burning hatred towards it now.

Made a Santa hat for Polle because it “felt right.” He actually just felt bad because Polle was excluded.

CREW SECRET SANTA ⊹ ࣪

CURLY

He got a Christmas basket so thoughtfully packed it nearly brought him to tears. Inside were his favorite protein bars, a pack of Biscoff, gift cards to use back on earth, candy canes, and coffee-flavored sweets. He couldn’t have been happier. But the real star of the show? A leather cowboy hat paired with a red bandana with his name engraved right on it. He loved it. Wore it proudly around the ship for weeks before finally tucking it away safely in his quarters, far out of reach from anyone who might dare to steal it. (Jimmy)

JIMMY

When he unwrapped his gift, he didn’t expect anything special. Probably just booze or something generic. But this? A custom pillow with his face on it and a blanket covered in a pattern with all the crew members’ faces? Seriously? Still, it wasn’t all bad. There was a Dexter poster, Take a Look in the Mirror album, and four cans of beer. Not terrible. But then he spotted the note. It read, “I hope Dexter gets you next.” And just like that, it was bad.

ANYA

She really hoped Jimmy wouldn’t draw her name. In fact, she prayed for it. And it seems those prayers worked, because the gifts she received? Absolute top tier. Swansea has kids, he knows how to pick presents. Not that she knows it was him, of course, but it’s obvious the gifts were chosen with care. Books which were already on her wishlist, new board games, medical school supplies she could never afford, jellycats, custom jewelry. It was everything she could have hoped for.

DAISUKE

Probably still leaves out cookies and milk for Santa just in case. But knowing a different Santa was behind this gift? That had him buzzing with excitement. And when he unwrapped a Nintendo and a stash of sweet treats? Pure joy. His Secret Santa even threw in game cards for Splatoon, Overcooked, and Snipperclips... Just like that, his boredom was cured and so was the missing sweetener problem.

SWANSEA

He knew he had the worst luck as soon as he saw how his gift was wrapped, the paper didn’t even cover the whole box. One glance inside confirmed it: a very clearly secondhand pair of sneakers, scuffed with a few marks and a scratch on the back. Not exactly ideal. But hey, at least they were a good pair he didn’t already own. Another one for his collection.

Sorry for being so inactive. Hope you like this, I had to cram it in today so I can go catch up with my other projects. Thanks for reading.

[hmhas-00]

Ch. 8

Hit Me Hard & Soft

A/N- Hi lovelies! Plz don’t forget to like & rb. It means the world to me! :)

Remy’s POV

“Look at you. You don’t even respect your fucking self, man.” Billie mumbled, barely making any sense. Her eyes looked angry, bothered, annoyed. It wasn’t her.

“Let’s go home, you’re drunk as fuck. You don’t mean that.”

She swayed to the bass in place, slightly nodding her head to the beat. I didn’t even notice how much time had passed, standing there awkwardly to the side of the dance floor. Finneas came up to us. He had probably seen her yank her arm away and wondered what was going on.

“Let’s head out. She’s had too much.” I pointed towards the exit.

He took one look at her and nodded, calling the car out to the front.

“No! Fuck it, I do mean it. You’re too fucking scared to take a risk, so you keep sitting in your fucking office hoping one day you’ll do more than shred paper.”

That stung. I ignored her as Finneas and Claudia began to walk her outside. I wasn’t much of a help since I was struggling on my feet too.

“When I get back, you’ll be right where I left you. You’re not gonna go anywhere working for a fucking pig like him.”

“Is that what you think, Billie? What else?” I knew it wasn’t a good idea to argue back, but I didn’t care what state of mind she was in. I couldn’t believe she was saying any of this to me.

“Let’s just get in the car, Rem. She’s too fucked up, she doesn’t know what-“ Claudia shook her head.

“No! I’m not! And I’d like to- I want you to know I’m so serious. You let everyone treat you like shit! Your fucking ex, your boss, your parents!” She pointed.

“Shut up, Billie! Stop talking!” I put her seatbelt on her, struggling to put the buckle in the hole the first few times as Finneas drove off.

“Who took care of you when that motherfucker left you for another bitch?! Who lived with you and held you all day and night, and fed you, and made you whole again?” She shouted, scrambling her words, closing her eyes for emphasis.

“You want to throw that in my face now?” I was pissed. How dare she bring that up. There was no need to be that petty. I didn’t understand what brought this on her. She had never said anything so mean before. I knew it was the alcohol talking, but this hurt deep.

“And now! You’re just gonna leave me!” She pointed her finger.

“Leave you? Like you said, I’m not going anywhere! You’re the one leaving me!”

“She doesn’t mean any of this Rem, just ignore her.” Finneas reassured me, trying to deescalate the situation.

“No, say how you really feel, Billie!” I looked at her, squinting.

“You don’t believe in your fucking self! You beg me to believe in you, when you won’t even give yourself a fucking chance!” Her eyes closed as she tried to be louder.

“Oh, is that why you boss me around and tell me what to do with my life? Because you think I could do so much better being your fucking groupie?” I snapped back.

“You might as well be my fucking groupie! Better than being assistant TO the groupie!”

“You wish! So I could clap for you and gas you up every night? Like everyone else does?” I shouted back.

“Well, it’d be nice to have you be there for me once in a while, instead of putting work first like you always do!” Billie crossed her arms.

“You KNOW I can’t just do that!”

“Yeah, okay, whatever. You just wanna stay there and be a martyr so you can have something to complain about!”

“OH! So now I bitch about everything! I thought I kept things to myself and didn’t accept people’s help? Which one is it, Billie?”

“Whatever dude, you wanna be a sexy little office receptionist, and bend over for some bald fuck, and write some bullshit on a magazine, when you know you want to do more with your life.” She waved her hand around, her eyeliner running a little on the corner of her eyes.

“No, that’s your girlfriend Rachel! Weren’t you the one trying to suck her dick so she’d let me hop on a damn column?”

“I was trying to help you, dumbass!”

“I was trying to hang out with my best fucking friend before she travels the world for, like, a year!”

“Right! That’s why you wanted to get fucking wasted tonight! So you wouldn’t even remember our last night together.” Billie got teary eyed, blinking away her anger. “I didn’t even want to drink tonight!”

“No one forced you! You got all weird when that guy talked to me, and you shoved 2 shots consecutively up your ass!”

Claudia looked at Finneas. They shared a look and I wondered what that was about. He turned the corner toward my apartment and turned on his hazard lights.

“No one is concerned with who you wanna make out with, Remy!” She mumbled.

“Except you, because you act like my damn mother anytime anyone even looks at me!” I pointed at her. She stared at my finger, looking nauseous.

“Maybe if you had better judgment I wouldn’t have to fucking-“

“Whatever bro! You don’t get to tell me what to do with my life! And when you get back, you’ll see how fucking wrong you are! And how shitty of a fucking friend-“

“Shitty friend?? Because I want better for you?!” She leaned forward.

“You wouldn’t even know what being wrong feels like! Everyone always tells Billie Eilish yes!” I said, immediately feeling terrible. Immediately feeling like I crossed a line. But she had crossed multiple already.

Her face turned a shade of hurt I hadn’t seen before.

“No, fuck that! Fuck you, Remy!” She yelled.

“Fuck you, too!” I open the door and slam it, walking out before the car was even in park. Finneas fully stopped the car and ran out. He walked me to the door as I keyed in the code.

“I wanna make sure you get inside safely.” He held the door open for me when it unlocked. “God, I’m sorry, that was a lot.”

I held back tears and rubbed my arms, feeling the midnight breeze give me goosebumps before quickly walking in.

“She’s definitely not in the right mindset and I really don’t think she meant to be that-“

“Honest?” I asked, tears starting to stream down my face. “I think she did.” I called the elevator, pressing the button 18 times.

“Remy, she loves you. More than you think. You’re everything to- She just-“

“It doesn’t matter, Finneas. That fucking hurt. Drunk or not.“ I stepped into the elevator as the door slid open.

“Please, Rem. Listen, I know she was pushing it. I’m not gonna make excuses-“ He was visibly frustrated, pushing his hair back as he spoke. “And trust me, she’s going to feel like such a dick tomorrow-“

“I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it anymore from-“

The elevator door began to slide, when he stuck his hand in the way to stop it from closing. “Promise me you’ll see her tomorrow before she leaves for tour.” He looked serious, as if it would change anything. As if seeing her tomorrow would make it hurt any less.

I didn’t say anything. I just leaned back on the elevator wall, crossing my arms.

“Please. Think about it… I’m sorry, Remy. Have a good night.” He nodded, removing his hand and letting the door shut. My heart dropped as the elevator rose to the 5th floor.

In my apartment, I got ready for bed and threw myself into the pillows. My head spun and throbbed as the effects of alcohol slowly left my body. I knew everything would hurt tomorrow morning. I stared at my ceiling, hoping to fall asleep. I thought about Billie’s face when she said those things. When she told me I’d stay exactly where she left me. How can I give up all the hard work I’ve put in. I wonder if she was ever proud of me. I wonder if she knows how much I care about what she thinks of me. I thought about her face when I practically told her she doesn’t know what no means. I thought about her face when she told me “fuck you”. I wonder if tomorrow she’ll be hurting about all this as much as I am right now. We’d never spoken to each other like this before. It felt like she wanted to say more than she actually did…

Eventually my eyelids became heavy, and I drifted into a deep, deep sleep.

******

My eyelids slowly blinked open, staring at my wall. I groaned, stretching and turning on my other side. The light from my window was so uncalled for, causing me to squint and curl up into a ball. My head pounded, reminding me of the events last night.

“Oh shit.” I gasped, grabbing my phone faster than my brain could register. It was 1:02pm and a missed call from Billie displayed on my screen. I put my passcode in, messing up twice before finally being able to call back. The phone rang for a while. I sat up in bed, impatiently. No answer. I had overslept and didn’t have a chance to say good bye before she left on the tour bus. She was probably so angry at me. I remembered how much she hurt me last night, the words all freshly dancing around in my mind. I didn’t know what to make of it, but clearly she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I figured if she did, she’d call back.

I threw my phone at the foot of the bed and pulled the covers over my head, wishing away the awful headache. I closed my eyes and tried my best to fall back asleep so I didn’t have to think. Obviously, that didn’t work out. My brain wanted to walk me through the least blurry bits of our fight instead.

I threw the covers off and got up, going straight for the medicine cabinet and taking some Advil, dry. I rotted into the couch for the rest of the day, watching the tv show I wasn’t allowed to watch without her. I don’t know if I did it out of spite or to feel close to her. I’m sure she’ll be watching it without me anyway.

Each time I checked my phone for any calls or texts, my stomach did this weird flip thing. I waited all day to receive anything from her to no avail.

Around 8pm, I realize I haven’t had a bite to eat. As I put some almond butter toast on a plate, my phone dinged. I pulled it out of my pocket to see Billie had posted on instagram. An update to her fans letting them know she was on the road, and excited to see them in Quebec, Canada.

I made it a point to like the insta story post, so she knows that I know she’s ignoring me. This is bullshit, I thought. How petty, I thought, the irony going straight over my head.

[poisonedace]

Breaking Point

3446 words | Teen | One-Shot Author's AO3: PoisonedAce Story Link: Breaking Point Summary:  Blitzø is at his breaking point. Stolas is spiraling, and  Blitzø can’t hold him together alone. Desperate and exhausted, he turns to the one person who might still be able to reach the former prince: Octavia. But convincing her to listen isn’t easy when she’s holding onto her own anger and pain.

Blitzø heaved a sigh as he finished tucking his favourite horse blanket around Stolas. A frown etched with worry and something uncomfortably close to guilt grew on his face as he looked down at the former prince. Stolas’s face was slack with exhaustion, tear streaks staining his usually pristine feathers. He’d finally fallen into a restless sleep, the aftermath of several hours of a meltdown. He lingered for a moment, watching the soft rise and fall of Stolas’s chest before he turned away.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Blitzø muttered, rubbing his hands across his face and groaning loudly. His tail dragged behind him as he crossed the room and collapsed onto his beanbag by the window. The plush fabric cradled him, but it did nothing to ease the weight pressing down on his chest. His red eyes flicked back to Stolas, his mind racing. He’s falling apart. I’m trying to hold him together, but I’m not enough. He needs Via.

He leaned forward, pressing his elbows onto his knees, and let out a shaky breath. “I need to talk to her,” he murmured, the words as much an admission as a decision. He knew he’d be risking Stolas’s wrath, but at this point, it didn’t matter. Stolas wasn’t just hurting himself—he was dragging everything and everyone down with him, including Blitzø.

Blitzø gave one last look at Stolas before taking a deep breath and activating his Asmodean crystal, a portal swirling to life in front of him. He stepped through, the hum of magic briefly washing over him before he landed on the plush carpet of Octavia’s room.

The room was dark, bathed in the faint moonlight that spilled in through the tall windows. Octavia’s figure was a lump beneath the covers of her bed, her breathing soft and even. Blitzø hesitated, his nerves kicking in, but there was no turning back now. He crossed the room, his boots barely making a sound as he approached her bedside.

“Via,” he called softly, his voice gentle but insistent. “Sweetie.”

“Dad?” Octavia mumbled, her eyes fluttering open. As she adjusted her gaze, she was greeted by Blitzø standing awkwardly beside her bed, a large, strained grin on his face. She squinted at him in the dim light, her expression shifting rapidly from groggy confusion to wide-eyed alarm.

“AAAAH!” Octavia screamed, scrambling upright and clutching her covers to her chest. 

Blitzø flailed his arms, his voice a frantic whisper. “Sweetie! Via! It’s just me—Blitzø! Your dad’s favorite disaster!” He cast a panicked glance toward the door, knowing full well how many guards patrolled the castle. “Please, for the love of all things unholy, keep it down!”

Octavia glowered at him, her feathers bristling as she lowered her voice. “What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed.

Blitzø visibly relaxed, the tension in his shoulders easing as he shrugged and tried to appear casual. “Oh, you know. The usual. Breaking and entering, casual home invasions. Thought I’d stop by for some late-night bonding. You’re a teenager—uninvited emotional chats are your thing, right?” He grinned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Octavia scowled, her tone flat. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before.” Blitzø leaned against her nightstand, arms crossed over his chest, his usual bravado starting to falter under her glare. He let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen, I need to talk to you about your dad.”

“What about him?” she asked cautiously.

Blitzø hesitated, his tail curling nervously around his leg. “There’s… some stuff you need to know,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual. “And if I don’t tell you, I don’t think anyone will.”

Octavia frowned, still wary but unable to ignore the seriousness in his tone. “You’ve got five minutes before I call security,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“That’s all I ask,” his voice low but firm. Blitzø shifted awkwardly, his hands twitching as if unsure what to do with them. He looked out of place, like a stray animal that had wandered into a royal banquet. His eyes darted around the room, avoiding Octavia's sharp gaze.

Octavia’s lips pressed into a thin line as she looked him over. His usual cocky swagger was gone, replaced by hunched shoulders and a weariness that clung to him like a second skin. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than she’d ever seen, and his posture wavered like he was one wrong move away from collapsing altogether. It was a sight she wasn’t used to—Blitzø looking small.

“Hey…” Her tone softened despite herself, and she tentatively reached out a hand. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to collapse.”

Blitzø blinked at her, momentarily caught off guard by her concern. “Wouldn’t be the first time today,” he muttered under his breath, his tail flicking nervously behind him. He caught himself quickly and waved her off with a forced grin. “Don’t worry about me, Sweetie. Let’s focus on your dad."

She withdrew her hand, her concern shifting into suspicion again. “What about him?”

Blitzø exhaled slowly, his grin fading. He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers brushing over the edge of his collar as though grounding himself. “Your dad’s… uh, going through some stuff right now,” he said vaguely before shaking his head and correcting himself. “No, scratch that. He’s been going through it for a while, but now it’s… worse.”

Octavia folded her arms, her sharp eyes narrowing. “And what does that have to do with you barging into my room in the middle of the night?”

Blitzø hesitated, his tail curling tightly around his ankle. “Because I can’t… I can’t keep doing this alone. He’s a wreck, Via. He won’t sleep, he won’t eat, and the massive, hour-long meltdowns? Honestly, they scare the hell out of me. He won’t listen when I tell him he needs to pull himself together. But maybe… maybe he’ll listen to you.”

Her frown deepened. “Why would he listen to me? He doesn’t care about what I think. If he did, he wouldn’t—”

Blitzø cut her off with a sharp shake of his head. “Stop. Don’t go there. I know it feels like that sometimes, but your dad… he cares about you more than anything. More than his power, more than his status, and—yeah, more than me, if you truly want to keep score.” His voice softened, the exhaustion creeping into his words. “He’s just too wrapped up in his head to show it properly right now.”

Octavia stared at him, the sharp edges of her expression softening just slightly. “Why are you telling me this?”

Blitzø rubbed the back of his neck, his usual bravado replaced by a rare moment of vulnerability. “Because he needs you, Via. He’s hurting, and I think you might be the only one who can get through to him.”

Blitzø sunk to the floor and slouched forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as if that were the only thing keeping him upright. His limp tail lay beside him.

“What do you know about Goeetian marriages?” he asked, his tone cautious, like he was tiptoeing around something sharp.

Octavia froze, her mouth pressing into a tight line. “They’re the same as any Hellborne marriage. Some are for love, some are contractual,” she said flatly, her tone clipped. Her sharp eyes stayed fixed on him, wary of where this conversation was heading.

Blitzø nodded, his gaze fixed on the floor. “Right. And your parents? Which one was theirs?”

The question gave her pause. Her talons twitched, and she pressed them into her lap. “Theirs was a love marriage,” she said after a moment, though her voice wavered slightly.

Blitzø let out a long sigh, sitting up straighter and meeting her eyes. His tone softened, but his words hit hard. “Sweetie, your dad’s gay.”

The air seemed to leave the room. Octavia’s eyes widened, her feathers puffing up slightly as the words sank in. “What?” she croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Blitzø threw up his hands in mock exasperation. “I mean, come on, have you seen the guy? Feathers, capes, glitter? That’s not exactly ‘straight demon chic.’ Honestly, the outfits alone should’ve tipped you off. Rainbows, Via. Rainbows everywhere.”

Octavia blinked, completely dumbfounded. “That’s… not funny.”

Blitzø’s grin faltered, and his tail flicked as he looked away, the humor draining from his voice. “Yeah, probably not,” he admitted. “But it’s true. Your dad’s known he was gay pretty much his whole life.”

Octavia stared at him, her mind spinning. “But… he married mom. They…” She trailed off, her breath catching as realization began to creep in.

Blitzø’s expression softened, his voice quieter now. “Yeah, I know. Paimon told your dad on his tenth birthday that he’d be marrying your mom. Said they needed a ‘precautionary heir.’ That’s how it works with royalty, Sweetie. It’s not fair, but…”

Octavia’s face twisted, her feathers flattening as anger flared in her voice. “So I was just an obligation to him!” she snapped, her voice rising. Her hands shot up to her head, gripping her feathers tightly. “He HAD to take those pills because of me. If he’d just left—”

“NO!” Blitzø interrupted sharply. He jumped to his feet and grabbed her wrists before she could tug at her head feathers any further. His touch was gentle despite his firm voice. “Stop, Octavia. Don’t do that.”

Octavia froze, her hands trembling in his grip. Blitzø leaned closer, his tone softening as he met her eyes. “Listen to me, Sweetie. It’s not like that. You are the utmost important thing in your dad’s life. If you don’t believe anything else, please believe that. I need you to believe that.”

Her gaze dropped to her lap, her shoulders slumping as his words sunk in. Her voice was shaky with lingering anger and confusion. “But if he loves me so much, why did he…” She trailed off, shifting her wrists in his hands in a silent request for him to let her go.

Blitzø sighed, releasing her hands but staying close. His voice took on a weight she wasn’t used to hearing. “He’s tired, Via. Tired of the insults, of the fights, of pretending—tired of everything. He tried for so long to give you a normal life. He thought it was the right thing to do. For you, for his family, for Hell. Then he saw a chance at happiness, and he took it.”

Octavia’s feathers bristled slightly, her brow furrowing, but she didn’t interrupt.

Blitzø pressed on, his gaze steady. “But he never would’ve done it if he thought it would hurt you this much. He thought that you could be happy with us, be happy with him. The last thing he wanted, ever, was for you to get hurt and for you to not be in his life. You’ve got to know that.” He paused, taking a shaky breath. “But, Via… doesn’t he deserve to be happy? Just a little bit?”

She opened her mouth to respond but found no words. Her talons dug into her blanket, her gaze darting away as she processed his words. The flicker of doubt in her expression deepened, clashing with the anger and hurt still swirling inside her.

“He needs you to remind him why it’s worth it. Why he’s worth it.”

Octavia shivered, her hands loosening their grip on the blanket. The words landed heavy, but this time, she didn’t try to push them away. Instead, she let the silence stretch between them, struggling to unravel the mix of emotions tightening in her chest.

Blitzø’s words stirred something in her—a painful mix of emotions she wasn’t ready to confront. Memories flashed in her mind: her father holding her close after a nightmare, his gentle voice soothing her fears, the way he’d subtly step between her and her mother’s sharp words, absorbing the brunt of the anger to shield her. The warmth of his lullabies as he sang her to sleep. Those moments of love and safety stood in stark contrast to the pain she felt now—the pain of abandonment, of being left behind.

Her gaze moved to Blitzø. For so long, he seemed like a big monster, someone who stole her father from her. But now, standing by her bed in the dead of night, he looked small. The weight of exhaustion and worry clung to him like a heavy cloak.

“I…” Octavia’s voice faltered, and she rubbed her arm nervously, her gaze dropping to the floor. Her feathers shifted slightly, betraying her unease. “I’m not saying that I would have rather you died, but… things would have been so much easier if you weren’t here. Everything was okay when—”

“It wasn’t!” Blitzø snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. Octavia flinched, and he immediately softened his tone, running a hand over his face. “Sorry, Sweetie. I didn’t mean to yell. But… it wasn’t okay. Not really.”

He leaned back against the nightstand and hummed as he thought about how to tell her the next bit. “Via, your parents’ marriage wasn’t a good one. Surely you see that,” he said, his voice gentler now. His hands, clenched into fists, trembled slightly, and he let out a long, slow breath to steady himself. “I know Stolas tried his best to give you a normal childhood, but… there’s no way you overlooked the arguing. The tension.”

Octavia hesitated, her feathers shifting as she finally met his gaze. “Of course, I noticed,” she admitted. “But that’s what couples do. You and Dad fight, I’ve heard it.”

Blitzø smiled faintly, a humorless expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, Sweetie, we do,” he admitted. “But we’re working on it. Your parents… they didn’t have that chance. They were thrown into a mess neither of them wanted, but they tried for you. They did their best to make it work, even if it wasn’t enough.”

Octavia frowned, her gaze dropping again. “But that’s not my problem to fix,” she muttered, her voice defensive but lacking the usual edge.

“No,” Blitzø agreed softly. “It’s not your problem. But it is your dad’s, and he needs your help, Via. Now, it’s your turn to try for him.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unshakable. Octavia pulled her knees up to her chest, but she didn’t respond. For the first time, she didn’t have a sharp retort or a bitter comment. Instead, she sat quietly, Blitzø’s words softening the bitterness she’d clung to so tightly.

Blitzø let out a heavy sigh and fell to his knees, his head lolling to the side. His shoulders slumped, and his usual energy completely drained. The heaviness of the conversation and everything that had brought him to this moment seemed to press down on him all at once.

“Blitzø!” Octavia exclaimed, her voice tinged with alarm as she jumped out of bed and knelt beside him. Gently, she reached out, grabbing his arm. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head slowly, not meeting her gaze. His voice cracked when he finally spoke. “Via, I… I’m just so tired.” He closed his eyes, his tail curling weakly around his leg. “He won’t sleep, he won’t eat. I’m trying so hard to keep him going, but I can’t do it alone.”

The confession hit Octavia harder than she expected. She squeezed his arm gently, unsure of what to say.

Blitzø took a shaky breath, his words coming out in a stuttering rush. “This is so unfair of me to do, barging in here and putting this on you. I know it is. And he’s going to be pissed when he finds out I said anything.” He finally looked at her, his red eyes glassy with exhaustion and something that looked almost like desperation. “But please, Via. Please just speak with him.”

Octavia stared at him, her hand resting on his arm. The anger that had shielded her from hurt began to crack, replaced by something softer—something harder to deny. Could she really help him? She didn’t know what to say, but the sight of Blitzø—this usually untouchable force of chaos—looking so small and defeated made her chest tighten.

“I’ll think about it,” she said hesitantly, her voice softer now.

Blitz’s nod was slow, his lips curving into a faint, weary smile. “That’s all I’m asking, Sweetie.” He leaned back slightly, resting his weight on his hands as if he might fall over otherwise. “Just… give him a chance.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke; the room filled only with the quiet sound of their breathing. The weight of what had been said—and what still needed to happen—hung heavy between them.

Octavia hesitated, her gaze lingering on Blitzø as he slumped forward, his exhaustion written in every line of his posture. For the first time, she saw him not as the chaotic whirlwind that had barged into her family’s life but as someone trying his best in an impossible situation.

Her mind shifted to her father—how tightly he would hold her after a bad dream, his arms a sanctuary against the dark. She remembered the haunting melody of his soft lullabies, each note wrapping around her like a promise that she was safe. But more than that, she recalled the quiet moments, the ones he probably thought she hadn’t noticed: the way his shoulders sagged when he thought no one was watching, the distant look in his eyes as he stared out the window, and the sadness that seemed to seep from him, heavy and unshakeable. Those glimpses of vulnerability—of a father doing his best even when it wasn’t enough—made her chest tighten, the memories as comforting as they were painful.

She swallowed hard and nodded, almost imperceptibly at first. Then, with more resolve, she spoke. “Okay,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “I’ll talk to him.”

Blitzø’s head snapped up, his red eyes widening as relief washed over his face. A genuine smile, faint but real, broke through his grimace. “Thanks, Sweetie,” he said, his voice hoarse but warm. He pushed himself upright, straightening as much as he could despite his obvious exhaustion. “And, hey, if he kills me for this… at least tell him to make it quick, huh?”

Octavia’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through her defenses. “No promises,” she said, her tone dry but not without affection.

Blitzø chuckled softly, a sound that was more tired than anything else, but there was something lighter in it now. He stood, albeit unsteadily, and patted her shoulder with a surprisingly gentle hand. “You’re a good kid, Via. Don’t let anyone—including yourself—tell you otherwise.”

He rubbed at the crystal on his wrist, conjuring a portal to his living room. Its swirling energy cast faint light across the room. Just beyond, she could see her father, scrunched up on a tiny, ripped couch, fast asleep, his face twisted as if he were experiencing a nightmare.

Just before stepping through, Blitzø glanced back at Octavia and gave her a soft, encouraging smile. “You’ve got this, Octavia,” he said quietly. Then, with a final, tired smile, he disappeared into the glow.

Octavia stared at the shimmering portal. The room felt strangely still without Blitzø’s chaotic presence. She stayed frozen in place for a long moment, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The words he’d said lingered in her mind, heavy yet somehow reassuring, as her talons idly traced the lines of her palm.

She rose slowly, her movements tentative as she approached the portal. She stopped and stared, watching her father through it, her heart racing. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I make it worse? The anger and hurt she had held onto felt easier than confronting her father’s pain head-on. But beneath it, there was something quieter—an ache to understand, to try. She closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself. He’s been trying all this time. Maybe I can, too.

The hum of magic filled the silence, a faint, steady pulse. Octavia hesitated at its edge, staring into its swirling depths. Her chest tightened as her thoughts warred within her—hurt and anger battling against the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, things could be different.

“I’ve got this,” she whispered to herself, her voice steady despite the uncertainty twisting in her stomach.

And before she could second-guess herself, she stepped through the portal, driven by the fragile hope of forging a stronger, more honest bond with her father—and perhaps even finding her own place with Blitzø.

[hurlingdown]

REVERSED HUNTER X HUNTED TROPE MMMM (hunter x hunter reference??)

You're being chased in the middle of the night. It all began with a small mistake, and now ending with the renowned bounty hunter, Zoro.

the determined hunter was closing in on you...and, luck was not on your side, you suddenly found yourself trapped in a dead end.

"You've no way out." zoro declared, pointing his swords at you. "You have two options: either surrender yourself, or I'll be forced to do this in a hard way."

He said it so intimidating, yet so...*hot*.

"What's the hard way?" You smile at him, voice soft spoken.

He felt his breath hitch at your smile,

..that's new.

"Turning you in for a prize, of course."

He responded with a calm and serious tone, but there was a hint of nervousness in it. He didn't expect you to be so calm and smile at him like that.

"hmm.." you hum in thought. "I can think of another hard way~" you step closer, now being the one chasing him.

Pushing him against the alley way wall, and..soon enough..

The alleyway was filled with the sounds of your bodies moving against each other, as well as the soft gasps and moans that escaped Zoro lips his body trembling with pleasure as you fucked him harshly against the bricked wall, grilling his hips, arching his back.

He tried to hold onto the wall for support, but his grip was weak and his fingers were digging into the bricks, ruining his callused swordsman hands. His back was arched, his chest pressed against the wall as he desperately tried to control his voice.

"H-hah... Please... I'm- Ngh! Sorry I hunted you down.. just let me come!!"

After this, he would never turn you in, you're a prize in and of itself~

- 🍽️ anon ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

the HARD way. ingenious. got me fanning myself here. i might just turn this into forest primal play for the funsies 🙂‍↕️

he’s a bounty hunter, you’re a notorious criminal. zoro’s never met someone quite like you—lightning fast reflexes despite your strong build, stealthy and quick even in the dead of night. from the moment he saw you, hiding in the rowdy crowds of the city, you were his prey.

or so he thought.

he’s closing up to you, your shadow bounding ahead, and he squints—takes a moment to notice that the both of you are no longer in the city, but a forest in the middle of nowhere. it doesn’t matter, not really. he has his swords with him, sturdy in the crook of his sweaty palms, and he’s ready for whatever fight you’re willing to give him.

but just as zoro thinks he’s going to catch up to you, you suddenly disappear, your trail long gone. he’s lost. in the middle of nowhere. he feels something creep by, the whistle of a breath, but you’re not in sight.

just as he’s about to give up, heart pounding heavily in his chest, he turns and sees you, standing there, proud with the slash of a feral grin on your face.

fuck. zoro wants to plunge his swords into you, one by one. he wants to cut that almost flirtatious smile off your face, make you bleed as he watches. he wants to . . . he wants you so badly.

he trembles, his swords slipping from his hands, stabbing into the ground with little resistance. you’re getting closer. he should run. he should, but . . .

you gently pry the third sword from his lips, and his eyes flutter shut, his breath hitching.

he can feel pure, unbridled need vibrating in him, to strip off your clothes and his own, to be connected to you in some way or the other, to feel you inside him, hot and hard and throbbing and mean with your chest pressed against his back and your hands around his throat. to be hunted by the hunted, he thinks, and shudders.

when he opens his eyes again to meet your gaze, you’re staring at him again, strange and hungry. zoro licks his lips, and swallows.

[shizunitis]

Okay, but. Would Luo Bing-mei (and the SVSSS-version of PIDW’s world) not exist without the transmigrators? Or would it be a duplicate of PIDW? Does this Binghe’s existence depend on outside interference, or is it just his happiness (debatable at times) that Shen Yuan has saved? Is this rescue or an act of creation?

(Is Shen “Mother” Qingqiu canon?)

Related: is it really about Binghe, or just the world, the story? Was Shen Yuan’s love for Binghe the ‘hero’ that defeated the villainous System? Or was that its intention all along?

(Is Shen “Simp” Yuan also a white knight?)

I know it’s interpretable and we can’t really have a canon-based answer (unless I bring out the “theories” binder, which I’m disinclined to do without another reread) and that it doesn’t really matter, at the end of the day, but. You know.

[random-kido]

thinking of stupid college au again

[oldkamelle]

(simon teller voice) this is kinda cute

[sirfrogsworth]

This is frustrating.

I love the comparison, but I hate how they are comparing.

They are acting like she is using optics to give herself an advantage. But the device she is wearing is just for comfort and essentially does the same thing as closing one eye and squinting the other.

The little thing over the left eye is basically like an eye patch.

And the thing over her right eye is a mechanical iris, like in a camera lens, but it is NOT a lens.

Different lighting environments are going to be brighter or darker and you may have to squint more or less to let in the same amount of light into your eye. Squinting allows the shooter to get the sharpest possible vision in order to shoot a bullseye the size of a 12-point Times New Roman period.

But if you have to squint for hours for practice and in competition, this can strain your face muscles and become uncomfortable. So this iris basically squints for you.

It's more like wearing comfortable shoes so your feet do not hurt than a lens magnifying the target and giving an advantage.

Both athletes have access to these items. One felt more comfortable without them. The other didn't feel like getting a muscle cramp from squinting all day.

Either would have shot the same if they had or had not used these devices.

Just a funny difference in gear preference.

I should also add, the Turkish dad is the only one using lenses.

[screampied]

☆ cw. fem! reader, college au, first lesson, dumbification, praise, he's so nerdy, squırting, unprotected, mdni.

nerd! nanami who ends up teaching you a few ‘fundamentals’ of squirting after you end up gushing out by accident.

“oh, my,” he’d huskily croon, taking a short glance at your body that’s laid flat on his timber desk. mousy eyes zero up ‘n down your entire frame before he groans, feeling your legs snake around his slim torso. after another hourly long session of cramming your brain with pounds of boring information, you’d probably forget by the next day, you told nanami that you wanted to try out ‘penetration.’ and now, that came with you gushing straight out with his meaty shaft buried snugly deep inside of you. he grows quiet, smacking his lips as he feels your slobbering cunt dripping wetly like a running never-ending faucet. it’s almost adorable with the way your face scrunches up and you’re clawing at the buckle of his drooping belt with shaky hands. “we haven’t gone over that area yet, sweetheart,” and you’re moaning, feeling your back tickle against the scattered piles of marked papers that laid directly underneath you. “ah, ah. don’t close ‘em,” he purrs, staring as your stick-glossed quavery legs try to snap themselves shut. “let me examine the wet problem a bit closer.”

“w- was that supposed to happen?” you breathe through rushed pants, frantically chewing on your bottom lip as you watch him pull out. he’s slow, feeling your slight muscles tense and spasm as you drenched the entirety of his stilled dick with molasses of your webby slick. “f- fuck,” you whimper, and nanami’s pressing a pointed thumb down against the pearly top part of your tender clit. gradually, he’s swirling a plethora of exaggerated shapes alllll around your tender entrance, lowering his head once his turgid cock’s fully out of you.

with a placid hum, nanami nods. “don’t fret, sweet thing. it’s normal,” and you prepare a deep, heavy breath as you try to peek down, watching nanami re-adjust his clear-framed glasses. “but, do you think you can do that again? i’m . . having a bit of trouble with my vision,” and he softly presses a chaste kiss against your cunt. shortly after, a slimy dewy web of stringy juices merrily glues against his lips. “i believe if my hypothesis is correct . . if ‘m closer like thiiiis,” and you moan, feeling the cold lenses of his glasses press right up against your puffed folds. “you’ll help me solve just how much of a wet girl you can get for me this time.”

openly, nanami eyes at your sopping pussy that’s just pouring from all areas with so many dewdrops of slick. a shimmery stream of your syrupy arousal cascades down the slot of your entrance and oh- it’s so pretty. at least to him.

if you squinted enough, you could see the obscene mirroring reflection of the shiny glossed view that rests between your legs from the clear lenses of his glasses. “clitoral glands,” he starts to ramble, rubbing a thumb near the top bulb-shaped part of your twitching heat. “clitoral body,” and you moan, feeling him swerve his digit down lower. “but let’s skip to . . . her,” nanami coos huskily, and you gasp once his round thumb plugs itself inside you after just a few loose inches. you swallowed that single digit right up oh-so blissfully.

like a hidden trick of a magician—his finger disappears inside of your cunt, and it presses against a particular small texture right above your lower opening. “. . that pretty urethra of yours.”

there - that’s where you felt the exact pressure of yourself gushing out, creaming down his cock with such a vivid risqué spray.

you’re still getting over it as your jaw dangles open—mouth cutely wholly ajar and all. as nanami continues to toy with your slobbering clit, he silently grumbles whatever extra clitoris facts underneath his breath. a single finger that was tucked inside of your gummy orifice gradually transitions into two, and you let off the sweetest moan that rang against his ears.

“such a pretty pussy from an even prettier girl,” and his words smokily deepen as he loudly ‘pops!’ both fingers out of your drenched slit. it’s all puffy now, drooling from each slippery flap. nanami sits up before re-aligning his milky-covered tip against your sobbing cunt.. “mini pop quiz,” he grumbles, letting off a deep sigh once his flushed crownhead languidly slides its way between the split of your folds. you’re laid back against the desk with a pout twisting across both sides of your lips.

pop… quiz?

nanami adjusts his crooked glasses by shoving them slightly back with a middle finger before humming. “riddle me this,” and a sweet moan drags its way past your throat once he’s smearing his bulbous tip across your sticky entrance.

left-to-right and it’s hypnotic. “what is the majorly important gland of the clit that helps lubricate the vagina properly?” and nanami presses a large hand on your tummy, simpering at the cute silence for an answer. with a snicker, he tilts his head at your quirked brow. “oh- c’mon. this is easy, we talked about this two days ago.”

“t . . the um-” you stammer, the throbbing of your clit increasing with each delicious second that passed. with your mind joggling its empty memory, you inhale a moan that was desperately trying to escape from your spit-stained lips. “the clitoral glands?”

“close, but no, dumb girl,” and with a smack, nanami whacks his swollen tip against the front of your weeping pussy. you finally release that moan you were holding onto with heave after heave puffing out your chest. “try again. this time, actually use that brain for me, yeah?”

you pout, and after about four seconds you left off a whiny grump. “is it . . the skene’s glands?”

“good girl,” and you let off a needy mewl once he rubs a palm against your pussy. his personal way of praising you without words, even after calling you a ‘good girl.’

it’s a soft, enticing rub that smears the entirety of your slick around his entire palm, coating it right away.

you’re so wet - pathetically drenched that you stick your candied juices all over the prints of his hand.

“it’s very important that you know about the skene’s glands. just like how important it is for me to teach you how soaked you are,” and you don’t even realize it, but the second he spanks against your cunt once more with his palm, you’re squirting . . again.

it’s a thick shiny geyser that ends up spurting out of you with a loud pssssh! and your toes curled in ecstatic rapture. you’re whining at how sudden and abrupt it was, and nanami just shakes his head with a wry smile. a hand maneuvers in a circular rotation against your pussy as you finish your three-second monumental high. “f- fuuuck, fuck!” you whimper out the same colorful syllables through your lips as your eyelids droop.

as you’re panting, still feeling the scattered bundles of paper rub and prick against the back of your skin, you eye nanami through murky peripherals. pretty ‘n glossed-eyed, you let off a shaky puff before moaning. “did . . did i pass?”

“not quite,” nanami takes his glasses off. they were still a bit soaked from earlier, a bit of your own droplets of literal juices fogging the lenses before he gave it a sweet lick. filthy. nanami squints at your twitching body before slithering a fat thumb down your tender, convulsing pussy for the nth and last time. “think we still have more basics to go over,” and he positions his head right back down between the eagle-spread valley of your legs, whistling riiiight between your driveling, puffy slit.

“besides,” and you whine once he gives your cunt its final, sloppy spank. “my only criticism— is that, we could work on that squirt velocity a little bit more,” and he pats your cunt before staring straight at your pulsating entrance, hungrily licking his lips.

“i wouldn’t mind training her, heh.”

[saintrosalyn]

JAILBIRD

Ghost becomes pen pals with an inmate before deciding that he wants to adopt his little jailbird.

Word count: 4.1k

Tw: inmate reader, reader is kept as vauge as possible but is implied to be younger than Ghost, violence, stalking, ghost is a perv, p in v, oral (f! Receiving), creampie, spanking (once), orgasm denial if you squint, unprotected sex, NOT edited we die like men.

Edited to Add: Part Two is posted :)

Notes: Baby’s first fanfic, please be gentle. Let me know if I missed any trigger warnings or if you want to see more! I have an idea for a second part but I don’t know if anyone wants it, right now it’s tucked away safely in my drafts. Enjoy! :)

P.S. I’m thinking about making an ao3 account and publishing an edited version of this on there. I’ll link it if I do! I’ve already spent too much time procrastinating finals but christmas break is around the corner so who knows.

The letter came with the top serrated, already opened, as all your letters came. You mostly ignored them. There were a couple of programs that allowed people to become pen pals with prisoners but you’d been there long enough to know what they often contained. 

Many of the women milked poor losers on the outside. Money given and sent. Promises of butterfly kisses and blowjobs whispered over the phone. Exchanges. Some were even able to sweet talk their honeys into giving bribes. Money passed into hands of guards, currency that was then exchanged for cigarettes, which were much more valuable on the inside than the bills used on the outside.

You don’t know why you read this letter. It certainly wasn’t the penmanship, a scrawled handwriting that lay between cursive and print. Maybe it was the blue pen, you’d recognize a Bic anywhere, or maybe it was the fact that it smelled a bit like top-shelf liquor. 

It was rather blunt. But not in an obscene way. Simple and straight to the point as if constrained by an unknown word count. It wasn’t memorable, but what else was there to do? Pace your cell back and forth and wait for zoochosis to settle further in your bones. Close your eyes and remember what freedom tasted like before it dissolved in your mouth.

The pen they gave you was cheap, the paper even cheaper, but you were used to making things work. Your reply was shorter than his, than Simon’s, but it got the job done. If he wanted to write back he would. If he didn’t, well, the new prison guard was starting to get rather handsy with you. The time will pass no matter what.

___

His replies came in strange patterns. Some weeks you’d get eight in a week, other times you wouldn’t hear from him for a few months. It took a year for the first phone call of which lasted less than a minute and consisted mostly of him grunting on the other end and a schlick sound you pretended not to notice. It was his fourth phone call that he finally said a few words in a voice so low it made the phone buzz against your ear, tickling like a lover's breath. Eventually, you had some semblance of conversations, even if they were interrupted by a recorded voice warning you of the time you had left. 

He told you he was a soldier and at first, you planned on cutting the whole penpal idea off. Even before you got arrested you hated bootlickers more than anything. But Simon grew on you, and your friends all suggested you get in his good graces to see if he could pull some strings. You would’ve felt guilty if he was anything other than glorified government property. Both of you were.

The first thing he gave you was a book, The Yellow Wallpaper, which was thicker than you remembered from the time you read it in school. It was only when you cracked open the spine did you find a pack of cigarettes inside, the pages carved out so your real present could be placed inside. You couldn’t help the smile that split your lips as you pressed one between your lips, not noticing the tiny S carved into it.

You thank him for the gift by whispering his name into the phone. A mantra, a prayer, it didn’t matter as long as you kept your voice breathy. He promises to get you more and you learn not to refuse him. At one point, you notice that little robotic voice doesn’t time you anymore. The guard who couldn’t keep his hands to himself was replaced with a woman, hair pulled back into a military-style bun. And you got an extra cookie with your meals.

It took a year for him to visit. You knew it was coming eventually, men are only fine with their imagination for so long before they crave something tangible. Hell, even you were curious about the man who wanted to sink his teeth into you. It almost felt like getting ready for a date. Butterflies dropped like lead in your stomach as you tried to tidy your appearance as much as you could. You smelled, but there wasn’t much you could do about that. The whole damn prison smelled like a county fair bathroom. The lack of air conditioning in the heat of summer just added a sweet BO tinge. 

The first thing you noticed about Simon was his size. You had never met a man as big as he was. The next was the thick scar tissue that marred his face. Though, even without the scars you would be hesitant to ever call him handsome.

Intimidating.

That was what came to mind staring at the thick cords of muscle that covered his arms and the broadness of his shoulders wasn’t just genetics. And he just stared at you. You glanced at the phone that connected to his on the other side of the glass and back at him but decided against it.

You offered him a small smile and an awkward wave. It unnerved you. The focus and attention pinned you in place. Normally you kinned yourself to a tiger you saw at a zoo when you were a child. One that paced back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A habit you understood all too well. But sitting in front of your pen pal you realized you were rather off. 

Simon was the tiger and you were the bird that caught his attention.

It took far too long for the guard to come and collect you. For once you were grateful to retreat back to your cell, so much so that in your retreat you failed to notice the nod your warden gave Simon.

___

After that Simon met with you in person as often as was allowed. He never said anything and neither did you. Eventually, the novelty of him wore off. Humans were rather adaptable creatures, and you could only be scared of the man for so long before your body adjusted to him. Despite your silence, Simon didn’t appear displeased with you. In fact, it was almost the opposite of it. More gifts arrived.

A pillow, high-end shampoo, a toothbrush (that you had a strange suspicion was used before being given to you), nail polish, and more cigarettes. Some of the women were jealous of the attention given to you, others tried to get with you to share your bounty. Somehow you dodged most of the conflict. But you can only run so long while trapped with so many women.

When you showed up to your meeting sporting a bruised cheek and split lip the air quickly changed. Before you thought Simon looked like a predator. 

You were wrong.

Fear coursed through your veins and you recognized the look in his eyes. Every woman in the damn place knows what a hunger for violence looked like. Slowly he reached out an arm, the sleeve of his hoodie riding up slightly showing off tattoos, before grabbing the phone and pressing it to his ear. With a shaking hand, you did the same.

“Bird.” His voice was somehow deeper in real life than over the phone.

“You should see the other guy.”

His lips twitched.

There was something uncanny about his eyes. They weren’t brown, they were black. Obsidian. You realized that before, the first time you met him, he wasn’t trying to scare you. Though, you were pretty sure it wasn’t directed at you.

“Just a little spat is all Simon. Everything sorted itself out.”

All over a bottle of nail polish. Tempers run short in prison. You spend most of your days in a cell, and what little free time you get surrounded by the same insufferable bitches, it’s a mystery there isn’t more violence. For the most part, things were settled with words. The more physical an inmate gets the more time spent in your cell. There were some weeks where you spent twenty-three hours a day in that little room. 

Simon let out a sigh as if dealing with you was the most insufferable part of his day.

“Did ye’ get medical attention a’ least?”

You nodded your head.

He gave a grunt.

That seemed to be his preferred method of communication with you. Caveman grunts and growls, the occasional moan over the phone he couldn’t hold back. You figured it had something to do with his job. He was quite tight-lipped about it, but you gathered he has co-workers (his squad? Platoon? What was the proper lingo?). Despite this, you were under the impression he spent the majority of his time alone. He always seemed more primal after those month-long stints of silence.

You always wondered how you would feel if he never contacted you again. Went out and didn’t come back. Would you assume he was dead? That he moved on to prettier things that aren’t locked away? Would it make a difference to you? 

No. It wouldn’t.

Even now you got letters upon letters from other men. Though none were as giving as Simon was.

It was back to silence and staring contests that you were used to. The both of you slipping into a familiarity. He never put the phone back. Even when your warden came and escorted you back. You didn’t glance back at him. 

Tucked away in your cell you didn’t get to watch Simon slowly rise out of his seat, chair creaking from the shifting of his weight. You didn’t see Simon lurk in the back as the inmates met with their loved ones on the out. Didn’t see him take notice of a particular girls with nails painted the same shade as his gift to you. The same shade as the tip of his cock.

___

The girl was transferred. For a singular moment, you thought Simon had something to do with it. Then laughed at the idea. Simon may be in the military, but you highly doubted he had anything to do with the bitch who got transferred. At least you got your nail polish back. It was a strange shade, and the idea of a man as big as Simon standing in an isle trying to pick out a shade made you chuckle, it was the thought that counted.

Time marched on. Penpals came and went but Simon stayed the consistent part in your life. 

Eventually, the possibility of parole was on the horizon. 

Freedom. 

So close you could practically taste it.

Unfortunately, that meant a laundry list of to-do items. Court hearings, lawyers bankrolled by Simon, arranging for transportation and housing. Simon handled most of it. By now, the lingering guilt of using your soldier fiance had long left you. He seemed like the kind of man who needed to learn lessons the hard way, and entering a relationship with a felon was a lesson most didn’t need to learn. Still, he had been putting in quite a hard amount of work. He deserved a treat.

And after years of forced celibacy, you needed it bad.

The two of you would enjoy each other for a week or two. Simon would realize he made a mistake moving you in. He would kick you out. You’d pawn the ring he’d give you and use the money as a cushion as you landed, getting back on your feet. The two of you would go your separate ways and never see each other again.

Being in prison taught you a lot of things. Despite everything, patience wasn’t one of those lessons. The day you were gaining your freedom passed was the slowest part of your life. The checking, double checking, retrieving your stuff, checking again, until finally,

Finally,

You were outside. You were outside in something other than a uniform that stunk of sweat, there were no handcuffs. Anxiety crept everywhere. You wanted to get as far away from the prison as you could, if you breathed wrong a warden would drag you back. A pair of arms snatched you.

You looked up and couldn’t help but laugh, pressing your lips against his scarred ones.

“Fucking Christ your tall.”

He chuckled against your lips before taking them again, hands digging near painfully into your ass. The two of you somehow managed to walk back to his car peeling off one another before Simon peeled away, hand clutching the fat of your thighs as he drove.

“Never pictured you as a reckless driver.” You giggled.

The adrenaline and giddiness of being free hadn’t worn off yet. If anything it seemed to slowly be morphing into a different beast entirely. You pressed your lips against his bicep causing him to groan. You glanced up at him, watching as his jaw clenched weaving in and out of traffic in a way that was certainly not legal. You would’ve been worried about being pulled over if he wasn’t driving a military vehicle. They answered to a different police, or so he told you.

Eventually, he pulled into the yard of a house with an honest-to-God white picket fence. You smiled as you got out, curiosity creeping in about what his house was like. Simon opened the door for you, which would probably should’ve made you swoon at his gentleman-like behavior, but truthfully it was how he hauled you out of the card and dragged you inside that got your heart racing. 

Impatient.

The door barely closed before his body was pressed against yours and his lips were pressed against your jugular. One of his rough hands slipped up your shirt, grunting when he found a clear path to your tits instead of meeting the edge of a bra. The other dipped into the waistband of your pants, running over your clothed cunt, no doubt feeling the wet spot against your underwear. Your hands slid over his arms, squeezing at the muscle, before slowly sliding them up and up, going to the back of his neck, a hand threading through his short hair the other cupping his face to kiss yours. 

A large thumb found your clit, only the thin cotton stopped him from rubbing directly against it. He pressed down hard on it, causing your breath to catch in your throat, his thumb moving down your slit. The seam of your mouth parted in a moan and he used that to stick his tongue down your throat. 

The kiss was obscenely wet, beastly as his spit passed from his mouth into yours. Before prison, you would’ve pulled away with a grimace. Too much tongue, too much teeth, too much. But your whole body was on fire, years of pent-up orgasms made you desperate for it all. For someone to press against you, to be inside you.

Simon was oh-so-convenient. 

You tried to pull away, lungs burning enough to convince you that air was in fact a need, but the door stopped you. Pressed between it and Simon you had no escape. You whimpered against his mouth, again and again until he finally got the hint and pulled away, a string of spit connecting your mouths as if it too was reluctant to pull away from you.

“Bedroom?” You panted, though if he took you here against the door you would die happy.

Simon threw you over his shoulder and took his stairs two at a time before tossing you on his bed making you laugh. The caveman and his prize. Simon took the moment of being away from you to pull at the collar of his shirt. You watched in appreciation as it lifted higher and higher until it was discarded on his carpet. 

His body was marred in scar tissue, muscle, and a layer of fat that made for a solid fine specimen of the male species. His pants were discarded next, and either he pulled his underwear down with them or he just wasn’t wearing any to begin with. You didn’t have much time to ponder that thought distracted by his hard cock.

Jesus Christ.

Big was an understatement, monster was the word that popped into your mind. It crossed the territory between delicious into scary. Large and thicker than you thought possible. You swallowed and for a second hoped he would forget about the blowjob you promised him after he gave you a pillow. 

“Yer’ wearin’ too many clothes Birdie.” 

Quickly, though not as quickly as Simon was, you wiggled out of your pants, shrugged off your shirt throwing it in the same pile as his clothes. He stepped closer to you, one large hand grabbing your ankle before retching you towards him.

He leaned down, mouthing at your bare tits, slobbering over them. The soft press of his tongue flicked over your nipple before he moved to the other and grazed his teeth over it. His hands were everywhere. He was everywhere. Impossibly big and pressed against you everywhere. Until all your senses were filled with him. As if Simon was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The artificial sun in your glass cage.

His mouth moved lower, nipping at your skin before he moved between your legs. He settled his body in between them, the calloused palm of his hands pressing your legs further and further apart until the stretch burned in the muscles where your legs met your pelvis. Quickly the pain faded into the background as he pressed a kiss against your bare clit, before taking it in his mouth and sucking. You felt the rough pad of his fingertips press against your hole rubbing against it but never quite dipping inside. Again and again, he moved it against you but never in you. 

It was maddening.

You tilted your pelvis against his mouth, trying to coax his fingers into your welcoming body. He growled against your clit, removing his mouth causing you to whine. A sharp sting met your ass cheek and you yelped.

He spanked you.

“Behave.”

You never took the man to be hungry for anything other than missionary, but it seemed he had learned a few tricks over the years. He did have a few on you, you were sure of it. Your thoughts leaked out of your ears as he moved back up, slotting his hips in between your legs. Liquid lust ran through your veins at the sight of him rubbing his dick against your mound, a mess of your slick and his pre dragging along your pussy and up to your belly button. Your poor hole clenching around nothing at the image of how deep he was about to be in you.

You took a deep breath, mesmerized as he pressed the tip against your entrance, catching it before pressing himself inside. He went slowly, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as he finally began to sink home. Throwing your head back you closed your eyes as he stretched your body out.

You weren’t a virgin before you were locked away, but years of celibacy made you feel born again. Hell, with the size Simon was even if you had fucked him before he would’ve made you feel virginal with the way he was splitting you open.

When you opened them again you caught his gaze, he stared at you watching your expression pinch as he gave small thrusts, working the last of him inside you. When his balls pressed against your ass you let out a shaky breath. You had passed your limit two inches ago but somehow Simon had managed to coax your sweet pussy to take the last of him inside. The pain of him had taken you away from the edge of an orgasm he was working you towards, but when his hand found your clit again you knew you weren’t going to last long.

If his shaky breaths were anything to go by Simon wasn’t going to last long either. 

He kissed you again, this time it was softer. Sweeter. Made your stomach turn in a moment of guilt. It was replaced when he drew out of you, slowly letting you feel inch after inch leave your body, before slamming back in.

He moved again against you. And again. Building up a punishing rhythm. You couldn’t help the small ah ah ah’s that left your lips as he rutted in you. Your hips pushed against his, working with him as you both chased your highs. 

His hand never left your clit, as if glued to it working in tight fast circles. His other hand traveled along your body as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Squeezing at your tits so hard you thought it might bruise, running up your bare skin, constantly moving and feeling. As if he couldn’t believe that you were real. That you were out of your cage and underneath him panting his name in his ear instead of against the end of a phone. 

Your own hands wandered. Moving over his arms, God’s gift to you, his chest. But mostly they moved down his back, feeling his muscles move and contract under your hands. Before you left you would convince him to put a mirror over his bed, so you could watch his shoulders shift and move as he thrust inside you.

It was too much. The feel of Simon, the stimulation on your clit, the thick cock pistoning like a machine inside you, pressure built and built inside you. Your nails dug into his back, dragging down as he pushed you off that ledge.

Simon’s thrusts stuttered as he felt your walls fluttering around him, suckling at his cock, coaxing him. He came with a groan soon after you, painting your walls with thick globs of his cum.

You panted as he rested against you, letting his cock soften inside you as you ran your nails over the nape of his neck and caressed his short hair. It was oddly soft, comforting to run your hands over.

Simon began to untangle himself from you, slowly as if reluctant to part from your embrace. He moved to what you now realize was the on-suite connected to his bedroom. You could feel his cum start to drip out of your cunt and down your asshole, shifting at the uncomfortable feeling. You couldn’t find the energy yet to move, not even sure if your legs could support you right now. Simon came back to you, wash-cloth in hand, and began wiping up the mess he made.

“We’ll have to get a Plan B tomorrow.” You murmured as he crawled back into bed next to you.

Simon didn’t say anything, but he had always been a quiet man. He maneuvered the both of you until you rested under the covers, your hand running along his bare chest. Tracing his happy trail before moving back up, not ready to go again.

The adrenaline from before had worn off, leaving you suddenly exhausted. Sated and free you dozed off against him.

When you woke up again it was darker outside. Not yet the full black of night but rather the soft blue that came after the sun had only just dipped out of sight. Simon wasn’t in bed next to you. You rolled over with a sigh, sitting up and smoothing your hair. Thirsty you threw the covers off your body and padded across out of his room entering into a small hallway. There was a door directly across his room and with a shrug, you went into it. 

It wasn’t snooping if you lived here now too. Even if you were only going to stay for a little bit.

The handle turned easily but the room was darker than you expected, no windows to let in any natural light. Your hands patted at the wall until you found the edge of a light switch, with a click the room was bathed in a soft glow.

Your breath hitched.

The room was bare except for a small desk and chair, the walls were covered in photos. Photos of you. Old photos, from before your prison stint. Mugshots. But what made your skin crawl were photos of you in your cell. You sprawled out on your uncomfortable cot. You sitting cross-legged across from your cellmate. Images of you in the cafeteria. Images of you in the yard. 

You took a step back, then another, and another.

You flicked the light back off and slowly closed the door. You took a shuddering breath and yelped when you felt a chest pressed against yours. 

Simon’s hands dug into your hips, pulling you tight against him.

“You look like you’ve seen a Ghost, Birdie.”

Poor little bird, trading one cage for another.

___

Part Two