#it just came out a little late in the game

[kekewrites]

Tw. insecure/introvert reader, angst(?), dark content, noncon kissing, implied noncon/dubcon at the end, jealousy, tension, mutual pinning, misunderstanding, hidden feelings, slow burn(?), stalking, toxic, sabotage, possessiveness, red flag, manipulation, dependency, no actual smut

***

Imagine being the childhood friend of the popular playboy in school.

He wasn’t just a typical playboy—he was popular for a good amount of reasons. He was, of course, hot, tall, with a pretty face, but he also had that effortless charisma. Easy-going, charming, funny when he wanted to be, and somehow still managed to keep decent grades. A good reputation wrapped in the kind of smile that made girls melt.

The only problem? His ongoing roster of girls. You honestly couldn’t pinpoint when or how he turned into such a flirt, it sort of just... happened. Maybe when high school hit, and puberty did him more favors than most. Whatever the case, he became that guy. The one you’d usually only see in dramas.

But it’s not like you had any business with that part of him. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

You two had always been close. Childhood friends. Neighbors. Playmates since you were practically in diapers. Your parents knew each other well, your families comfortable enough to arrange sleepovers that turned into routine. You grew up in each other’s houses, like siblings. Always “the duo.”

But while he bloomed into the guy everyone wanted to be around, you... didn’t exactly shine the same way. You were a little plain. A bit on the bland side compared to others, especially compared to him. While he stood tall, you were shorter than average, often overlooked in group photos. You didn’t have much of a figure either, which made changing in the locker room a quiet kind of dread. Flat and forgettable. You’d never say it out loud, but you noticed the difference.

He lit up every room he walked into. You were just... there. Next to him. Always next to him. Just not quite enough.

But it was fine.

You never made a big deal about any of it. It’s not like you wanted the spotlight anyway. You were comfortable being in the background, comfortable not having all eyes on you. Sure, sometimes you got a few questionable looks when you were with Mr. Charming, but you learned not to care. Let them wonder. You were used to being the quiet one beside the star of the show.

Though, truth be told, you sometimes wondered too. Why did he always stick around? Even when the popular kids were constantly egging him on to ditch you and join them, he never really did. He’d flirt and play around, sure, but he always came back to you. As if none of the sparkle out there was worth trading for late-night game sessions and instant noodles in your room.

"Geez, why’re you in my bedroom...? I thought you were about to go to the concert with them," you asked one evening, raising a brow as he sprawled across your bed like it was his.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t wanna,” he replied, eyes already glued to the game controller in his hand. “Plus, I wanna spend time playing games with you.”

You rolled your eyes at the time, but deep down, your chest tightened just a little. Warm and confused all at once.

It was things like that, small, innocent moments that led to the never-ending question you kept hearing from people.

“Are you guys dating?”

You always shut it down quickly, automatically, almost on instinct now.

“No. Definitely not. I’m not his type, we’re just friends.”

Because that was the truth, right?

Right?

***

He heard you say it all the time.

“We’re just friends.”

You said it so naturally, like breathing. Like it was a fact. Like it didn’t chip away at something in him every time those words slipped from your lips.

But damn, you didn’t make it easy to believe.

Not when you smiled at him like that. Not when you laughed at his dumb jokes, even the ones no one else caught. Not when you looked at him like he was just him, not the guy with a line of girls and a reputation he didn’t even care for anymore.

He told himself he was just being a good friend. That walking you home—even when it meant doubling back—was normal. That flicking some guy’s forehead for looking at you too long was harmless. Just a joke. Even if something in his chest burned every time.

And maybe he leaned in too close sometimes. Maybe he hovered near your space a little more than necessary. But he didn’t do it on purpose. Not at first.

It’s just... you never pulled away.

You made it feel like he belonged there.

And then there were the little things.

The way you always insisted you weren’t picky, but he still remembered how you liked your noodles with less broth. The way he always brought an extra hoodie because yeah, you always forgot yours, and he didn’t want you getting cold. The way he chose the seat next to you, even if the room was empty. Always you. Always your side.

You never questioned it.

Except that one time.

"Why’re you always hanging out with me? I'm not exactly a party."

He remembered how you asked it with a smile, trying to play it off.

But it hit him harder than he expected. So he gave you the truth. Or at least… part of it.

"Yeah, but you’re my favorite kind of quiet."

You laughed, of course. Brushed it off like it was nothing.

But he saw the way you looked down after. The way your cheeks went warm. And he carried that moment with him, filed it away with all the other things he never said out loud.

And when people asked if you two were dating and you laughed and said “No, I’m definitely not his type”—he never corrected you.

He should’ve. God, he wanted to.

But instead, he just smiled. That same tight, hollow smile.

Because you were wrong.

You were so wrong.

You weren’t loud, or bold, or flashy like the girls who chased him, sure. But none of them ever made him feel the way you did.

And you never saw it.

You looked at yourself and only saw “plain.” But he looked at you and saw home.

And he stayed.

He always stayed.

That part? You never really understood.

But maybe… he was just too much of a coward to make you.

***

It happened one weekend night.

Your parents were out of town for a wedding (you didn't want to go along), leaving you with the house to yourself. You’d planned to spend the evening curled up with snacks and a cheesy drama, nothing unusual. The house was quiet, comfortably so.

Until a knock came at the front door. Loud. Repetitive.

You opened it, and there he was, him. Tall, flushed, and very, very drunk.

“Heeeyyy,” he drawled, grinning lopsidedly as he leaned against the doorframe. “Youuuuuu. I missed you.”

You blinked, completely stunned. “Wait—what the hell? Are you drunk? Where were you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stumbled forward, and your reflexes kicked in just in time to stop him from falling face-first into your entryway.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, arms flailing as you tried to support him. “Jeez, you’re heavy, what did you drink?”

He giggled. Actually giggled.

“Dunno,” he mumbled, dropping most of his weight onto you like a sleepy sloth. “They gave me... stuff. Tasted like cough syrup. Missed your face though…”

You groaned, knees nearly buckling under him as you fumbled to drag his dead weight toward the living room. “You missed my face? Seriously?”

He made a noise that was suspiciously close to a whine. “Yeah… You didn’t come to the party. I waited. Got bored. Left.”

“You should’ve just stayed and sobered up instead of dragging your drunk ass here.”

But he didn’t respond. Instead, he slurred something completely incoherent and nuzzled into your shoulder.

You finally managed to guide him to the couch, huffing and trying to keep your balance. But as you bent to lower him onto the cushions, he suddenly shifted his weight and with zero warning, pulled you down with him.

“W-Wait—!”

You fell right on top of him with a muffled oof, and before you could scramble away, his arms lazily wrapped around you, holding you there like a living body pillow.

“Comfy,” he mumbled against your hair. “You smell nice.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Wha— I— Get off!”

But he didn’t budge. In fact, he snuggled closer, warmth radiating off him as he held you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Y’know,” he whispered, voice thick with sleep and alcohol, “I don’t like it when you say you’re not my type.”

You froze.

“I hate it,” he added, softer now. “So dumb. You don’t even see how much I like being around you…”

Then silence. Deep, slow breaths. He was already half-asleep, completely unaware of the way your heart was trying to beat out of your chest.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you said nothing.

And stayed there, quietly listening to the sound of his breathing, with your face burning and your thoughts racing, wondering if he’d remember any of it in the morning.

Your heart was pounding like it wanted to escape your chest.

You could feel the heat of his breath against your collarbone, his arms still wrapped around you in a lazy hold. Everything about the moment was too much—the closeness, the weight of his words, the way he mumbled "I don’t like it when you say you’re not my type.”

It should’ve meant something. Should’ve stirred something deeper. And for a moment, it did.

But then, reality hit.

This was him—the same guy who’d flirted with three girls just last week, the same guy whose phone buzzed with messages from different names at ungodly hours. The guy who could have anyone he wanted with just a glance and a half-hearted smile.

Your brows furrowed, the haze of warmth in your chest beginning to cool.

Of course he was saying stuff like that. He was drunk. Sloppy. Blurry-eyed. Probably mistaking you for someone else, or worse, just saying the first sweet thing that came to mind because it was easy. Because that's what he does.

The warmth in your cheeks faded. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you stared.

You sighed.

“Stupid drunk,” you muttered, voice flat and unimpressed.

He didn’t react, already halfway to sleep, breathing soft and slow like a knocked-out puppy.

You stayed like that for a moment longer, caught between the ghost of his words and the bitter edge of your thoughts. Part of you wanted to believe what he said. But the other part? The part that had watched girl after girl fall for him and get tossed aside like it was nothing?

That part just wanted to roll its eyes.

Still, you didn’t move.

Because even if you didn’t believe him…

His arms around you still felt kind of nice.

***

You two acted normal after the morning of that. He probably didn't remember what he said, which was a good thing for you. Moved on, like nothing happened.

It's been a few days after that and you were talking about someone new—a guy from your class, apparently. You had that little spark in your voice, the one he usually only heard when you were talking about food or finding a cute dog online.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“So yeah,” you said casually, biting into a snack as you scrolled on your phone, “he offered to walk me home the other day. I didn’t let him, obviously. But he was really nice about it. Kinda surprising.”

He sat beside you on your bed, leaning back on one hand, pretending not to care. “Oh? He did?”

“Yeah. I think he’s cool,” you said, voice light, unaware of how that single word stabbed into him harder than he wanted to admit.

He tilted his head, a smile pulling at his lips, one of those closed-eyed smiles he wore when he was being “harmless.”

“You do?”

You nodded, totally unfazed. “Mhm. He’s funny, smart. Kinda cute.”

There it was.

The trigger.

He sat up a little straighter, the smile never quite reaching his eyes now. “Funny, smart, cute?” he repeated, still with that casual tone. “Wow. Sounds like a real catch.”

You blinked at him. “Yeah, I guess. He’s easy to talk to.”

He snorted. “Right, right. Tall guy? Bit of a clean-cut look?”

You nodded again, chewing absently on your snack.

“Must be nice,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “Bet he’s the type to open doors and call you ma’am too.”

You laughed. “I mean, manners aren’t exactly a red flag.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” he said, voice picking up heat now, even as he smiled. “So polite. Bet he irons his shirts and rehearses compliments in the mirror.”

You gave him a look, amused. “What is with you?”

“Nothing. Just sayin’—guy’s probably all talk. Bet he folds under pressure. Can’t even kill a spider without screaming.”

You raised a brow, “That’s a bold assumption.”

He scoffed, throwing his hands up, still smiling but not meaning it. “I’m taller, better looking, and I don’t have to try so hard to impress people.”

Your jaw dropped a little. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” he said, raising his bottle in mock-toast. “If you’re gonna go for someone ‘cool,’ maybe aim higher. You know. Someone who’s taller, funnier, better-looking, less try-hard. Maybe someone who’s known you since you were five. Just throwing that out there.”

“Huh?”

“And I bet my dick’s bigger than his."

You choked on your drink, “What?!”

He blinked. “What?”

You stared at him, stunned, and he just gave a tiny shrug like oops, did I say that out loud?

You laughed, shaking your head, brushing it all off like it was just another one of his weird ego trips. “Okay, weirdo.”

He didn’t respond right away.

He just watched you, jaw tightening slightly as you turned your attention back to your phone, entirely missing the storm he was trying to hide behind casual smirks and crude jokes.

You didn’t get it, because you didn’t think he looked at you that way.

***

After that conversation, things didn’t exactly change—but they didn’t quite go back to normal either.

He still walked you home. Still flopped onto your bed like it was his own. Still stole your snacks and your charger and your last bit of patience on most days.

But sometimes, you’d catch him watching you a little too long.

Not in the obvious way. Not like the way other guys did, staring with boldness and intentions written all over their faces.

No—he did it quietly. Like he was trying to memorize the way you smiled when you thought no one was looking. Like he was trying to figure something out about you… or maybe about himself.

Then there were the little shifts.

He started texting back slower when you told him you were talking to that guy again. Didn’t say anything harsh, but his replies were short. Blunt.

And when that same guy approached you one afternoon in the hallway, he just so happened to slide in between you two, throwing an arm around your shoulder.

“Didn’t know you liked hanging out with traffic cones,” he muttered with a lopsided grin, nodding at the guy’s neon hoodie.

You laughed nervously, brushing it off. “You’re so dumb.”

But the guy left after that. Didn’t even try to keep the conversation going.

And when you asked him what that was about, he just shrugged.

“Didn’t like his face.”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t like anyone’s face lately.”

He smiled. “Yours is okay, I guess.”

And then there were those times when you were on your phone, texting, and he’d lean over your shoulder too quickly.

“Who’s that?”

“No one.”

“Hmm. No one has a name?”

You sighed, brushing him away. “Why are you so nosy lately?”

But he’d never answer. He’d just flop backward onto the couch or your bed and throw an arm over his eyes like he was bored. Or tired. Or both.

But you felt it.

Something had shifted.

He was getting quieter about the things he didn’t say. Quieter about how he stayed so close but kept himself just far enough that you wouldn’t really notice.

***

You didn’t say anything about it to him.

Not when you got the number. Not when you exchanged a few late-night texts with the guy from class. And definitely not when he asked who kept lighting up your phone and you lied—said it was your cousin, or some stupid group chat.

Because… if he wanted to keep treating you like you were just his best friend, then fine. Maybe you’d stop waiting. You were plain ol Jane anyway, at this rate you'd end up alone. Not like anyone would like you if you don't even try or put any effort to yourself. Maybe it was time to try something different.

Someone different.

So you said yes to a date.

It wasn’t a big deal. Just a small place near the station, casual, low-pressure. You wore a little lip tint. Changed your shirt twice. Checked your phone four times on the way there.

You even left the house without telling him.

Which was rare.

Because somehow, despite how frustrated you were, you still felt a little guilty doing something like this without him knowing. Scrap that! You shouldn't feel guilty at all, it's not like you're his girlfriend or something. Plus, this was your first date, you shouldn't even think of him.

You got there early. Sat at the little table. Smoothed your skirt out. Sipped water slowly.

And waited.

Then waited some more.

Minutes passed. Then a half-hour. Then an hour.

No messages. No call. Just… silence.

At some point, you stopped pretending to check your phone like there was something new. You just sat there, hands folded, eyes distant. Trying not to let it sink in too hard, but it did anyway.

He didn’t show.

No explanation.

No reason.

Just a reminder that maybe you really weren’t the type to be chosen after all.

By the time you got home, it was dark. You kicked your shoes off a little harder than usual, holding back the pressure behind your eyes. The house was quiet. Your parents weren’t home. Just you. And the lingering ache of rejection sitting heavy in your chest.

Maybe you shouldn't gotten your hopes up.

And then you heard the knock on your door. You already knew who it was.

He walked in like he always did, with a lazy grin and a snack in hand. You stared at him like you hadn’t just spent an hour trying to convince yourself you were worth showing up for.

“Yo. You were gone,” he said, tossing a drink on your desk like usual. “Didn’t text me back. Something happened?”

You looked up from where you sat on your bed, your voice dull. “No. I just… needed some air.”

He paused. The grin faltered, but only for a split second.

“…Did you go somewhere?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “Just errands. Nothing interesting.”

He didn’t question it. He trusted you too easily. Or maybe he didn’t want to push. Instead, he stretched out beside you, letting out a sigh. “People are exhausting. I don’t get how you deal with them.”

You shrugged, keeping your voice light. “Guess I just have more patience.”

He turned his head to look at you then—really looked. Eyes soft, searching.

“You okay?”

You smiled, quick and small. “Yeah. Just tired.”

And that was the thing with him. He’d always pull back just when he was about to see something too real. Like he was afraid of what he might find if he looked too closely.

So, he let it go.

He reached for the controller on your desk, tossing it in your lap. “Wanna game ‘til we pass out?”

You nodded.

Because what else could you do?

You couldn’t tell him your date never showed up. You couldn’t tell him that for a brief moment, you thought maybe—just maybe—you could be wanted by someone else. That someone else could make you forget the way he made you feel without ever touching you.

***

Of course, he knew.

He always knew.

He noticed the shift before you even realized it yourself—how you started texting a little less when he was around, how you smiled down at your phone and quickly locked it when he leaned over. How you’d hum that soft little tune you always did when you were nervous or excited.

It didn’t take much.

One glance at your screen while you left it unattended. One name. One stupid string of texts about Friday and coffee and maybe I’ll see you there? :)

And it pissed him off more than he wanted to admit.

Not because he thought you weren’t allowed to date. Not even because he thought the guy was anything special.

No.

It was because you thought someone else could understand you better than he did. That someone else could earn what he’d spent years protecting.

You didn’t know it, but he was the reason most guys never got near you in the first place.

He wasn’t exactly subtle—especially in high school. Any guy who so much as looked at you too long got “the talk.” A casual hand around your shoulders. A stare that went a little too cold. A whispered “She’s not interested” even if you hadn’t said it yourself.

He made it hard for anyone to approach. On purpose.

Because you were his.

Not in the possessive, boyfriend kind of way. At least, that’s what he told himself. But in the I know every part of you, and no one else ever will kind of way.

So when this new guy started sniffing around, he didn’t wait.

He caught the guy behind the gym after class, right where the hallway cameras didn’t reach.

The guy flinched when he turned the corner and saw him standing there—arms crossed, calm smile on his face like this was just another casual run-in. But his eyes… his eyes were cold.

“Hey,” he said smoothly, stepping into his path.

The guy hesitated, confused. “Uh. Hey?”

“You’ve been texting her.”

The guy blinked, caught off guard. “I—what?”

He took another step closer. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been trying to take her out. Planning something for Friday, right? Café date?”

The guy laughed nervously, confused. “Yeah? I mean… she said yes.”

That smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah. She’s nice like that.”

Then the smile dropped.

“But let’s get one thing straight.”

The guy’s brows pulled together. “What are you—?”

He grabbed the front of his collar, shoving him hard against the wall, voice dropping low and sharp.

“You’re not gonna show up.”

The guy froze. “What the hell is your problem?!”

“I don’t like repeating myself.” He leaned in close, breath calm and voice terrifyingly even. “You’re going to leave her alone. You’re going to block her. And you’re never going to speak to her again.”

“You’re insane—!”

He smiled again, twisting the guy’s shirt tighter. “No. You’re stupid. See, here’s the thing. I’m the popular guy. Good grades. Everyone loves me.” He tilted his head, voice dropping even further. “You? You’re a background character. No one’s gonna believe some awkward little shit over me. You tell anyone I threatened you, and all I have to do is smile and say, ‘Who, me?’ And everyone will laugh and move on.”

He let go with a shove, stepping back as the guy gasped, fixing his shirt.

“You can call it jealousy. Obsession. Whatever makes you feel better,” he said, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. “But here’s what it really is, I’m not letting someone like you anywhere near her.”

The guy stared at him, chest heaving.

He walked away with a casual wave. “Don’t forget. Friday? You’re busy~”

The guy didn’t show up.

And that night, when he dropped by your room and found you curled up and quiet, wearing his hoodie like a safety blanket, something in his chest twisted.

You didn’t say a word about it.

But he knew.

He could see the flicker of hurt behind your eyes. The soft smile you gave him—fake, practiced. The way you brushed him off like it didn’t matter. He wanted to feel satisfied. Victorious.

But it just made him feel worse.

Because no matter how much he tried to control things… he couldn’t stop that sadness in your eyes.

You didn’t even know it was him. Didn’t even know that all this time, the reason you felt so overlooked, so invisible was because he’d made sure of it.

Not because he wanted to hurt you. But because he couldn’t stand the idea of someone else seeing what he saw.

You were his quiet. His warmth. His constant.

And if someone else took that away from him?

He didn’t know who he’d be.

***

It started small.

You noticed it when you caught him glaring at someone you’d only spoken to once. When your texts started mysteriously going unanswered. When people who used to be friendly now looked at you like they didn’t want to get involved.

At first, you thought you were just overthinking it. Paranoia, maybe. You were introverted, bad at reading people. You kept to yourself more often than not, maybe that just meant people naturally faded away.

But then there were moments.

Moments where you caught the sharpness behind his smile when someone mentioned another guy’s name. Moments where his “jokes” about being possessive didn’t feel so funny anymore. Moments where he looked at you too long, too quietly, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say out loud.

And then that night—everything shifted.

He was in your room again. Like always. Sprawled out on your bed, head resting against your pillow like it belonged to him. You were on your floor, flipping through old game cases, trying to ignore the heavy beat of your heart.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, tone light but eyes tracking every move you made.

You shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t really know how to. Your mind had been a mess lately, spinning with everything you didn’t understand. Everything you were starting to understand.

“Do you…” you hesitated, eyes on the case in your hand. “Do you ever think people avoid me because of you?”

He sat up. Slowly.

“Where’s that coming from?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered. “It just feels like… people don’t even try anymore.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he stood. Walked over. Sat beside you on the floor, shoulder brushing yours. You didn’t look at him. You felt like you couldn’t.

You looked up at him, finally and your breath caught.

He was quiet for a second. Then he said, voice low, “Maybe I like it that way.”

And then he kissed you.

Because his eyes weren’t teasing. They were serious. Dark. Familiar in a way that suddenly felt foreign.

Just like that.

No warning. No permission.

His lips were on yours—soft, warm, dangerous. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was sure. Like he’d been waiting. Like he’d done it a thousand times in his head already.

You froze.

For a second, your brain short-circuited. Everything blanked. Your body didn’t know whether to lean in or pull away. Because you’d thought about this before. God, had you thought about it. Wondered, dreamed, ached over it. But now that it was real…

You remembered the girls. The rumors. The way he never looked twice at them after he got bored.

You pulled back, breath catching. “Don’t.”

He blinked at you, surprised, maybe even a little hurt.

You stood, fast. Hands shaking. “You should go.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, he gave you a small, crooked smile. The kind you used to find charming. The kind that now made your stomach twist.

“Why?” he said softly. “I wanna stay the night.”

You stared at him.

He tilted his head, like this was all just a game, “We can play boyfriend and girlfriend again,” he said, voice low, teasing. “Like we used to when we were kids. Remember that?”

You took a step back. “That was pretend.”

“So~?” He stood too now, closing the space between you. “Let’s pretend again. This time I won’t leave.”

Your chest tightened.

You want to push him away, your mind reeling with the memories of him being a playboy.

“I said you should go,” you repeated, trying to keep your voice firm.

And you hated that your heart skipped. That your body remembered the kiss more than your mind could process it. But your gut? Your gut screamed something was wrong. You took another step back, putting space between you.

He didn’t move. His eyes tracked you like prey, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface.

"You used to let me sleep over all the time," he said softly, like he was reminding you of a rule you were suddenly breaking. “What changed?”

Everything, you wanted to say.

But instead, your voice came out smaller than you intended. “That was when we were kids.”

A slow grin tugged at his lips—but it wasn’t his usual smile. It was something darker. Almost sad.

“You’re acting like I’m a stranger.”

You clenched your fists, unsure why your throat felt tight. “You are. Lately... I don’t know what you are.”

Something in his jaw twitched. The grin dropped.

And then, suddenly he stepped forward.

You barely had time to flinch before you felt his hands on your shoulders, gently but firmly guiding you backward. Your knees hit the edge of your bed. You stumbled. Sat down.

His body was close. Too close.

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me,” he murmured, crouching slightly so he could look you in the eyes. “I’d never hurt you. You know that, right?”

You nodded slowly, heart hammering. But the unease wouldn’t leave.

He placed a hand beside your thigh on the bed, leaning in.

“Then why are you shaking?”

You didn't answer.

Because part of you didn’t know if it was fear… or something else. Something even more dangerous—doubt.

You tried to stand again, but he didn’t move back. He was watching you too closely. Like he was trying to read your mind. Like he already knew what was in it.

"I know you're confused," he said. "But deep down, you've always felt something too. I just had the guts to do something about it."

You opened your mouth, to argue, to tell him to leave again but nothing came out. Instead, you whispered, "I don't know what you're doing anymore."

His expression cracked for a moment—something bitter bleeding through.

“I’m doing what I should’ve done a long time ago.”

And for the first time, he didn’t try to mask it.

[hornydilfsinyourarea]

my favourite thing is that when they start gripping and clawing at anything around them (bedsheets, the edge of the table, literally anything) to ground themselves because the pleasure is getting too much

like, them squirming to escape the pleasure, only for you to hold them down firmly, making sure there is limited space for them to move so all they could do is take, take, take—

and of course, them scolding you after, all flustered, and you apologizing knowing damn well you're not thinking of stopping anytime soon ♡

(haven't written anything in a while, might have gotten rusty 🥀)

-🌹

I love this, saw yandere! college professor drabble a while earlier... and now I can't stop thinking of it, also, subtop turned power top reader anyone???? x dombottom character??? Just me? Okay. also, tw: slight dubcon

IMAGINING... a strict! college professor and jock! reader... they're always so strict with you- with everything, mean and stuck up, but you liked that, almost. They would always put you in detention, no matter what- you talked? Detention. You looked over your shoulder? Detention. You came to class 2 minutes late? Detention. They didn't care if you had sports practice or not, why should they? It's your fault you're such a bad boy. No one knew what goes on in the professor's detentions- no one ever wanted to find out, the professor scared them a little- but fuck... it was both torture and heaven for you... You see, you had a little secret with your dear ol' teacher.... they weren't just your teacher- no, well- teachers don't jerk off their students, now do they? You fell first- I mean, who wouldn't? Your professor was HOT. Or maybe, you just liked that they were older, almost old enough to be your parent. Even though you fell first- they fell harder. You were cute, a bit dumb, but cute. You were a typical jock- you played sport, was good in it- but at the expense of your education... so your professor had to give you extra classes- private lessons. And during some of those lessons? Let's just say... if any of it got out- your professor might just lose their job. Of course, it didn't first start off sexual, it was innocent. Till they noticed how... you looked up at them each time they would stand by your desk- those pretty eyes of yours... it awoken something inside of them. It started with light teasing, their hands on your shoulders, their breath softly tickling your ear as they talked, their head close to yours- it also didn't help when they would bend down next to you when they had to help another student- their ass right in eye view for you, took all your willpower not to stare at it directly, but god did you want to. Then... it turned into their hand rubbing your crotch in the empty classroom, their voice explaining the subject. You had to focus, because if you got it wrong... they won't let you cum- and you really, really wanted to.

When you did good, really good... they allow you to get a taste, all you had to do is drop down to your knees and eat them out like their a 5-star 4 course meal. And if you do it good, they might just let your grade reflect that. But you know what frustrated you? They never allowed you to fuck them, not that you minded, you at least get a blowjob here and then- but when you did bad? When you were a bad boy? They never allowed you to cum, not once during the sessions. God, the edging was bad, almost enough to make you cry sometimes- not to mention they ONLY allow your tip to enter them, saying it's "punishment" for being bad, or failing the test, and that you could've had more if you've been good... you had good self-control, you didn't lack any... but were they really expecting you not to just... break one day?

And break you did. The weekend was suppose to be for studying, but your coach didn't let you, there was an upcoming game, a big one- you couldn't afford to fail on that. Your coach worked you hard, really hard- you barely had any time to study, always coming home tired and sore. And so, it wasn't a surprise that you didn't do good on the test, a D- on your test paper when you got it back, and as you looked up slightly, your disappointed professor gave you a glance, shaking their head slightly- you knew what that meant. But it wasn't your fault! It wasn't fair! Making you stand there, them bent over the desk, scolding you, the tip of your cock ever so slightly inside of them. You could feel them clenching down, gripping around you. It wasn't your fault, and it was unfair- everything about this was unfair! And you had about enough of getting bossed around, you needed some motherfucking relief. A quick "I'm sorry" flying out of your mouth, your hand moving to grip his shoulder, "Wait- what are you-!" your professor said before they got cut off by you just... thrusting the rest of your cock inside of them. You couldn't help it, okay? You were stressed out, and being teased and edged was NOT something you needed right now. And it didn't help they just felt so good... their moans, the way they grip the table- trying to stable themself... how they clenched down on your length each time you hit that sweet spot inside of them... those "Ahh~! Ooohh, mhph!" leaving their mouth. You just couldn't stop yourself. Maybe they didn't want you either You don't even remember how long you've been fucking them before you released yourself deep inside of them- a surprised moan turned gasp leaving their mouth, they didn't expect you to actually cum inside of them- they had to go home like this! Their clothing ruined and their skin sticky. They were too lost in their own orgams to realize that you didn't intent to pull out to cum. "Y-you... pervert" They would mumble out, glaring at you as you just stood there, bashful almost- whoops... got a little ahead of yourself there buddy, didn't you? After you left- in their car, driving home... they thought about that little session, how rough you were, so in control, taking their body like you owned it... they were used to being in control- but now? They couldn't help getting aroused again about imagining how much more dominant you can get, if you put that strength you have to good use on them

love how I completely forgot this in my drafts before I literally went on hiatus :/

[hiiikiko]

it’s completely fine if ur uncomfortable w writing for this topic butttt if not, can you do reader with religious trauma x gf ellie?? <33

a/n: i’m so so sorry for responding to these request late! this is such a sweet request :0 i went to a religious school for awhile, at the school they constantly reiterated that if we liked the same sex, we were doomed to hell and this made me very paranoid for the longest time and i lashed out in so many ways so this prompt hits VERY close to home. thank you so much for your request, love <3 i hope that in the time it took me to get to this request, you’ve found some sort of peace of mind and i hope this can give you some comfort <3 I will be doing this from a ex-christian’s pov because it’s what I can relate to best, so sorry if it isn’t the way you wanted it! I still hope it resonates with you in some capacity.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them.

Leviticus 20:13, that verse plagued your existence. You had it memorized, of course, how could you not? The pastor only made you write it out a million times when she suspected that your relationship with one of your friends was more than sisterhood. It took you a very, very long time to work past the trauma, every time you thought about being with another some, your cheeks would warm and your heart would flutter but.. in the back of your mind, that verse would echo like a a broken record, reminding you that the same God who loved you, didn’t love you enough to let you love who you want to love.

For awhile, you thought you could ignore the idea of being with another woman, you forced yourself to go on dates with boys in button up collared shirts and stories about how they took their youth club to a play about the nativity or something along those lines. You played the perfect part, skirts past your knees, hair up in a neat bun, nude nail polish, and a bible in hand, attending church every Sunday like it was a vice.

Everything was fine, you convinced yourself but your perfect church girl facade went out the window when you saw her. You had never seen her before, she stood behind a gruff looking man, rubbing the back of her neck and wrinkling her nose at the stuffy church ladies tutting over her ‘boyish’ appearance.

You later came to learn that her name was Ellie Williams, adopted um.. something of Joel Miller, the church handyman and local contractor. She didn’t show up to the services, only came to assist Joel with a broken sink, a fence that needed mending, and whatever crap the church ladies would spew just so that they could get a glimpse of Joel.

You tried not to pay any attention to her, she didn’t look like the typical church goer type. She didn’t mind cussing around the church (though she never cussed IN church because that would mean a smack upside the head from Joel), usually walked in with a bad case of bed head and tired look in her eyes, and most importantly didn’t hid the little pride flag on her bag.

The pin was small, small enough that the other attendees didn’t notice but you did. The little plastic pin gleamed in the fluorescent lighting like it was mocking you, calling your eyes towards it.

“What, you like the pin?”

Your eyes darted up to the auburnette in front of you, your cheeks warmed and you cleared your throat, “U-um, not particularly.. I-I was just looking, that’s all,” you averted your eyes back to the broken sink.

That was how the two of you started talking, she’d say a teasing comment here and there when Joel and his fan club weren’t around. Sometimes, Ellie would even say something as small as ‘I like your hair like that’ and it would send your heart racing. Still, you chalked up your dumb feelings to being ‘just friends.’

Lucky enough for you, Ellie was patient, she didn’t mind playing the long game, hell, she even thought it was a little cute when you’d stammer over your words, your hand fiddling with the cross around your neck, and your eyes looking anywhere else but her like you were trying to recall some scripture they taught you in Sunday school. Hell, she didn’t even mind the way you lashed out at her the first time she kissed you because she could still see the pink of your cheeks in the dim lighting in her room.

After much thinking and wrestling with your own faith, you found yourself back at her doorstep, cross necklace back home in your bedside drawer and Leviticus 20:13 no longer echoeing in the back of your mind because right then, all you could think about was how could something as tender as a kiss be an ‘abomination.’

Ellie didn’t mind taking it slow with you, she listened intently as you said about how you didn’t know if this is right but then you’d look at her with this big glassy eyes and tell her that you’ve never felt this way about anyone else before, not even Jedediah Noah Christianson.

Ellie didn’t even mind hiding your relationship, she knew how hard it was for you to leave your church, even if some of the congregation were the very same people who told you that you were going to hell for looking at another girl, the way you were supposed to look at a man.

She was patient, she’d sneak kisses from you in the back of the church before you went to assist with the Sunday school kids, she helped you clean up after potlucks, made up more excuses to visit the church like needing to fix a broken valve or whatever. Hell, she even dressed more ‘church-girl-chique’ if it meant your very religious and uptight parents would let her spend the night. (A/N: unfortunately, she’d look very male gaze ellie here… but shes doing it for YOU… be grateful :()

When the time came and you came out to your folks, she was right there beside you. She rolled her eyes when your mother began to cry and say ‘I never wanted this to you’ then let out a scoff when your dad called you some very mean words, she even bit back with some words of her own before taking you to your bedroom and helping you pack a few bags, saying that there was no way in hell, she was letting you stay in that house any longer.

That night, she let your rest your head against her chest, her slender fingers raking through your hair as you sniffled, mumbling about how you never want to see your parents again and how you don’t want to go back to that place ever again.

After a few more months together, you finally allowed yourself to give into Ellie, though, the words of your parents and pastors still played, you learned to shut them out by focusing on Ellie. Though, every now and then, the words would get loud, too loud. Maybe you lashed out, sunk back into verses about homosexuality, or just clammed up, either way, Ellie was there. She waited for you, whether you yelled, holed up with a bible, or shut her out, she waited. Sometimes, she would even sit with you and play her guitar, hoping that the gentle strums of the strings were louder than your words.

Then when you slowly came back to her, tearful and muttering out apology after apology, she’d smile softly and tell you, “babe, there’s nothin to be sorry about, it’s not your fault. You know, I’ll still love, yeah? It’s alright, come here.”

“Both of them have committed an abomination,” you muttered out the verse to Ellie, your hands playing with the buttons on her flannel.

“An abomination, huh? That’s a pretty weird way of saying they loved each other,” Ellie chuckled at her own cheap joke before pressing a small kiss against your forehead, “Does this feel like an abomination?”

You couldn’t help but giggle softly, your fingers still tracing the buttons but with less anxiety and more fondness, “You’re such a dork.”

[baigepueckers]

Nika Mühl X Reader

Unspoken

Nika didn’t expect to feel so nervous meeting your family.

She was cool under pressure. That was her thing. She could handle screaming fans, last minute shot clocks, GMs in the stands watching her every move. But walking into your childhood home with a bag slung over her shoulder and your fingers laced through hers..that made her stomach flip in ways nothing else did.

It was loud inside cluttered in the most loving way. Old photos on the walls, familiar smells she didn’t recognize but instantly liked. A dog she wasn’t expecting barked twice, sniffed her sock, then curled up under the table like she was already part of the furniture.

Your mom hugged her like she meant it. Your dad offered to make her coffee. Your younger brother challenged her to a game of H-O-R-S-E the minute he realized who she was.

It should’ve been overwhelming. But somehow, it wasn’t.

And then your niece came into the picture.

Your sister went into labor the morning after you arrived, and everything tilted. Plans were dropped. Schedules shifted. Nika found herself in a car with your mom at 2AM, half asleep but wide eyed, following a frantic call and a packed overnight bag.

The baby was tiny. Eight pounds. Her name was Hazel. And from the second you saw her, something in you changed.

Nika saw it.

She couldn’t not see it.

And now two days later you were in the kitchen, holding Hazel against your chest with one arm while gently adjusting a bottle with the other, humming something soft and unrecognizable under your breath.

Nika hadn’t meant to walk in unnoticed. She was just coming in to find her charger. But the second she stepped into the doorway and saw you like that, she froze.

The light was different in here. Warmer. Golden, filtering through the windows and catching the soft strands of your hair. You were wearing one of her oversized hoodies, the sleeves pushed up messily, a burp cloth slung over your shoulder like it was second nature.

Your voice was low, gentle. You were talking to Hazel like she could understand, your words quiet and tender as you cradled her closer.

“You’re already milking this whole “newborn” thing for attention, huh?” you whispered with a small grin.

Nika’s heart didn’t just flutter…it shifted. Like something fundamental had moved inside her.

She had seen you in every mood. Drunk at team parties. Exhausted after studying. Insecure on your worst days. Competitive when someone tried to beat you in Uno. She loved all of it.

But this?

This softness?

This care?

She’d never wanted to marry someone so badly in her life.

She didn’t even believe in that stuff. Not really. She always rolled her eyes when her sister cried at proposal videos. She told herself love didn’t need some big show. But this moment was so quiet, so ordinary…and it broke something open in her anyway.

You rocked slightly as you fed Hazel, shifting your weight from foot to foot like it was instinct. You weren’t even trying to look maternal. You were. Fully. Effortlessly.

And Nika…who never ran out of things to say…suddenly had no words at all.

You looked up at her then, as if sensing something. Caught her eyes over the curve of Hazel’s soft cheek.

“Hey” you said softly. “She was fussing, so I figured I’d give my sister a break.”

You smiled. That sleepy, familiar kind of smile you gave her when you were content and didn’t need anything more than what you had.

“Yeah,” Nika said, voice a little rough. “Looks like you’ve got it handled.”

You chuckled, glancing back down at the baby.

“She’s perfect. I didn’t think I’d be this into it, but…” you trailed off, one hand tracing little circles on Hazel’s back. “She smells so good. Why do babies smell good?”

Nika stepped closer, tucking her hands into her sweatpants pockets to hide the way they were trembling.

“I think it’s evolutionary,” she offered, trying to steady her voice. “To keep people from… you know. Losing their minds.”

“Too late for me, then,” you joked.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She was too focused on you. On the way your eyelashes fluttered when Hazel shifted. On the way your whole body moved around the baby like she was a part of you.

She could see it. A crib in your shared Seattle apartment someday. You, in that same hoodie, with a little one in your arms and no idea how deeply you’d wrecked her.

“You’d be a really good mom,” she said suddenly.

You blinked, surprised. Then smiled again, this time quieter. “Yeah?”

She nodded, mouth dry. “Yeah. The best.”

And then, before she could help it, her fingers reached out to trace your arm…just once, gentle and slow. Like she needed the contact to ground herself in the moment.

Because if she didn’t touch you, she was going to say something. Something too big.

Like I think I’m in love with the way you hold her.

Like I want this with you.

Like You are my whole future and you don’t even know it yet.

Instead, she stayed quiet. Let her touch speak for her.

And you leaned into it.

Hazel finished the bottle. You kissed the top of her head and sighed, content.

Nika didn’t know how to explain the ache in her chest. Only that it wasn’t bad.

It was the kind that comes when you’re right on the edge of something life changing.

The evening had settled softly over your childhood home…the golden light fading into something quieter and cooler.

Nika found herself sitting beside you on the creaky old porch swing, the one you remembered from childhood, the one your family had insisted she try even though she looked at it like it might break.

You were both quiet for a long moment, the night wrapping around you like a gentle blanket. Hazel was asleep inside, the faint sounds of her soft breathing drifting through the open window.

Nika’s fingers intertwined with yours, her thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as she stared out into the darkening yard.

She had rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in her head.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

“I want this..us..forever.”

But when the words were finally close..right there on the tip of her tongue, they caught and twisted.

She swallowed hard.

Her voice came out soft, unsure.

“Hey… I uh.”

You looked over, your eyebrows rising gently, the way you always did when she sounded a little lost.

“I, uh” Nika repeated, running a hand through her hair, frustrated at herself. “I just… seeing you with Hazel today… it was wow. It was really something.”

You smiled, squeezing her hand, encouraging her without pressure.

She took a breath. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… you’re amazing. And not just with her. Like… with everything. With me.”

Her words rushed out, a little uneven, but full of meaning.

You reached up, brushing a stray hair from her forehead.

Nika’s heart hammered.

“And I don’t want to mess this up, or rush it, but…”

She faltered again.

You smiled a soft, patient smile that gave her permission to be nervous.

“You don’t have to say it all at once,” you whispered.

Relief flooded her chest.

She leaned in, resting her forehead against yours.

“Maybe I’m just scared I’ll lose you if I say too much.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

“You won’t. I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that, the weight lifted just enough for her to press a gentle kiss to your lips…slow, shy, full of everything she couldn’t quite say yet but felt with all her heart

[adoreasellie]

bbf ellie where reader has a huge crush on her and ellie lowkey knows but doesn’t do anything about it bc she doesn’t like her back.. but she does, but she won’t let anyone know

Hi nonnie I hope you’re doing well. Hope you like what I wrote xx

—————————————————————————

Title: If She Finds Out

Pairing: Ellie Williams x Fem!Reader

Summary: You love Ellie. She knows—but pretends she doesn’t. Until you find the one thing she’s been hiding.

Tags : best friends to lovers - mutual pining - soft angst - unresolved tension - secret crush - she knows but won’t say it - yearning ellie is down bad - they were roommates

Joel once said that some of the best things in life start with a dead car battery and a pair of jumper cables. And in your case, he wasn’t wrong.

It was winter. Freezing. Your car had stalled in front of some random house, and you were halfway through a mini breakdown, your breath fogging the air as you cursed out loud at your engine.

That’s when he came out. Joel. Beanie on, wrench in hand, calm like nothing in the world could surprise him.

"You need a hand, ma’am?"

You barely had time to nod when she stepped outside.

Ellie.

Wearing an oversized Metallica t-shirt, her hair an absolute mess, rubbing her eyes like she’d just woken up. She looked at you like she’d seen you before.

And that was it.

You were in trouble.

Since that day, you’d been inseparable.

Late nights talking about everything and nothing. Lazy weekends gaming on her old console. Rainy afternoons spent tucked away in the back of the bookstore where you worked, while Ellie devoured astronomy books like they were oxygen.

“Did you know that starlight can take hundreds of years to reach us?” she once said, glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose, eyes wide with wonder.

You looked at her like she was the miracle.

She was in her third year of astrophysics at university.

She worked too hard. Slept too little. You’d caught her more than once passed out on her textbooks at 2 a.m., pages smeared with ink and sleepy doodles of constellations.

You did what you could—coffee, snacks, soft playlists.

In return, she brought you to dinner at Joel’s.

You loved those nights.

Ellie talked about her classes like she was made for them—hands animated, voice rising when she got excited about dark matter or black holes. Joel would listen, proud, and you’d just… stare.

Her mouth as she spoke. Her fingers tracing invisible galaxies in the air. That soft laugh when Joel made a dumb joke.

And sometimes, she’d glance at you mid-sentence. Just a second.

Enough to knock the wind out of you.

You were in love with Ellie. Painfully, irrevocably.

You knew her like no one else did—her favorite pens, her study music, the way she scrunched her nose when she was focused.

You knew the spots she liked to be touched: the back of her neck, her temple, the inside of her wrist.

Not because you’d touched her like that—

But because she let you.

She held your hand during movies. Played with your hair until she fell asleep.

She called you "babe" sometimes, half-joking. Wore your hoodie like it was hers. Made borderline flirty jokes she never followed through on.

And like a fool, you believed. You hoped.

“People think we’re dating, I tell them not yet” you’d said once, laughing.

You still remembered the silence that followed.

Ellie didn’t laugh.

Didn’t say anything.

Just looked away.

And you pretended not to notice.

What you didn’t know was that she thought about you.

All the time. Too much.

She shoved the feelings down.

She was scared.

Scared of ruining it.

Scared of being seen.

Scared that Joel might know. That you might know.

So she buried it all.

Turned it into something else.

She sketched it.

——

That night, she was in the shower. You were in her room, waiting.

You wandered toward her desk. Her notebooks were there, stacked like always. But one stood out.

A black sketchbook. The spine frayed.

You hesitated.

Then opened it.

Page after page. Drawings.

Of you.

You laughing. Reading. Sleeping.

You naked. On your knees. Bent over. Exposed.

Your breath caught.

There were words too. Scribbled messily between the margins.

Don’t ruin it. Don’t ruin it.

If she finds out, I’m fucked.

God, she’s so hot it’s driving me insane.

I can’t lose her.

Please—not her.

You collapsed onto her bed, sketchbook in your hands, too stunned to stop flipping through it.

You didn’t hear the water shut off.

Didn’t hear the door creak open.

You looked up just as she stepped inside.

Hair wet. Towel slung around her neck.

Eyes locking onto the notebook in your lap.

Silence.

Then her mouth parted slightly. Her lips trembled.

A whisper—barely audible, laced with dread:

“I’m fucked.”

You didn’t say anything.

Not right away.

Instead, your fingers turned one more page.

A full-body sketch. You—straddling Ellie’s lap, head tilted back, mouth parted. Her hands gripping your hips.

The most explicit one yet.

You held it up.

Met her eyes.

And asked, voice steady—

“Wanna try that out?”

[daeniradraconis]

Right Where You Left Me

So, hello lovelies ✨ I’m currently in Germany watching the Leafs melt down in Game 7, and there is never a better time to post this than during the game. Well, there’s not much to say — hope you enjoy this! I wrote this from an outsider’s perspective, and it’s a little bit of a filler chapter, but we need this to connect a few things for the future.

Themes/Warnings: Hannah Elise Hughes x William Nylander, grief and loss, coma, emotional distress, complicated grief, hospital setting, family tension, fragile health

Chapters: 01, 02, 03

Chapter 3: The Quiet Between

The snow hadn’t stopped all day.

Toronto in late December was always a strange mix of silence and noise. Too many cars, too many people—but somehow, days like this felt still. The kind of cold that bit your skin, but numbed your thoughts just enough to be welcome.

Luke Hughes stood in front of William’s condo building, staring up at it like he needed permission to go in. The small velvet box in his pocket felt heavier than it should. Not that it was much more than metal and memory, but that was the problem—memories carried weight no one could see.

He’d debated even coming. He’d told himself it was stupid. That William didn’t need this. But still Luke had ended up here.

He pressed the buzzer. William answered, his voice slightly muffled. “Hey?”

“It’s me.”

A beat.

Then, “Come up.”

William answered the door in a hoodie and joggers, hair longer than Luke remembered and slightly messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times today. He looked... better. Still tired around the eyes, still a kind of shadow beneath his skin, but lighter somehow. 

Luke stepped inside, shaking off the cold. “Sorry for just dropping by. I should’ve texted.”

“You’re good.” William shut the door behind him. “I’m not doing anything important. Just watching bad TV and pretending I know how to cook.”

Luke smiled, stepping into the warm space. “Still burning pasta?”

“Only on Tuesdays.”

They sat on the couch, easy and quiet. It wasn’t awkward. Not really. It had never been awkward between them, just heavy. Grief made everything quieter, more careful. Like walking through a room filled with glass, afraid to knock anything over.

William grabbed two beers from the fridge, tossed one gently to Luke. “You still not twenty-one?”

“Almost.”

William raised an eyebrow. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

They talked for a while—about hockey, about Jack, about how surreal it still felt to see Luke in a Devils jersey, skating on real NHL ice. William smiled when Luke told him about his first goal, even asked if he’d kept the puck. It made Luke feel good. He’d known William since he was just a kid. Over the years, William had always felt like an older brother to him. And somehow, even now, that hasn't changed.

Then the silence came. The one Luke had known was coming.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the box.

“I found this the other day,” he said, setting it gently on the coffee table. “I forgot I even had it.”

William stared at it, unmoving.

“They gave it to us after... everything,” Luke continued. “Doctors said they had to take it off her for the scans. So I took it. I don’t know why. I think I just... wanted to hold onto something.”

William didn’t respond right away. His eyes stayed on the box, like opening it might detonate something inside him.

Luke took a slow sip of his beer before setting it down, his fingers brushing along the rim.

“I don’t know why I took it,” Luke said softly, his voice tinged with sadness. “I think... back then, I just needed something. You had everything, you know? The house. The dogs. Her clothes still hanging in the closet. Her perfume on the pillows. You were surrounded by pieces of her life.”

He paused, eyes fixed on some far-off point on the coffee table.

“I didn’t have any of that. She was gone, and I didn’t have anything that felt like her. I guess I thought... maybe the ring would help me stay close. Like I could hold onto something real. Sorry…I…I know it wasn’t mine to keep.”

William didn’t speak right away. His fingers rubbed against his jeans, slow, thoughtful.

“Did it help?” he finally asked, his voice thick with emotion. “Having the ring?”

Luke nodded. “Yeah. It did.”

William gave a small smile, almost more breath than expression. “Then I’m glad you had it. You’re right. I had everything else…a little too much, sometimes. It made it harder to let go. But if the ring helped you feel close to her, I think that’s exactly where it belonged.”

Luke swallowed. “Well... it’s yours now. I don’t feel the need to hold onto it anymore. And you signed the papers. I think maybe you need it more now than I do.”

William shook his head gently. “You can keep it, if you want. I’m not sure I can even look at it right now. I’ve had enough of staring at things I can’t change for four years.”

Luke’s voice softened. “Still. Even if you don’t want to look at it right now... it’s yours, Will. You picked it. For her. Maybe one day you’ll want it near. So take it.”

William nodded once. He didn’t reach for the box. Not yet. But he didn’t push it away either.

After a moment, Luke spoke again, his voice more hesitant this time. “I also wanted to say... thank you. For staying. For hoping.”

William exhaled, a soft laugh escaping like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “You don’t have to thank me for that, Luke.”

“I do.”

“No.” William turned to him fully now. “Even if I was only her husband for six hours... I was the happiest man alive. And we were together since 2014, Luke. That’s my whole adult life. She was my life. I would’ve stayed longer if I could. God, I wanted to.”

He glanced down at his hands, voice softening. “But yeah, I still feel guilty sometimes. Like… every time I start feeling okay, it’s like I’m doing something wrong—like I’m betraying her just by trying to be happy again. And when I signed the divorce papers last week… Luke, that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. In that moment, I felt lower than I’ve ever felt in my life.”

Luke’s eyes were heavy with something that looked like grief and compassion at once. “Don’t think of it like that. Please. She would want you to be happy. You held onto her with everything you had—but you can’t freeze your life forever, not for a chance that may never come.”

William looked up.

“We both know what the doctors said,” Luke said quietly. “There’s a point zero two percent chance. That’s not hope anymore, Will. That’s... punishment. And it’s not fair to you.”

William didn’t reply right away. Just stared at his hands again. Finally, he whispered, “It feels like giving up.”

“It’s not,” Luke said. “It’s choosing to live. And I know that’s what she would’ve wanted for you. To keep living. To maybe even—” he hesitated, “—have kids someday. If you want. To love someone again. That’s not betrayal. That’s surviving man.”

William blinked hard. He nodded once, slowly.

“Thanks, kid.”

Luke gave a crooked smile. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

William laughed—tired but real. “You’ll always be her baby brother. Doesn’t matter how tall you get.”

Luke’s smile softened, shifting into something gentler. “Every time I wondered how the hell you were getting through this... I’d see you still showing up. Still breathing. Still walking the dogs. Still being you. You never shut us out. I’m grateful for that, Will. For you. For how you stayed in our lives.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that either.”

“I do,” Luke repeated. “I just wish we had more time as a family. All of us. But no matter what happens—whether you get remarried or move away or anything else—I want you to know, you’re always going to be part of this family. Once you’re a Hughes, there’s no way out.”

William smiled, but it faltered with emotion. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, trying to stay composed.

“That means a lot,” he said quietly.

They sat in silence again, but this time it felt full, not empty.

Luke stood up first. “I should get going. Need to catch my flight early in the morning.”

William followed him to the door. As Luke opened it, the cold air rushed in, sharp and clean.

Luke paused at the threshold. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

William smiled. Luke looked and sounded like a man—it still felt surreal.

“Same goes for you, Luke.”

And when the door closed behind Luke, and the apartment fell quiet again, William turned toward the table.

The box sat there, still closed. Small. Simple. Heavy with meaning.

He walked toward it, stood for a moment, and gently reached out.

He didn’t open it. Not yet.

But he took it back.

And for tonight, that was enough.

—

The Michigan house was quiet except for the occasional sizzle from the kitchen, where Jim moved around with ease. The scent of onions softening in a pan wafted through the halls—something simple for dinner, maybe stew or pasta, but warm enough to fill the house with comfort.

Ellen poured herself a glass of wine. She brought it into the living room and set it on the table beside the couch, sighing as she lowered herself into the cushions. Her knees weren’t what they used to be.

She reached for the box that had been sitting on the bookshelf for years. Inside, a small chaos of memories: photos, drawings, crayon-smudged cards with crooked handwriting, and the kind of things you don’t mean to keep but never find the heart to throw away.

She flipped through them slowly, one by one.

There was a photo of Quinn, barely two days old, tucked into the arms of a toddler with wispy curls and a too-serious expression. Eli. Her daughter. Her first. Her light. The little girl who had looked up at her baby brother and kissed his forehead like she already knew she was responsible for something sacred.

“I’m gonna protect him,” Eli had whispered that day, proud, sleepy and sure.

Ellen’s throat tightened. She traced the edge of the photo with her finger.

Behind her, Jim began humming softly under his breath. She heard the gentle clink of the wooden spoon against the side of the pan—the comforting sounds of ordinary life.

She took another sip of wine and picked up a photo of their first Christmas with all four kids. Jack had just turned four and was wearing a Santa hat two sizes too big. Luke was a baby, mostly interested in trying to eat the garland. And Eli—Eli had flour on her cheeks, a candy cane apron, and the brightest smile on her face as she stood on a stool in the kitchen next to Ellen, holding a misshapen gingerbread man in one hand.

“This is my favorite holiday, Mommy,” she had said, looking up at Ellen with sparkles in her eyes. “I love it so much, every year.”

And she had. Every year, Eli had taken charge of decorations, baking, gift-wrapping, even organizing the family movie nights. She made Christmas feel like something out of a storybook.

Now, the holidays felt dimmer. Quieter. Like the lights were still strung up, but the glow didn’t reach as far.

Ellen’s hand paused on a photo that made her laugh under her breath. It was one of the few she’d saved from the skating rink.

Eli, bundled up in a pink jacket, scowling in the center of the ice, her arms pinwheeling as Jim tried to keep her upright. Her expression was unmistakable: betrayal and horror in equal parts.

“She hated it,” Ellen said aloud, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She turned around on the couch in the direction of the open kitchen and showed the picture to her husband. “Our daughter. The only Hughes who hated skating.”

“I remember,” Jim said with a nostalgic smile. “She said her feet weren’t meant for frozen water. And if we ever forced her to do this again, she’d move to her grandparents’ in Florida so she’d never have to experience that cold rink again.”

“She was five and already dramatic.”

“Well, she totally got that from you.”

Ellen shook her head, but her smile lingered. “And she’s still married to a hockey player, Jim. I would never have guessed that.”

Jim’s stirring slowed, and the silence that followed stretched between them, gentle but weighted.

Ellen’s hand found Elis’s wedding photo.

The sun poured through the trees that day—golden, gentle, and somehow full of kindness. William stood at the altar, barely holding himself together. Eli looked radiant, like she always did when she was near William—their love seemed to glow through her.

Quinn had wiped his face three times before the ceremony even started. Jack had given Will a playful shove and whispered something threatening into his ear, trying to cover up his own tears. And Luke—sweet Luke—had held Eli so tightly after the vows that Ellen had worried for a moment he might actually break her ribs.

Ellen pressed the photo to her chest for a moment.

The wedding had been a dream. A soft, perfect blur. And then just a few hours later, it became something else entirely.

She didn’t cry now. She rarely did anymore. The tears had dried up in the second year, and what remained was something quieter. A hollow ache. An ever-present weight.

Ellen turned toward the kitchen again, watching her husband move slowly around the stove. He’d always wanted a daughter. She remembered the day Eli was born—how he had cried when the doctor said, “It’s a girl.” He had kissed Ellen’s forehead and whispered, “I’m gonna be a good dad. I swear I will. She’s gonna be my little princess.”

And she had been.

The accident had taken something from Jim—something she knew she could never give back. He never said it aloud, but she saw it in how he spoke about her less these days, and in the way he’d sometimes sit alone in the garage, staring into nothing for long stretches. Grief had silenced a man who once filled the room.

Ellen looked back down at the photo in her hand.

Her baby. Her daughter.

Not gone. But not here.

Alive in the most technical way, and yet unreachable. For four years, they had visited the hospital, touched her hand, whispered to her like she might hear it. And every time, they left a little more broken.

Near the bottom of the box, Ellen’s fingers paused on another photo — one that made her chest tighten with a fresh, bittersweet ache.

It was a photo Jim had taken nearly fifteen years ago, on a late summer afternoon. The four kids sat at the edge of the old wooden dock behind their Michigan house, their legs swinging just above the shimmering lake. The sun bathed their skin in a honeyed glow, while the water whispered softly beneath them.

Eli was there — so alive, so bright — curled up with a worn copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone resting in her lap. Her braid was loose, strands sticking to her flushed cheeks, and she was reading aloud with that gentle intensity Ellen had always loved.

Quinn sat close, arms crossed, pretending to scold Jack — wild as ever — who was half-standing, half-jumping off the dock, his shirt twisted around his neck, wearing that wide grin full of mischief.

Luke, the littlest one with soft golden curls and chubby cheeks, sat right next to Eli, kicking his legs and babbling in that sweet toddler way only he could.

Then, in that photo—forever frozen in time—Luke’s face turned toward Eli. With a bright, clear voice that still made Ellen’s heart tighten, he spoke the word Eli had been waiting to hear for so long:

“HanHan.”

The very first time Luke said her name.

Everyone else called her Eli, short and simple — but Luke’s word was different. Full of wonder and love, spoken like a secret just between them. Eli’s face lit up with a smile that held all the joy in the world.

Ellen’s thumb brushed over the photo, her eyes stinging.

Four years had passed since the accident.

Four years since Eli’s laughter filled the house.

Four years since she slipped into silence.

Four years of holding onto memories like fragile glass — beautiful but easily shattered.

Looking at the picture now, Ellen could almost hear Luke’s voice echoing through the quiet house, calling “HanHan!” as he always did, full of hope and innocence.

She could almost see Eli turning toward him, happiness shining in her eyes, the way she’d drop everything to chase after her brothers, boss them around, love them fiercely.

Tears blurred Ellen’s vision as she whispered to the empty room, “My sweet HanHan…”

The name wasn’t just a memory. It was a thread connecting past and present. The hope that maybe, somehow, Eli was still there — still hearing, still loving, still HanHan to her brothers.

Ellen gently set the photo down and closed the box.

She stood up from the couch and walked toward the kitchen.

Jim stood at the stove, stirring quietly. Ellen leaned against the counter, her wine glass cradled in her hands, the sleeves of her sweater pushed up to her elbows. The silence between them wasn’t heavy—it rarely was. After twenty-plus years of marriage, silence could just mean safety.

Still, Ellen’s voice broke the silence gently. “I saw William last week.”

Jim didn’t look up from the stove. “Oh, yeah?”

“When I was at the PWHL conference in Toronto, I decided to grab a coffee with him.”

“That’s nice of you, honey. How is he doing?”

“He looks… better. He finished therapy and seems lighter, I guess. Smiling more. I’m glad his parents convinced him to do it—it seemed to help.” She paused, searching for the right words. “And… he met someone.”

Jim turned toward her, the wooden spoon still in his hand. Surprise flickered in his eyes, but there was no anger. “Oh? Well, I guess we told him last Christmas to get out there and move on. Who is she?”

“Her name’s Lena Gunnarsson. She’s Swedish too and lost her husband, her first love 6 years ago. Same kind of story.” Ellen’s smile was faint, almost fragile. “I guess, grief recognizes its own.”

Jim raised an eyebrow but waited, sensing Ellen wasn’t finished.

“I think that’s why he’s drawn to her,” Ellen said softly, almost to herself. “Not because he’s falling in love, but because he doesn’t have to explain anything. She just… understands him. No explanations, no judgment. It’s safe.”

Jim set the spoon down on a folded towel, folding his arms. “You think that’s a bad thing?”

Ellen exhaled slowly. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s exactly what he needs right now. But when I look at him—really look—I don’t see the same spark I used to. Not the way he used to light up when he talked about Eli or the future he dreamed for them.”

Jim nodded slowly, leaning back against the counter. “He’s been through hell, Ellen. No one would expect him to bounce back overnight.”

“I know,” she whispered. “And I’m proud of him. God, I am. He stayed. He waited. He never gave up on our baby, not really.” Her voice cracked. “But I worry… I worry he’s building his future on a foundation of shared pain rather than hope.”

Jim reached out, resting a steady hand on her shoulder. “You mean he’s settling? Because it’s comfortable?”

Ellen nodded. “Maybe. It’s safer to be with someone who knows the ache, who understands the silence, than to risk the messiness of love again. But that’s not really living, is it? That’s surviving.”

Jim exhaled softly, his gaze drifting away as he absently wiped his hands on a kitchen towel. After a moment, he spoke, his voice quiet but steady.

“You remember what I told William, don’t you? To let go. To find something new.”

Ellen nodded slowly. “You were right. He needed to hear it.”

Jim looked down at the counter, voice quieter. “But now that it’s happening... it feels strange. Different than I imagined.”

Ellen stepped closer, voice gentle. “How so?”

Jim swallowed. “I thought I’d feel relieved. Like a weight lifted. Instead, it’s like... I’m betraying my own daughter. Abandoning a space that should only be hers.”

He glanced up, eyes filled with a mix of sadness and confusion. “It’s not anger, or resentment. It’s... guilt.”

Ellen reached out, her hand covering his. “Jim...”

“I love William. I always have. But this—” He gestured vaguely, “—this feels like I’m letting go of Eli in a way I’m not ready for.”

Ellen’s voice was steady but tender. “Jim, you’re not betraying anyone. You wanted the best for William—because you love him. Because you love Eli. Wanting William to find happiness again doesn’t mean you’re letting Eli go. Eli wanted that for him, honey.”

Jim nodded slowly but his eyes didn’t quite meet hers. “I know.It’s just… emotions don’t always follow logic El.”

Ellen squeezed his hand. “Yeh, that’s true.”

She took a breath, steadying herself. “That’s why I’m scared for William. Because I think he’s trying to do what’s right, instead of what feels right. Because he’s afraid of loving again, not because he doesn’t want to, but because the fear of loss is still so big.”

They stood quietly, the kitchen filled only by the hum of the stove and the steady rhythm of their breaths.

Ellen finally whispered, “I’m just scared for him. That he’s so afraid of losing again, he won’t let himself love again.”

Jim bent down, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“We just have to trust him. Trust that he’ll find his way. Maybe it won’t be perfect. Maybe it won’t look like what we imagined. But it can still be something beautiful.”

Ellen nodded slowly, still holding his hand.

“I want him to have a future that’s more than just making it through. More than just breathing.”

“Me too, El,” Jim said softly, his voice thick with quiet emotion. “More than anything, me too.”

—

The envelope was still sitting on the counter.

Stephanie hadn’t opened it right away—just stared at the creamy paper like it had personally offended her. Now it was splayed open, invitation on display, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less surreal.

William & Lena

She read it again.

William & Lena.

It didn’t matter how elegant the font was or how understated the navy and gold design looked. To Steph, it was a soft betrayal dressed up in tasteful serif type.

She stood in the kitchen, one hand pressed to her belly like she was physically holding herself together, the other gripping a mug of now-cold tea. Her knuckles were white on the handle. The silence around her buzzed like static.

Mitch stepped in from the hallway, unwinding his scarf and shrugging off the last of the cold outside. He saw her posture first—stiff, braced—then saw the envelope.

He didn’t need to ask.

“Steph,” he said gently, his voice a thread. “You okay?”

She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were locked on the invitation, like if she blinked, it might morph into something else.

“They’re getting married. In Sweden. In August.” Her voice was clipped, deliberate, like if she said it too softly it might sound reasonable.

“It’s like Eli never happened.”

Mitch exhaled, slow. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do,” she snapped. One hand stayed anchored on her belly like a warning. “He’s marrying someone else, Mitch. Just like that. After everything. After her.”

“It’s been almost five years, Steph.”

“Four and a half,” she corrected. Too fast.

Her voice cracked slightly, then hardened. “They’ve been together since they were teenagers. They married each other. And now he’s acting like she’s just a part to be replaced—like some role that can be recast.”

Mitch crossed the kitchen slowly, pulled out a chair at the table, and sat. He rested his arms on the table, calm and quiet, the way you approach someone who’s standing too close to a ledge.

“He’s not replacing her. No one could.”

“Then what the hell is he doing?” she said, each word sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like settling. Like he just got tired of being alone and picked the next safest option.”

Mitch hesitated, letting the words settle before he answered.

“Maybe that’s all he has left in him, Steph. Maybe Lena isn’t some grand, romantic love—but maybe she’s someone he can survive.”

Stephanie scoffed, moving again, pacing like she couldn’t stay in her skin. Her fingers twisted the sleeve of her sweater.

“She doesn’t even know him,” she said bitterly. “Not like Eli did. Not like we do. She didn’t see what Eli brought out in him. The way he used to laugh around her—really laugh. Like he believed in something. Now he just... floats. Like he’s underwater all the time. And this wedding?” She gestured toward the counter, voice rising. “This feels like a checkbox.”

Mitch watched her, letting her unravel, knowing she had to.

“A freaking wedding?!” she went on, shaking her head. “He couldn’t even call. Just had his assistant send out invitations like it’s some goddamn charity gala.”

“He probably didn’t know how to say it,” Mitch offered gently.

“Oh, but a monogrammed RSVP card says it better?”

“Steph…”

“No, Mitch. No.” Her voice was rising now, more broken than loud. “This is not okay. He doesn’t get to rewrite everything just because he’s tired of being sad. He doesn’t get to bury Eli under this new-life package just because he wants to feel normal again.”

Mitch stood slowly. He approached her like one might approach a wounded animal—deliberate, soft, steady—but didn’t touch her. He knew she needed space to bleed it all out.

“He’s not burying her.”

“He is,” she snapped. “He’s remarrying. That’s not some minor thing. That’s not therapy or smiling again or going back to the gym. That’s permanent. That’s him telling the world Eli is behind him.”

Mitch turned to the counter and leaned against it, arms crossed. His expression was tired but open.

“Steph, it’s been four and a half years. That’s a long time to stand still.”

“She’s still alive,” she hissed.

He looked at her.

“She’s not gone. Don’t talk about her like she’s gone. Don’t you dare.”

There it was—her line. The edge of her world. But Mitch didn’t flinch.

“I know she is,” he said softly. “But you know she’s not coming back.”

Stephanie shut her eyes. Her jaw clenched so tightly the tendons stood out along her neck. For a moment, she looked like she might scream just to clear the air.

“I hate that you say it like that,” she whispered. “Like it’s just a fact we’re supposed to accept. Like you’ve made peace with it.”

“I haven’t,” Mitch said. “I just... made space for it.”

“She was my best friend Mitch,” Steph said. Her voice was barely audible now. “We were supposed to raise our kids together. We had names picked out. We made stupid Pinterest boards. She would’ve been this baby’s godmother.”

Her fingers found the edge of the counter, gripping it like a lifeline.

“And now I’m supposed to send a gift and wear pastel and clap for this new chapter like none of that mattered?”

Mitch moved to her, slowly, resting his hands on her arm. She didn’t pull away.

“No one’s asking you to pretend.”

“Really?” she said, half-laughing, half-weeping. “Because this?” She pointed at the invitation. “This feels a hell of a lot like pretending. Like we’re supposed to accept Lena as the sequel and call it healing.”

He guided her to sit, crouched beside her, never letting go of her hand.

“Steph. You’re right. It’s unfair. It’s messy and yes, it feels wrong. But maybe for Will, it’s taken everything just to get to the point where he can even try again. Maybe this isn’t a betrayal. Maybe this is the bravest thing he’s capable of.”

Her eyes were glassy, red-rimmed. Her hands trembled.

“I don’t want to see him happy if she’s not there,” she whispered. “Is that insane?”

Mitch shook his head. “It’s not insane. It’s human.”

She looked away. “I just don’t want him to live a lie. He loved Eli in this big, messy, all-consuming way. And now he’s marrying someone who fits into the grief. Who doesn’t make waves. Who doesn’t make him feel too much.”

Mitch exhaled through his nose. “Maybe that’s all he can handle.”

“But is that love, Mitch?” Her voice cracked again. “Or is that just... not drowning?”

He didn’t answer. Just held her hand.

“Does it matter?” he said finally. “If it keeps him alive, if it gives him peace... maybe we don’t get to define it.”

“I want more for him,” she whispered. “Even if he doesn’t want it for himself.”

“I know,” Mitch said. “Me too.”

They sat like that for a long time. The kitchen ticked with the quiet hum of the fridge, the distant creak of winter settling into the house.

Then Steph stirred again.

“And you know what else?” Her tone shifted, sharper now. “She’s going to be one of us. A Toronto WAG.”

Mitch blinked. “Steph…”

“No, I know it sounds petty, but it’s not. You remember what it was like—Eli was part of our crew. She was real. We weren’t brunch-photo wives, we were actual friends. A unit.”

She rubbed at her face with her sleeve, half laughing in disbelief.

“And now Lena gets to wear the jacket? Sit in our row? Be invited to wives’ game night and act like she belongs?”

Mitch watched her with quiet sympathy.

“It’s just a label, baby.”

“You know it’s not,” she said. “You know what that space meant. Eli was the soul of that group. She loved it.”

Mitch wrapped his arms around her. This time she melted into him, boneless with exhaustion.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “But I also know this baby is coming soon. And your hormones are setting fires.”

Stephanie let out a choked laugh, half sob.

“So I’m irrational?”

“I’m saying you already lost Eli once, and now it feels like you’re losing her again. And that’s terrifying.”

She nodded against him, the tears finally free now. Her shoulders shook.

“I don’t want to be this bitter,” she said finally. “I don’t want to hate someone I don’t even know.”

“You don’t hate her,” Mitch said gently. “You just miss Eli so much you don’t know where to put it.”

Mitch whispered, “We’ll go. We don’t have to smile. We don’t even have to stay long. But I think we should go. For William. For Eli.”

“Alright,” she said, voice low. “But we’re sitting in the back. And I’m wearing black. No exceptions.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow. “Black? Like funeral black?”

She gave him a look that was part mischief, part steel. “Exactly.”

He laughed softly. “You’re going to be a real joy at the wedding.”

“Someone’s got to keep things interesting.”

Mitch shook his head, smiling as he pulled her into a gentle hug again. “Deal.”

—

Jack pushed open the hospital door with a soft creak, stepping into the quiet, sterile room where his sister lay still — fragile as a glass sculpture, untouched by time but entirely changed by it. The faint beep of monitors was the only sound, steady and constant.

He stepped inside, slow. Careful. Like if he moved too fast, the moment would shatter.

It smelled like antiseptic and flowers that died three days ago.

Jack swallowed hard, the weight of five years and ninety-seven days pressing on his chest like it wanted to break something inside him. He hadn’t been here in weeks — between the season, the travel, the rehab — but today... today he couldn’t stay away.

He eased into the chair next to her bed, eyes scanning the stillness of her face. Peaceful. Pale. So fucking familiar. And so far away.

“Hey, big sis,” he said softly. “It’s been a while, huh?”

He reached for her hand — warm, soft, weightless — and curled his fingers around it. Holding on to something that felt like her.

“You took a long nap,” he whispered, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, weak and cracked. “Five years and ninety-seven days. But who’s counting, right? Just your favorite brother keeping tabs.”

His thumb ran over the back of her hand, slow and rhythmic.

“I told myself I’d come every other month. Sit here. Talk. Let you know what’s going on. But I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

He swallowed.

“I just... I hate seeing you like this, Eli. You’re here, but not. Breathing, but silent. It’s like someone hit pause on your life, and we’re all just... waiting. And every time I walk in, it feels like you’re going to wake up. Like you’ll roll your eyes at me and say I’m late or my hair looks dumb.”

He laughed — quiet, rough.

“I don’t want this to be what I remember when I think of you. This frozen version of you.”

He sat back, dragging a hand down his face, then sighed.

“Anyway. Catching you up.”

He sniffed and cleared his throat.

“Mom and Dad are... well, they’re Mom and Dad. You know. Stubborn and weirdly optimistic in ways that make no sense. Dad’s golfing like he’s on the senior tour. He’s either on the course or on YouTube watching some guy named Sven talk about putters. Mom’s pissed because he’s ‘wasting his damn knees’ but she’s been crazy busy, too. She took this new position with the women’s Olympic team — she’s basically coaching the coaches. Yelling at them and bossing them around. She’s so in her element it’s scary. You’d love it.”

He smiled faintly.

“They miss you. I mean, they won’t say it—not directly. But it’s there. Like... Mom still folds your hoodie and leaves it draped over the back of the chair, like you might swing by. And Dad—he keeps your old voicemail saved on his phone. Listens to it sometimes when he thinks no one’s around. Just stands there in the garage like he’s fixing something, but he’s not. He just... misses you.”

His jaw flexed. “They stopped saying your name after the second year. Like if they say it, something will snap.”

A beat passed.

“Luke’s in the NHL now.”

He gave a small laugh.

“I know, right? Baby Luke. He’s fast, cocky, impossible to deal with — so, basically perfect. You missed his first game. You would’ve hated missing it. He had your name inside his glove. We both did. He’s doing great. I mean, I live with him, so I also know that he leaves wet towels on the floor and eats pasta at 2 a.m. straight from the pot like a gremlin, but still. He’s killing it. I’m trying not to murder him. Mostly succeeding.”

Jack exhaled, shoulders slumping.

“Quinn... Quinn’s dating someone. Kinda. It’s a mess. He’s doing that thing where he’s emotionally constipated but still somehow kind of in love? He keeps texting me for advice like I’m some sort of love guru. I’m like, ‘Bro, I’m still figuring out if I’m emotionally available enough to own a plant.’ You’d be yelling at us both right now.”

He grew quiet.

“And then... there’s William.”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck.

“He got married again.”

The words hung there, blunt and bare.

“It was a few months ago. In Sweden. Beautiful place. It was... nice. Really nice, actually. Candles everywhere. That soft, muted golden light you always loved—the kind that makes everything feel a little quieter. Everyone looked gentle, a little sad. Which, I guess, made sense.”

Jack shook his head, a pained smirk curling.

“I told him I was happy for him. And I am. Sort of. But it also felt like watching someone wear a jersey with the wrong number. You know?”

He hesitated.

“She’s not terrible, Eli. That’s what sucks. She’s... gentle. Respectful. She talks about you. Doesn’t pretend you never happened. She gets it, in this weird way. She lost someone, too. I think that’s the thing — they’re not really in love the way you two were. But they’re broken in the same shape. And I guess sometimes, broken finds broken.”

He went still again.

“But she’s not you. She’ll never be you.”

Jack drew in a shaky breath.

“Stephanie came to the wedding with Mitch. Nine months pregnant. Emotional as hell. She wore a black dress. Like, full black. Said it was ‘formal mourning attire.’ Mitch tried to stop her from wearing a damn veil. She was fighting him in the parking lot. You would’ve laughed your ass off.”

His face softened.

“She still talks about you like you’re gonna walk through the door any second.”

He looked at Eli again.

“I do, too.”

A long silence. The kind that settled deep.

“I had another surgery,” he said eventually. “Shoulder again. Missed a small part of the season and the full playoffs. Rehab sucks. But I’m doing better. Next year I’m back. I’ll score one for you. First game. Even if it’s ugly and I trip into the net, it’s yours.”

Jack leaned forward, his forehead almost touching her hand.

“I don’t know what’s left of you in there. I don’t know if you hear me. If you’ve heard anything.”

His voice broke.

“But I love you, Eli. I love you so fucking much. And I miss you. Every day. Every goddamn day.”

And then — something shifted.

A twitch.

Barely there.

A squeeze.

Jack sat up fast.

“Eli?” he whispered.

Her eyelashes flickered. Once. Twice.

And then her eyes opened.

Wide. Unfocused. Fragile as glass.

Jack’s heart slammed into his ribs.

“Eli,” he breathed.

She blinked. Her mouth parted. Confused. Silent.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Eli.”

And for the first time in five years and ninety-seven days, Jack Hughes finally felt like he could breathe again.

[holylulusworld]

Loophole (1)

Written for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor Roo's Mini Mafia Bingo: Square filled: Grew up in the mob

Summary: You are looking for a loophole to escape your arranged marriage.

Pairing: Mobster!Steve Rogers x Wife!Reader

Warnings: angst, unrequited feelings, hand around throat (non-sexual), power imbalance, arranged marriage, mafia au, grey/dark Steve

“How long will you take this time to prepare for the party?” Your husband barks from outside the bathroom. He was never the patient kind of man when it came to you.

Steve, just like you and everyone you know, grew up in the mob. Gentleness and kindness are not part of your relationship. It’s strictly a business arrangement. This bond serves to fortify your father's empire.

He grows impatient when you do not answer him immediately. “You know, I hate being fashionably late. My mother doesn’t like it either.”

“I’m not coming,” you answer shortly. No explanation. No reason why. You just state the plain fact that you won’t join your husband at one of his mother’s infamous parties.

It’s not her fault. Not completely. Just like everyone else in his family, she didn’t welcome you with open arms and warmth.

Being one part of an arranged marriage doesn’t make you a family member or even someone they like. She tried to include you, though.

You always joined your husband and tried to join every event with him to build a connection, a bond. That was until he told you a few weeks back that he hates it when you accompany him at parties and events.

According to your husband, you always act like a jealous bitch. In other words, he cannot openly flirt with any woman at his mother’s parties. – As if you could ever stop a man like Steve from doing whatever he wants to do.

“What do you mean? You almost cling to me wherever we go, and now you don’t want to come to my mother’s party?” He scoffs, believing you’re playing one of your little games to get his attention. “Get out and get dressed.”

“I said,” you say and walk out of the bathroom, wearing a tiny towel, not an expensive gown as expected, “I won’t come this time. I already called your mother, excusing myself.”

“What kind of game are you playing today, Y/N? I don’t have the time nor the patience for your nonsense.” Steve grits his teeth. He searches your face, waiting for the façade to drop. “Get dressed!”

“You said,” you make air quotes. “You hate it when I accompany you to events. I don’t want to ruin your happiness or mood. So, from now on, I won’t come with you to events or parties. I’ll stay at home.”

Steve frowns. Something seems to be off with you. “How come?” He simply asks. There’s no compassion or worry in his eyes. “You are a sucker for parties.”

He really doesn’t know you at all. Socializing is a daily struggle for you. Leaving the safety of your home is never easy, but you did it for him. “I told you, I don’t want to be a burden.” You shrug and turn toward the walk-in wardrobe. “Think about all the money you will save when I do not need new clothes for parties.”

“This is not a game,” you quip and drop the towel, ignoring your husband. He was never shy around you, either. Your sex life is nothing to complain about. It’s the only time you and Steve are on the same side. “I just don’t want to spend time with you when I’m unwanted.”

“You just can’t help yourself and have to make things complicated all the damn time.” He’s already on the edge when you turn around, a blank expression on your face.

“Steve, I swear this is not a game nor my attempt to make things complicated.” The truth is you are done trying. Your best friend’s words still echo in your mind.

Know your worth. Do not sell yourself short. If Rogers wants to keep his wife, he has to work hard for her attention. Loki said it and meant it.

“I want you to be happy, Steve. If my absence makes you happy,” you shrug and walk inside the walk-in wardrobe, “I will stay away from any party and event from now on. Go ahead and have fun. I won’t be waiting for you tonight.”

Steve squares his jaw. He still believes you are playing games. You’re too good at it. Maybe you’re not a leader of the mob, but you have your ways to get what you want.

“Y/N, I’m warning you one last time.” Steve follows you inside the walk-in wardrobe. His large hand wraps around your neck, slamming you into the wall. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you obedient. “I won’t attend the party without you. You’ll get dressed, smile, and look pretty, or else…”

“Or else?” You cough when he finally releases your throat. Rubbing the sore skin, you look at Steve. He has never gotten physical with you before. Steve is a little hot-headed, but it usually only leads to hate sex or make-up sex. This is new, and you don’t like it. “Do you want to beat me into submission only because I wanted to fulfill your wish?”

He looks you up and down, eyes glued to the tattoo inked in your chest. His crest, along with his name. A branding to show off ownership. “You’re mine, and I won’t let you parade around town, claiming your husband doesn’t take you out.”

Steve grabs your jaw, eyes icy blue orbs, as he claims your lips. “Now get dressed. I’ll give you twenty minutes to look presentable, or you will go naked.”

He storms out of the wardrobe, angrily slamming the door shut behind him. You flinch. For the first time since you married Steve, you are afraid of him…

[chiyoszn]

Under The Radar

☆Pairing

Oliver Bearman x Antonelli!Reader

☆Warnings

None

You’d always told yourself you wouldn’t fall for a driver.

You knew what came with it — the pressure, the cameras, the constant travel. But no one warned you about Oliver Bearman’s stupid smile, or the way he’d look at you like you were the only person in the room, even when surrounded by a dozen engineers.

Kimi had told the entire paddock that his sister was off-limits. “I don’t care how many trophies you’ve got,” he’d said to the group of drivers once, glaring. “Touch her and you’re dead.”

Oliver had been there. And he’d laughed.

Too loud.

Too suspicious.

Too obvious.

Which was fair, considering he’d kissed you behind the media pen just twenty minutes before that conversation.

So now, everything had to be under the radar.

Secret glances.

Late-night walks when everyone was asleep.

Shared headphones and playlists that said more than words ever could.

You hated hiding it. Hated pretending you weren’t falling for him — hard, fast, and with no seatbelt.

One night in Baku, after qualifying, you found Oliver waiting by the back exit of the paddock. Hoodie up. Head down. Classic “I swear I’m not meeting my secret girlfriend” posture.

“Smooth,” you teased, approaching him.

He grinned. “You love the drama.”

You both slipped into the alley behind the garages, the city lights casting a soft glow over the pavement. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I wish I didn’t have to sneak around just to be with you,” he murmured.

“I know,” you said. “But Kimi would actually implode.”

Oliver chuckled. “He’ll come around eventually. I mean, I’m irresistible.”

You snorted. “Keep telling yourself that, Bearman.”

He pulled you closer by the waist, eyes soft. “Seriously though… I’m tired of hiding. I don’t care if Kimi hates me. You’re worth it.”

Your heart stuttered. Then, slowly, you leaned in and kissed him — deep and lingering, as if trying to steal just a little more time before the world caught on.

Neither of you noticed the footsteps.

“ARE YOU—BEARMAN?!”

You froze mid-kiss.

Kimi stood at the alley entrance, eyes wide, jaw dropped.

Oliver paled. “Oh no.”

Kimi pointed at the two of you like he’d just caught a live crime scene. “You’re kissing my sister?!”

You stepped in quickly. “Kimi—let me explain—”

But Oliver beat you to it.

“Yes, I like her. A lot. I’ve liked her for a long time. I’m not playing games, I swear. She’s—she’s everything to me.”

Kimi blinked. The rage simmered. Then, quietly, he muttered:

“...You better beat my lap time tomorrow, or I’m telling Mum.”

And just like that, he walked away.

You turned to Oliver.

He exhaled. “That could’ve been worse.”

You grinned. “You just got threatened and challenged. By my twin.”

Oliver grabbed your hand. “Totally worth it.”

[7975348473]

Drunk On Fluff

——————————————————— Ship: Lyrason (Lyra x Grayson)

Timeline: Post- The Grandest Game. I would recommend reading, The Proposal before this fic— but it's not necessary (like, at all.) ——————————————————

GRAYSON

Grayson wasn't the type to stay up late if not necessary.

But today, he couldn't help it.

Lyra had gone on a "Girls-Night-Out", and specifically told Grayson she'd be back very, very late.

And, if Grayson were a normal boyfriend, he probably would have been content with that reassurance and went to sleep. Unfortunately, nothing about Grayson Davenport Hawthorne was exceptionally normal.

He checked his phone for possibly the millionth time, for any updates on where she was.

That’s when his phone went off, Avery.

Grayson picked up, “Avery?”

“Grayson! Hi, um— Lyra is—” Avery cut herself off with a sudden laugh.

“Sorry, Lyra wants to talk to you.” Avery managed in between giggles.

One of Grayson’s dignified brows raised in response.

“GrayyyYyYYy~~”

That was Lyra. One hundred percent drunk.

Oh lord. Grayson bit back a smile.

“Yes, sweetheart? Is everything alright?” He asked, imagining the drunk look Lyra probably had on at the moment.

“mmMmhmM. Yes. I misshsh you thoughhhh can u come ower?” She slurred.

A smile broke out on Grayson’s face despite himself.

“I’m on my way.”

—————————————————————

GRAYSON

Grayson stepped out of the car, his gaze fell upon the group of girls standing outside the bar.

Avery and Libby each had one hand wrapped around Lyra’s waist as they laughed at Lyra’s drunk demeanor.

Gigi was silent— that’s what alcohol did to her, the opposite effect of coffee— Savannah stood to the side, her cheeks slightly flushed as she sent glares to Max who seemed to be going on and on as per usual.

Something about the chaotic yet comfortable scene made Grayson’s heart warm up.

He took a photo of them and then walked over.

“Grayyyyyy!! My ash hole is here, lemme go.” She greeted Grayson before throwing commands at the other two girls.

Libby and Avery giggled, handing Lyra over to him.

Grayson nodded in thanks as Lyra climbed on to his back and he turned to move.

“Gray!” Avery yelled, grabbing his attention. He turned back.

“Your girlfriend is a fucking delight.” Avery said. Libby smiled in agreement.

Grayson’s gaze travelled to the head which was leaning on his shoulder, “I know.”

The two walked away from the chaos, moving slowly towards the car.

“No!!” Lyra yelled suddenly.

Grayson froze.

“I don’t wanna go in ze car.” She stated, though it came off more as a command.

Ze car? Oh she’s high alright.

“Alright then, what do you want to do?” He asked, trying to force the amusement out of his tone.

Lyra wiggled around a bit on his back, signifying she wanted to be let down. He let her.

“Let’s go on a wok.” Lyra yelled triumphantly as she managed to maintain her balance on her own… for two seconds.

Grayson’s hand wrapped around her waist as she began to tilt over again.

“Alright, sweetheart. Just for a little bit though.” He replied.

Suddenly, Lyra sent him a vivid glare. Grayson was slightly taken aback.

She mumbled something under her breathe.

“What was that, sweetheart?” He pried. Lyra groaned and gave him a soft nudge to his stomach.

“How do u do that?!” She screeched. Grayson blinked at her— obviously confused.

“Do what?”

“Thattttttt~” Lyra whined, she took both of her arms and waved them around in some sort of dramatic display. Her cheeks were tinged red and eyes were shut tightly.

She looked adorable. Grayson smiled.

"Mind specifying, sweetheart?"

"That. See. You did it again." Lyra's hand travelled to her chest, landing right on top of her heart.

Grayson watched as she brought both of her hands to her heart, putting on an overly-dramatic expression as she twirled around in circles over and over again.

He chuckled.

"Sweetheart-"

"ITS THAT WORD!!" She paused mid-spin to point at Grayson, though her aim was off completely.

"Why does my heart dance whenever you call me thatttt~" Lyra whined again, stomping her feet as she stumbled her way over to Grayson again.

At this, Grayson couldn't help but grin, "Oh? Your heart races?"

Lyra nodded.

"Every. Single. Time?" He pried.

Lyra looked up to him and nodded again, pouting slightly as she did. It was Grayson's heart's turn to race this time.

Fuck she's adorable.

"It's not fair. I mean- you call me that every day, so why am I still so flustered about it??" She complained, wrapping her arms around Grayson's abdomen.

"I don't see why that's a problem," Grayson paused, thinking if he should proceed, "sweetheart."

Lyra hit him playfully and Grayson let out a laugh.

They both "wok-ed" onwards, Grayson recorded as Lyra ranted about her life and randomly broke out into her favorite dance choreos.

Unexpectedly, Lyra paused and gasped.

"Gray, Gray! Oi! Listen here." Grayson, too, stopped and looked at her- trying hard to get the smile off his face.

"You know how we watched that drama the other day?" Lyra asked a little too fast. Grayson's eye twitched.

"You mean the cheesy and excessively romantic one? Yes, I do." Grayson replied.

Lyra clapped her hands together and did some sort of jumpy thing as her eyes landed on a huge grass field they had stumbled upon.

"Okay. So you know how the leads run towards each other and hug at the end??" Lyra's eyes were glowing now. Grayson felt any resentment he had held towards the drama previously fade away.

"Yeah."

"I want to do that." She finished, looking up to him. Her eyes were alight with excitement. Grayson couldn't possibly say no to that expression.

"... Alright."

Lyra squealed as she took Grayson's hand and they ran across the field. Grayson temporarily forgot what they were doing, looking at her boundless happiness.

She looked absolutely free.

Lyra then let go of his hand and ran on further until they were about 8 feet apart.

"Are you readyyyy?!!" Lyra screamed, loud enough for half the neighborhood to hear.

Grayson grinned, matching her volume, "Born ready!!"

"Go!" Lyra yelled as she took off, Grayson couldn't help the small chuckle he let out as he ran towards her.

It was super cheesy. Lyra loved it, and Grayson loved her.

Grayson closed his eyes as he opened his arms— ready for Lyra to jump into them and for himself to spin her around.

Instead, he heard a loud thud.

Grayson opened his eyes and looked down to find Lyra, face down on the floor. As it turns out, Lyra was still extremely tipsy and had mis-aimed, running to Grayson's left instead of towards him directly.

Grayson bent down to check on her, muffling a laugh, "Sweetheart, are you alright?" He asked, though he already knew she was.

Lyra sat up, her eyes were glassy and she looked just about ready to cry. Grayson was taken aback for the second time that day.

"Noooo I messed uppppp!!" She cried, sounding downright broken. Grayson immediately brought her head to his chest, calming her down.

"Shhh, it's okay. We can try again—" Lyra cut him off.

"We can't Gray. You only get one chance at the running-into-each- other's-arms thingy and I messed it up." She sniffled and Grayson's heart wavered.

He thought about how to console her.

"Well, I think chocolate could make this better?" He said and Lyra jolted her head up, looking at him with wide eyes.

If she keeps doing that, I'm going to die of a heart attack.

"YES PLEASE!" She screeched, a smile plastered on her face. Grayson laughed, yet again.

Grayson and Lyra "wok-ed" on over to the market area, which was mainly closed due to the late hour. That's when they spotted an old man closing his humble shop.

Choco Santa

Grayson knew to take an opportunity when he saw one, the couple strode towards the old man.

"Excuse me, kind sir?" Grayson said. The man turned his gaze to him.

"Sorry, boy. But we're closed." He said with finality, not giving them a chance to ask. Grayson, though, was not one to be denied his wishes.

Lyra spoke up, "Mr.Guy. Can't you just let us buy oneeeee choco packet?? Pleaseeee~" She tried.

The man looked at the more-than-half-drunk girl and let out a chuckle, his features softening, "Sorry young girl, but we have to pay for the extra usage of electricity." He replied.

Grayson took to doing what Hawthornes were quite good at, "How much does the electricity bill cost you?" He asked while fixing his cuffs, a show of power.

The man blinked once, "Uh... well, about 500 dollars."

Grayson nodded, "I'll triple it."

Silence.

"What?!" The shopkeeper and Lyra yelled at the same time.

Grayson shot the man a look that said 'you heard me,' and pulled out 1,500 bucks.

The man's eyes were as wide as saucers as he took the money and hastily opened up his shop again. Lyra fumed at Grayson until her gaze landed on the, literal, chocolate haven.

Lyra let out a tiny awed gasp as she ran down each aisle, her expression turning more and more delirious with each new flavor she saw.

Grayson ended up buying all the chocolates in the store. The shopkeeper now, too, looked like he was in heaven.

That's when Lyra squealed, "OH MY GOODNESS— A CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN TOO?!"

Grayson turned to see Lyra staring at the chocolate fountain, her mouth left slightly open. He chuckled, despite himself.

"Please go ahead and taste some! It's on the house!" The old-man said, smiling. Lyra didn't hesitate.

Grayson watched her with gentle eyes as she made a satisfied 'mmm' sound after every sip. Lyra didn't let herself get too comfortable very often, a result of her trauma. So seeing her so carefree and childlike made Grayson's heart pick up pace.

Calm down, Gray. You're going to die at this rate.

Eventually the couple made their exit with Lyra licking her lips, carrying 5 chocolate bags and Grayson holding 10 bags.

Lyra came to an abrupt stop. Grayson followed suit, looking at her curiously. She turned towards a bench on they're side and placed all her bags on them before turning to Grayson.

Grayson looked at the bags and then back at her, raising a brow in question.

Lyra deigned him with a singular command, "Put your bags down."

Grayson did just that.

The moment Grayson turned towards her again, Lyra flung herself at him.

Grayson was taken aback for the third time that day. He quickly wrapped his hands around her waist and they were kissing.

All love, passion and chocolate.

"You're the best." Lyra said as they broke apart, her head coming to rest on his shoulder.

Grayson smiled, "Only for you."

Lyra looked up to meet his eyes, "I love you." She said, her gaze unwavering as she did. Grayson's eyes softened.

"I love you too," a pause, "sweetheart."

Lyra really laughed then and if Grayson could have bottled the sound and got drunk on it every night, he would have. It terrified him, he relished in it.

They continued their 'wok' down the, now completely empty, streets. It was nearing 2 AM.

Grayson glanced at Lyra, her cheeks were flushed less from being drunk and more due to the chilly wind. She squinted her eyes as she tried to walk in a straight line, fully focused on the task.

Grayson's heart sped up, watching his sweetheart.

Yep. I'm dead, aren't I? Grayson bit back a smile.

They eventually reached a view-point, which gave an exceptional scenery of the entire city. Lyra ran over to the railings and gazed down, looking at the vast beauty covered in darkness.

Grayson wrapped a careful arm around her shoulders, keeping her steady as they watched in silence.

"Listen up people of the world!!" Lyra screamed suddenly with no warning. Grayson looked at her, taken aback for the fourth time that day.

"Grayson Davenport Hawthorne is mine, not yours!!" Grayson's eyes widened at that declaration.

"So I'd better not log onto Instagram or something and see you all making up absolute bullshit about him being your husband or your baby girl!!!" she paused to catch her breathe, "he's mine fuckers!!! Back off and dream on!!!!" Lyra cackled as a cherry on top.

Grayson was grinning like an idiot now. Lyra's very slight jealousy had seeped through while she was drunk, he was beyond amused at this point.

"So Grayson Davenport Hawthorne!!" Lyra yelled at him, though she was still looking towards the city.

Grayson suppressed his laugh, "Yes, sweetheart?!" He tried matching her energy.

"WILL YOU MARRY ME?!"

Grayson's breathe caught, and then he laughed. Really laughed, throwing his head back with his eyes tightly shut. His blonde hair flew back, glowing in the moonlight.

Lyra sent him a glare, "OI! I'M BEING SERIOUS RIGHT NOW!!"

Grayson forced himself to stop laughing, though he couldn't rid himself of his toothy grin, "Of course, Lyra Kane. I'd love to marry you."

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU?!" Lyra screamed at the top of her lungs, obviously holding back a grin of her own. Grayson laughed again.

"YES. LYRA KANE, I WOULD LOVE TO TAKE YOUR HAND IN MARRIAGE!!!" Grayson screamed the loudest he ever had, possibly competing with Xander.

Lyra's face changed into one of pure happiness, looking like a teenage girl who was finally dating her long time crush. That only made Grayson want to laugh more. He felt butterflies fly around in his stomach as he pulled Lyra to him, bringing her impossibly closer.

Lyra snuggled into his chest.

They stayed like that for a long moment, with nothing but their own presences and the night sky as a witness.

"I have," Lyra paused, yawning as her eyes fluttered shut, "I have no idea what I did to deserve you."

Grayson's hand was in her hair, slowly lulling her to sleep as he played with it. He didn't reply then, knowing she'd be too tired to listen.

I don't know what I did to deserve you either, Lyra.

——————————————————————

LYRA

Lyra woke up to a splitting headache.

Fucking hell. She thought, annoyed at the terrible start to the morning.

She forced her eyes open, squinting as the rays of light fell on her face, Lyra made a mental note to get darker curtains. That's when her gaze fell on the blonde boy laying beside her.

Grayson had one hand draped over her waist and the other underneath her head, she stared at the face she knew all so well but never got tired of.

Her hands travelled to his face, gently tracing his features as if committing them to memory. That's when he opened his eyes, his gaze meeting hers almost instantly.

His eyes always looked closer to sky blue in the morning. The type of shade she could drown in.

"Morning asshole." She whispered, preserving the comfort of the quiet.

Grayson smiled, a slow and soft kind, "Do you remember what happened last night?" He asked softly, moving closer.

Both of Grayson's hands now rested on Lyra's waist as he rested his head on her chest, Lyra smiled.

"No. Well, not exactly. I just remember getting really, really drunk." She said, taking in the scent of his hair. She felt Grayson smile against her chest.

"What?" Lyra asked.

"Sweetheart." Grayson replied. It was totally random, but her heart still skipped a beat, the way it did whenever he called her that.

"Oh, so you really do get flustered."

Lyra blushed. Hard. She pushed his face away from her chest, understanding now that he had been listening to her heartbeat.

"H-how did you know?!" She half-yelled, trying to get herself to stop blushing.

Grayson smirked, "Let's just say you were chaotic last night and told me a lot of things."

Lyra cringed as Grayson moved closer again. He was definitely the golden retriever in their relationship.

They layed in silence as some of Lyra's memories resurfaced, "Good god. Do not tell me you spent more than 1,000 dollars. On chocolate."

Grayson looked up at her, giving her a small smile.

She groaned, "Gray?! A thousand dollars?? On chocolate?? For heaven's sake-"

"A thousand dollars to keep you happy." Grayson cut Lyra off, her breathe hitched.

How does he always have the right words to make me shut up?

"You made quite a declaration, by the way." Grayson spoke, his tone teasing.

Lyra sent him a cautious look, "And what was that?"

"Well, you screamed out to the world at 2AM that Grayson Davenport Hawthorne was yours and yours only and that the fangirls should, and I quote, fuck off."

Lyra was dumbfounded, "W-what?!" She screeched, turning red yet again. Grayson supported himself with his elbow as he looked to her.

"And not just that, you then proposed to me." He said.

Lyra's eyes widened, "I did what?!"

Grayson laughed, "You proposed to me. And I said yes."

Lyra raised a brow, "Grayson, we're literally engaged? You proposed to me a week ago??"

"Well you seemed to have forgotten that, because you proposed to me again." He said, chuckling as Lyra nudged him away out of pure embarrassment.

Her heart sped up, though she wasn't sure whether it was because of Grayson's relentless teasing or knowing that, if she had proposed first, Grayson would still have said yes.

Butterflies flew around in her stomach at the thought.

Grayson stared at Lyra as she tried to get her racing heart to calm down. A smile rested on his face.

"This headache is killing me." Lyra said, finally, trying to get herself distracted from all the embarrassment of last night. Grayson's expression immediately deteriorated.

"I'll go get the medicine." He said, moving to get up. Lyra grabbed his hand. That's not what she had wanted.

"No." She said, Grayson raised a brow.

"Just stay. For now. Please." Lyra said, slightly flustered. She needed that medicine, desperately, but she wanted Grayson more at the moment.

Grayson assessed her, before smiling, "You need it, sweetheart. I'll be back in a minute." He reasoned.

Lyra knew he was right, so she reluctantly let him go.

She waited for him, sitting up on the bed and massaging her head slowly, her eyebrows furrowed from the pain.

That's when Grayson's phone went off, Lyra looked and saw a notification from the firm.

Can't they let him rest? It's literally 8 in the morning?? She thought, glaring holes into the phone.

That's when she noticed the background.

She grabbed the phone and swiped the notification, getting it out of the way so she could see the image clearly. Her breathe caught.

Grayson's background was the photo of a girl. A beautiful girl with flowing brown hair and deep amber eyes. She stood, leaning against the railing as she smiled downwards— the girl looked free, happy. The moon and the stars only seemed to amplify the beauty of the setting.

That's... me?

Lyra knew she was beautiful, hell she had been told that more times than she could count. But this photo was different, it made her look ethereal.

As if she was some other-worldly angel, fallen from grace.

Grayson entered the room, he circled the bed— placing the medicine and water to the side. He gazed down at his phone and grinned.

"It's beautiful." Lyra said, her voice sounded breathless.

Grayson took her chin gently, prying it upwards. Their eyes met, blue and amber— them.

"No, Lyra Kane. You are beautiful."

————————————————————— OKAYYYYYYY?? NOT HALF BAD- I'M SO HAPPY WITH THE DRUNK PROPOSING SCENE, IT'S SO CUTE LMFAO (here I stand, complimenting my own writing). Butttt its also a tribute to all those haters on Pinterest who were jealous of our girl (like pls get a life 😭✋✨) ALSO THE KANEJ REFERENCE, if u realized, ur amazing <3 Alt Titles: Grayson being taken aback by a drunk Lyra. Drunkard Lyra and her Obedient Mate. I pray you enjoyed! <3 @lyrakanefanatic @inkstainsonmyfingertips @alwaysthefangirl @talahs-reading-library @diamondrattherevenge @me-h1m

—————————————————————

[bloodied-blossom]

You'd do anything for that antichrist, wouldn't cha?

1.5k Words; Ronin x Reader (1/2)

Killer Chat! Fanfic

Ronin is driving you insane, if he wanted proof so badly? You'd give it to him. The devil wants your corruption. And thats just what you give him.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

'Heh'

‘Will you Carve an Aorta out for me? Cut it Filthy and Breathing’

`Do It like the Romantics do`

`i haven’t Forgotten your Need to Prove yourself to me`

`<user> [16:51]`

`I don’t think I need to prove myself to you.`

`< goreboy > [16:51]`

`who’s the one Deciding your fate?`

`i Thought so`

`have fun with your Murder`

`don’t forget to Send Pics`

`in the meantime`

`i’ll be marking the Devil’s name Uptown`

Ronin . God why won’t he get off your back. Oh, right, it’s because he knows. You know he knows. But there isn’t much you could do about it right now. Your thoughts are swirling with ideas.. Should you prove yourself? Is it worth the blood on your hands just to get him to leave you be? He’s corrupting you, and he’s pretty damn good at it. Reading his words again gives you a grotesque idea. ‘Carve an Aorta out for me?’ The thoughts only spiral as you try to push them out. You try to convince yourself that a human life is not worth your sick romantic fantasies.. But you can’t deny the truth any longer. You need this server's trust. You need proof.

If you want the devil’s heart? You’ll have to play the devil’s game. And by playing his game? You’re falling right into his hands.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You had scoped out possible victims. There was a list of shitty people you knew the world would be better off without. This really was a terrible idea. You had on shoes that were three sizes too big, a large coat, a mask, long gloves and a couple of weapons to get the job done. Ronin was driving you mad and yet there was so little you could do about it.

You came into this server for inspiration, and here you are on the brink of murdering someone. It was too late to stop now anyways. You had a victim, you had time, and you had your equipment. You set off in the dead of night, knowing most if not all people, including your victim, would be asleep.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Fuck you’ve done it- You killed the guy. He lay there motionless, the crowbar you used lying beside him. You knew that it was over with and that you should get your photos and leave. But once again, Ronin’s words rung out through your head. ‘will you Carve an Aorta out for me?’ God why had that one sentence stuck? He was going to be the death of you.

You knew you had to do it. Maybe now he’d shut up, maybe now he’d take more of a liking to you. Maybe now he’ll see what he’s done to you, how bad his corruption has affected you. It’s ridiculous really, he’ll only enjoy seeing you break.

You left a mark on the victim's body. Your.. brand. If you will. A missing heart and a mark. How creative. You held the heart in your hand and pulled your mask down. This needed to be deleted as soon as it was sent to the server, you knew that, but that was a problem for later. You snapped a photo of you holding the heart, a twisted smile on your face.

The devil lives to corrupt and shows mercy to none who play with his fire.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You couldn’t send it. It made you sick looking at it when you got home.. Plus it would be too early. This wasn’t some fun game anymore, some stupid role you could play to get your inspiration. You were now a certified murderer.. And despite how disgusted the dead bodies made you feel? There was a thrilling rush to it. God your morality was being tainted slowly but surely. The only way to recover the sanity you lost is to send the photos and move on. Pretend it never happened…

But you made it this far. Why stop now?

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

`< goreboy > [18:28]`

`oh, why not make it reality?`

`why don’t you Kill Someone for me @\user`

`i’m still Waiting`

`here i’ll even Let you Choose`

`that’s my Round Two`

`i Dare you`

You stared at your screen at a loss for words. You already have. You’ve done what he’s acting so desperate for.. But could you even tell them? It’s frustrating. He’s driving you even madder as time goes on. You stand from your desk, you know how to get the frustration out. Ever since that night, you have been more and more into finding ruthless people you could make victims. More and more proof to pile on. You saw your murder case on the news the morning after that night. People weren’t scared of you.. You were growing this want. The want to be feared.

You stare at the crowbar you used that night, the outfit being neatly folded right beside it. You could do it again. Give into the devil’s demands. Rack up all the proof you need, with all your reasons attached. That would be one hell of a fucking blow..

You’d prove yourself to the devil , and the devil will accept it graciously.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You did it again. You idiot. You’re falling for the bait, all the corruption. It doesn’t matter, what you’ve done is over with. You can’t go back. You stared at yet another lifeless body. Something inside of you told you this should stop, but something else felt good about this all. It was so gratifying knowing you were becoming just what he wanted you to be. You marked the body and tore out the heart, taking yet another photo from another angle to ensure the receiver knows it’s a new, fresh kill.

With your blood soaked gloves, you wrote your killer name on the wall. You wanted your chosen name to strike hearts into people. You wanted there to be news articles of you.. But that meant more blood. And you were more than happy to oblige.

Dancing with the devil is no sane person's hobby, but to you? It was your favorite.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

`< goreboy > [15:38]`

`hey ‘user’`

`how about i show you the Art of Murdering with a crowbar`

`i’ll Do it`

`as long as you Be my Victim`

Fine. This little game has gone on long enough. One more kill to prove yourself. One more victim to photograph and send to the devil on your shoulder. One more life to take before you can retire from hurting people. This is the ending you want, though you know won’t happen. You’ve grown addicted. You’ve stalked your friends to see how they do it, you take in advice from multiple sources. You’ve landed yourself so much information from this server it tempts you.

You want to rid the world of disgusting, horrible people. But you also want to be the devil’s little helper. You’ve done more than your fair share of roleplaying and it’s about time that role became a true reality. News outlets are becoming more antsy, you hear idle chatter of this new serial killer, law enforcements seem to be picking up some slack to keep people calm.. You’re doing well.

You already planned a list of people you were to kill if it came down to being something you wanted to continue doing. You know exactly where you’re headed tonight. You got ready as quickly as possible, your heart was racing. This became exciting to you. All of this was exciting to you. You couldn’t wait for Ronin’s reaction. It was going to be priceless.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

It was done. You were smiling like a maniac. You felt.. A sick sense of joy out of this. You took multiple photos this time, one with the heart, one close to the lifeless body, one smearing blood on the wall. You were… treating it like a photoshoot. It was so.. Concerningly fun. You couldn’t wait any longer, you couldn’t wait till you got home. You wrote your serial killer name in blood and stood next to it, snapping one last photo before saving both the previous photos and the newer ones to your hidden album.

You were excited, making sure you left nothing behind and fleeing from the house. It took a bit to get home undetected, but you managed. Your mind was blank, nothing but the last hour replaying in your mind as you washed up your items, clothes and yourself. You hooked your phone up to your laptop and opened up the server. Your heart was racing as you selected each photo.. Leaving out all the ones with the hearts in frame. You hovered over the send button.. After you did this? There was no going back. You stared at the sidebar with everyone’s accounts.. And saw Ronin’s . That was the only motivation you needed to click send.

You switched channels, watching as the little exclamation point showed up, signaling you had a notification from the channel. That could be checked later. You opened you and Ronin’s private messages, sending him only the photos with the carved out hearts. You didn’t wait for a response to the photos before you began typing.

`<user> [01:33]`

`I did as you asked, I carved these all out.`

`Did I make the devil proud?`

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

[returnofeternity]

grow a garden has also been my addiction lately:)) every time I play I always think of modern au teen!Lottie playing, that and I have an in-game pet deer so when I see them my mind just goes “LOTTIEEEE” automatically. I think she probably would have enjoyed playing cozy farming games, or just games with farming features in general (Minecraft, stardew valley and animal crossing I’m looking at you)

DUDE ME TOO. i just hit 2b coins 😎

the concept of dating lottie and being friends with her on roblox....having each other in the bio too. <3

she doesnt mess around on it. she only has roblox installed on her phone just so she can have it open when she cant be on the puter 😭 it's ur own PC you bought with your money too but she kicks you off because it's easier to play on it 😒

shes kind of like a mansplainer when she talks to you about it...😭 especially if you don't get it. tells you how to plant correctly and what the best seeds are because ur NOT doing it correctly ofc >_> but she's suchhh a good gf and gives you those frozen candy blossoms and a bunchhh of freebies so you can gain coins 😊 its so cute seeing her avatar jump toward you 💗 and she will constantly rejoin games until your farm is next to hers!!

and i know her farm is PERFECT. she has everything so organized and it doesn't even feel cluttered even though there's like hundreds of plants. she came crying to you when someone used their robux to steal one of her crops too 😭 was so butthurt and reported them and everything. you tried to give her one of your strawberries to make her feel better </3

kinda like a guard dog and tells off 'noobs' who wanna scam you by trading dog shit items lmfao.

she would LOVE to make a stardew farm with you omfg are you kidding???!!!! she spends ages planning out the name and what theme she wants to do!! she takes the farm life very seriously.

and i know charlotte matthews takes character customization seriously as well.

laughing just thinking about lottie telling you how much she hates cheaters in the game but you find out that she has mods installed to make the game easier 😭

lottie who likes to game next to you <33 always brings her computer to where you are and resumes gaming. she loves showing off her work to you and just likes you being near her while she's basically silent for hours just farming n shit. its ur bonding time <3 thinking of things like hugging her from behind on the bed while she builds your Minecraft house bc you suck at building ❤️ lottie who facetimes you while you're at work or in class because she needs your help deciding what to do or build next ❤️

she likes to leave little presents for you to find when you get on too!! she leaves flowers in your chests, spells out "i love you" using your favorite Minecraft blocks, gives you her extra diamonds, steals one of your sheep, leaves a sign on your door that says "gay."

think she's so the type to feel bad about abandoning her villagers 😭 it's been months since she's used her switch for anything other than Mario kart, and she wont even boot up animal crossing because she'll feel even worse for seeing them after neglecting them for so long lmfaooo.

thinking about lottie who has her own lil fashion business on roblox.... she makes her own clothes and shit!!!! she shows you her sketches for new ideas and it's so cute :( she's almost a robux millionaire

[mingiiwingii]

Pairing:idol!yunho x choreographer!afab reader

Summary: After hours at the ateez dance studio. You’re the new assistant choreographer, and Yunho’s been staying late for extra help.

Genre: smut, slight fluff

NOW PLAYING: Earned it by the weeknd

Warnings: oral (f receiving), semi-public sex, power dynamics, mirror sex, praise kink

WORD COUNT: 1,779

A/n: This was NOT the long awaited yunho smut I’ve been working on I just had to still write a little something to feed you guys. Ik I’ve been starving y’all my bad😔✋. Words can’t even explain how bad i feel🌝. ANYWAYYYY I hope you enjoy

The lights were dim now—only the floor lights humming low as you hit pause on the speaker. Yunho’s chest rose and fell with a light sheen of sweat clinging to his collarbone, the fabric of his tank clinging in all the right places.

“You’re off again,” you muttered, walking over to him.

His lips curled. “Or maybe you’re just too distracted to watch me properly.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Distracted? By what—your sweaty ego?”

Yunho stepped in closer, and the heat between your bodies spiked.

“No,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “distracted by how you keep staring when you think I don’t notice.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“You want me to do it again?” he added, stepping even closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “Slow this time. So you can really… watch.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Yunho…”

He tilted his head, a smirk dancing across his lips. “Say my name like that again.”

His fingers brushed yours—just barely—and yet it sent a pulse down your spine. You should’ve backed up. You meant to. But the way he looked at you…

“You gonna keep pretending,” he murmured, “or are we gonna stop playing games tonight?

Yunho’s hand slid to your waist, warm and steady, while his eyes stayed locked on yours—searching, like he was waiting for you to run. When you didn’t, he tugged you closer until your chest met his, and your breath caught at the sudden rush of contact.

“So soft,” he muttered, fingers brushing under your shirt, slowly gliding along the bare skin just above your waistband. “I’ve been thinking about this since the first night you corrected me on a count.”

He leaned down, lips grazing your jaw. “You looked so serious. Bossy. Had no idea how bad I wanted to ruin that attitude.”

His teeth nipped at your earlobe, dragging a sound from you before you could stop it. That soft, involuntary gasp made him groan.

“Do that again,” he whispered. “Let me hear what I do to you.”

His hand slid beneath your top fully now, palm splaying over your back as he kissed you—slow, but deep. Tongue teasing at the seam of your lips until you let him in. He kissed like he danced—controlled, fluid, and dangerously good at it.

You whimpered into his mouth when he backed you against the wall mirror, the cool glass pressing against your spine. He grinned against your lips.

“Didn’t expect you to be this quiet,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. “All that sass, and now you’re just letting me take over?”

Your hands gripped his biceps. “I’m not quiet,” you whispered, breath shaking. “I’m just… overwhelmed.”

His eyes darkened at that. “Good. I haven’t even started yet.”

⸻

He dropped to his knees in front of you like he belonged there, hands sliding down the back of your thighs as he pulled you toward him.

“You’re shaking already,” he said with a low laugh, dragging his lips along your skin. “Let me show you what happens when you stop running that mouth and give in.”

His tongue traced up the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate, and when he looked up at you—eyes hooded, hair falling over his forehead, lips just inches away—you almost collapsed from the tension alone.

“Hold on to the mirror, baby,” he smirked. “You’re gonna need it.”

Your palms pressed flat to the mirror behind you, trying to ground yourself as Yunho’s hands slid up under your skirt, thumbs brushing the tops of your thighs with an almost cruel slowness.

“Still with me?” he asked, voice low and rough.

You nodded, your breath shaky. “Yeah.”

He chuckled, warm and deep. “Good girl.”

The words hit you like a spark to dry wood—your thighs clenched around him instinctively, and he noticed. Of course he did.

“Sensitive already,” he murmured, dragging your underwear down your legs slowly, deliberately. “You’ve been thinking about this too, haven’t you?”

You didn’t answer fast enough, and he gave your thigh a firm, warning squeeze. “I said…” His tone dropped. “Have you been thinking about me?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “God, yes.”

“That’s better.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your bare skin again before his tongue replaced them—hot, wet, and sinful as he licked a slow stripe up your center.

Your hips jolted. A gasp escaped you before you could stifle it, and Yunho only grinned.

“Yeah,” he said softly, lips grazing your inner thigh. “I want to hear all of that.”

And then he devoured you.

There was no hesitation—just pure skill and intention. His mouth moved with confident precision, tongue flicking and curling in ways that made your grip on the mirror falter. He took his time, building your pleasure like a song, like choreography—every motion meant to unravel you. When your knees buckled, his arms locked around your thighs, holding you open for him, refusing to let you go.

“Yunho—” His name spilled from your lips like a prayer.

“Hmm?” He didn’t stop, not for a second. “Tell me what you need.”

“I—I need more.”

That made him groan, deep in his throat, and the vibration of it against you nearly tipped you over the edge. He started moving faster, tongue pressing in deeper, lips tightening around your clit with maddening focus. You couldn’t breathe. You were falling. Your whole body was shaking—

“Let go,” he whispered against you. “Be good for me. Come on my tongue.”

And you did—hard.

Your body jerked forward, legs trembling as your orgasm tore through you. The mirror behind you fogged with your breath, and Yunho held you through all of it, licking you clean, savoring every last tremor of your release.

When he finally stood up, your legs barely held you.

He caught your chin gently between his fingers. “Look at you,” he said, voice husky, lips slick. “So responsive. So damn pretty when you fall apart.”

You clung to him, panting, still dazed.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured as he slid his hands up your sides and pulled you close. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Your legs were still shaking when Yunho turned you around, pressing your front to the mirror. The cool glass kissed your heated skin, your breath fogging it up instantly.

His hand slid down your spine, steadying you. “You look so fucking good like this,” he growled, eyes drinking in the way your hips arched back for him, instinctively wanting more.

You felt his body press against yours—his chest to your back, his breath hot on your neck. One hand gripped your waist, the other reached between your thighs again, fingers gliding through your slick folds.

“Still soaked,” he murmured, almost in awe. “All that just for me.”

You whimpered when his fingers teased your entrance again—slow, shallow thrusts just to make you squirm.

“I could watch you come apart on my fingers all night,” he said against your ear, voice like silk laced with heat. “But I think we both know what you really want now.”

He didn’t even give you time to answer.

You felt the tip of his cock nudge at your entrance, thick and hot, and when he pushed in—slow at first—you nearly collapsed.

“F-fuck—” Your hands scrambled against the mirror, trying to hold on, but it was too much, too deep.

Yunho groaned behind you, hands gripping your hips tight. “You’re so fucking tight—like you were made for me.”

He didn’t wait long. Once he bottomed out, he pulled back and slammed in again, this time harder. Your body jolted against the mirror, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the empty studio.

“Look at yourself,” he rasped. “Watch how you fall apart for me.”

Your eyes met your reflection—lips parted, flushed, breathless—and behind you, Yunho’s eyes locked on yours through the glass, dark and full of heat.

His pace picked up, hips snapping into you with delicious rhythm. You could feel every inch of him, dragging against your walls, hitting that perfect spot that made your knees weak.

“Yunho—please—don’t stop—” you gasped.

He groaned at the sound of your voice like that—needy, fucked-out, helpless under him.

“I’m not stopping until I feel you come again,” he growled. “I want to feel you squeeze around me—tight and messy, just like that.”

He reached around to toy with your clit, rubbing tight circles in time with each thrust. Your whole body tightened, your release rushing toward you like a tidal wave.

“You close?” he breathed. “Come on, baby. Be good for me. Let go.”

Your orgasm hit hard—your body clenching around him, vision going white, forehead pressing to the mirror as you cried out his name.

Yunho cursed, hips stuttering as he chased his own release. A few more hard thrusts and he was right there, pulling you back onto him as he spilled deep inside you with a low, wrecked moan of your name.

For a moment, the studio was silent—just the sound of your panting breaths and the soft thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

Then Yunho leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“You okay?” he whispered, thumb stroking your side gently.

You nodded, dazed and warm. “Yeah. That was…”

“A masterpiece,” he finished for you, smirking. “Like my choreography. Except messier.”

You laughed, breathless, as he pulled you back into his arms.

Yunho helped you turn around slowly, his hands never leaving your body. Your legs were trembling, your breathing uneven—but the way he looked at you? Like you were the only thing that mattered in the entire world.

“Damn,” he whispered, brushing your hair off your face. “Didn’t mean to wreck you like that… but I’m not sorry.”

You smiled, eyes half-lidded. “You should be.”

He chuckled, dipping down to kiss you again—this time slow, gentle, the complete opposite of what he’d just done to you against the mirror.

“You always talk back,” he murmured against your lips. “It drives me crazy.”

“And yet, here we are.”

Yunho pulled you into his chest, one hand sliding up your back, the other settling at your hip like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

“You know this changes things, right?” he asked quietly. “We’re not walking out of here the same.”

You looked up at him, lips brushing his. “Then maybe we don’t walk out pretending.”

A beat passed.

He smirked. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on pretending anything.”

And just like that, his lips were back on yours—hot and lingering, with a promise of more. Not just more of this, but more of you.

Whatever this was between you now, it wasn’t over.

Not even close.

[faghubby]

Bus ride

We where on out way to the championship game. When the bus broke down. We'll not out bus the teams bus. See I am in the band. We where already running late. Would we miss the game. The coach made the call.

"Look if we just all pile into one bus for the rest of the trip we can still make it. We moved gear but we all managed to squeeze in. A few of the girls sat on guys laps. When Henry Beers came to the back of the bus. No room. He was a star player our center. I stood. Here take my seat I was already squeezed next to a pile of instruments.

"Thanks he said. Suddenly the bus moved I lost my balance I was going to sit on the floor but fell into Henry's lap. He grabbed me with his huge arms.

"Gotcha little man" he laughed. I went to get up.

"Dude it's cool you barely weigh anything" he told me.

"It's okay I'll" I started to get up when we hit some bumps. Being in the back I jostled around Henry just held me as I bounced on his lap. I felt something my god was he getting hard.

"Sorry" I mumbled.

"It's okay" he reached down and gently run his hand over my thigh. I swallowed hard. As my own cock grew.

"Shh, rest" he held me close. His cock throbbing against my ass. His hand slid up over my chest rubbing my nipples lightly. It wasn't long 15 minutes later we where unloading the bus. Henry had gone off with the team. I didn't see him again until the game started.

Unfortunately we lost. I didn't see Henry again until Monday. I had just walked into the bathroom when Henry appeared following me in.

"So trumpet player" he smirked.

"Yeah, Paul" I said softly. He nodded as if he already knew. He stepped close to me. I could smell his cologne. Thought you and I could be friends, I need a tutor he put his finger to my lips.

"I'm not, you know" I stated.

"Neither am I, but your so pretty" he told me. He suddenly stepped away as the door opened.

"So if you could find time to tutor me that would be great, I would really owe you one man" Henry said. I just nodded and left. I Had band practice after school. I noticed Henry hanging around. Football season was over he had no reason to be around. I usually got a ride home from my friend Rob's mom. But Henry walked up to me after practice holding his books.

"Right I promised to tutor Henry" I told my Rob.

"Don't worry I drive him home" Henry smiled.

"No one will believe I am tutoring you" I told Henry as he led me to the back parking lot. "I don't know why I am even here"

"Curiosity" Henry smiled a big toothy grin at me. Henry suddenly pushed me into a small doorway. Pressing up against me hard. He was so much bigger then me, a foot taller, at least 75lbs heavier. And black as I was pale.

"I'm not" I started and Henry pushed his finger into my mouth. I couldn't move. His scent his presence. I closed my mouth and sucked his finger. He stopped and led me to his car. We drove to some hunting cabin off a side road. It wasn't for. He led me inside. As soon as we where inside he closed the door there wasn't much light.

"This is my uncles cabin no one uses it any more. He led me to the bedroom.

"I can't" I stuttered. He pulled off my shirt. And kissed my neck. His hands unbuckled my pants and let them fall. I was harder then I had ever been in my life. He finished stripping me I stood naked before him. Henry pulled his shirt off over his head. I just stood there and watched as he took off his pants.

"Holy shit!" I said out loud. I had not meant to. But his cock was huge.

"Don't worry babe, we will go slow" Henry told me.

"Can I touch it?" I asked curious it was just so big. He just nodded letting me touch him I stroked him once.

"Girls are scared of it, that's why I thought someone like you bigger we really stronger could take it" he told me.

"I've never been with anyone" I confessed to him.

"That's okay" he sat on the bed. "Come sit like on the bus" he told me. Pulling me to his lap. He rubbed my nipples. I moved slowly rubbing my ass on his cock.

"Do you want to try?" Henry laughed. I stood a little. I felt something cool on his fingers ad he rubbed my asshole. Suddenly he pushed one of his thick fingers into my ass. I moaned.

"You even squel like a girl" Henry laughed. He continued to finger my ass. Workingn in a second and a third finger. Before he removed them and had me lower myself on his lubed cock. At first my ass held him back then suddenly it seemed to pull me as it sank into my ass.

"No, no please stop" I wimpered. I could of pulled off but I just sat held there my legs shaking.

"Paul you okay we can stop" he told me.

"NO" I screamed and lowered myself more. "It feels amazing" I whispered. It took awhile but I managed to start fucking myself on his cock. I didn't stop until I had him all buried in my ass.

"You can't tell anyone" I whimpered

"Don't worry your secret is safe with me" Henry moaned as I rode his cock. I suddenly had a wierd warm sensation pass thru me I looked down to see cum oozing out of me. Then Henry grunted and held me pushing deep into me as he came in my ass. I got off his lap. My ass felt empty.

"I hope you continue to tutor me often" Henry smiled smacking my ass. I got cleaned up cum running down the back of my leg.

"Henry can I" I paused.

"What?" Henry smiled

"Can I kiss you, you see I have never been kissed" I fumbled over the words. He stood and kissed me holding me in his big strong hands.

"You would make a fine girl" He told me. I was confused what did that mean. He kissed me again. I stopped and looked down. Henry just grinned

"Well it has its own mind" he laughed as his cock grew hard again. He pushed me on the bed. Grabbing my hips he slid his cock back into my well used ass. He fucked me hard. I loved every moment.

"Yes fuck me" I moaned pushing back to meet his thrusts. He didn't stop until he filled my ass with cum for a second time.

"Come on its getting late" he told me smacking my ass, I got cleaned up and dressed. Just as we about to walk out the door he stopped and pushed his fingers into my mouth, next time let's find out how those trumpet playing lips work" he told me. I sucked his fingers he smiled and we left.

We came up with a better cover story. Saying I was teaching him to read music and play guitar another instrument I played. I actually taught him some in between sex. I became skilled at sucking his thick cock. Three to four times a week we met at the cabin for months. I had to come to terms that I was gay I loved Henry although I had not told him.

One day I borrowed my mother hair removal cream and lathered myself in it. When I got out of the shower I had no body hair left. I then stole sexy lingerie from her drawer, I met Henry later that night at the cabin. Borrowing my mom's car. I was at the cabin first I put on the lingerie and waited for him. When he came in he saw me and was shocked.

"I can be your girl" I told him. "I love you" I confessed. He shoved his cock in my mouth.

"Paul you are sweet but I'm not gay" he told me. I didn't stop sucking his cock taking all eight inches. "God you should teach Leslie how to do that" he moaned Leslie I knew he had started dating her. A gorgeous black girl. A year behind us. But had not told me they where sexual. I didn't stop I needed his cock. I swallowed every drop that came out of his balls. Knowing he would be hard again in moments.

"Leslie and you" I looked up at him.

"Shh you look lovely, besides she doesn't let me have her ass" He laughed. "Besides you can't tell me no" he told me tearing my mother's panties off of me. He wasted no time burying his cock deep in my ass.

"Don't worry I will take you to school with me next year, maybe the whole team will love fucking your ass" he told me. He was serious. We had both gotten scholarships to state mine for music and his for football. I didn't know what would come in the future but knew I was forever hooked on big black men and their amazing cocks

[amirawrah]

⭐︎Subtle

with MICHAEL OLISE⭐︎REQUESTED BY ANON!

synopsis: Old friends. New tension. And a reunion that feels a little too good.

The knock on Michael's apartment door echoed quietly down the Munich hallway. He wasn’t expecting anyone—training had ended a little late, and he was still in his sweats, hair damp from a rushed shower. When he opened the door, a familiar face stood there, framed by the hallway light, grinning like you belonged there.

"You’re not serious," he said, stunned.

You dropped your weekend bag and threw your arms around his neck. "Surprise."

Michael didn’t hug a lot of people. He didn’t have to—you always said he showed his love in glances, not grabs. But when he held you that night, his arms stayed wrapped around your waist just a few seconds longer than they used to when you were teenagers sneaking out to corner stores past curfew.

"You flew to Germany?" he mumbled, muffled by the way your face was tucked into his hoodie.

You pulled back to look up at him. "I missed my best friend."

Michael shook his head, smiling now, his eyes softer than you’d seen in months. "You’re a madwoman."

"And you love it."

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

The thing about growing up with Michael was that he was never just your friend. Not really. Not when your childhood memories were laced with stolen looks, inside jokes, and long summer walks where your hands sometimes brushed and neither of you mentioned it.

Not when he came to your prom—not with you, technically, but you spent the whole night together anyway. Not when he texted you after every match, and only you, and always with something like, "Should’ve seen this shit, you’d cry from secondhand embarrassment.”

The world saw him as reserved, almost stoic. But you? You knew he talked in facial expressions. In the way he’d bump his knee against yours during movies or let you steal the last fry even when he claimed he was starving.

Now, standing in his apartment, you felt all of that flood back like no time had passed.

"How long are you here for?" he asked as he moved your bag inside.

"Four days."

"Not long enough."

You glanced at him.

"You could always stay longer," he added casually, like it didn’t just send a flurry through your chest.

You grinned. "Convince me."

That night, he ordered food from the Thai place he knew you liked and queued up a random movie you’d both pretend to watch. You sat curled up on opposite ends of the couch, but your legs tangled somewhere in the middle.

"You’re still terrible at using chopsticks," he said, laughing as you dropped a piece of tofu.

"And you’re still rude. Some things don’t change."

"Some things do."

He said it quietly, eyes not on you, but you heard the weight of it. Felt it.

The flirty undertone had always been there, but lately it felt like a thread you both kept tugging—gently, persistently, as if daring the other to unravel it.

"You’ve changed," you murmured.

Michael glanced up.

"In a good way," you clarified. "You’re... more sure of yourself now. You like know who you are."

His eyes lingered on yours. "Make it easy to feel like that."

The silence between you pulsed.

You looked away first. The next day, he made you promise to come to his match. You teased him about finally wanting to show you off.

And when you showed up he spotted you from the pitch and his whole demeanor shifted. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and he did that little half-wave he reserved for people he actually cared about.

The game was electric. He played well, sharp and focused. But it was post-match where everything came undone.

You were waiting by the team’s private area when he jogged over, still in his kit, sweat-damp curls clinging to his forehead. "Did you see that pass in the second half?"

"You mean the one that almost became a goal? Incredible," you said, deadpan.

He rolled his eyes. "Wow. Tough crowd."

And then you both laughed.

Loud, unfiltered, yours tilting into a snort as his head dipped, eyes crinkling in amusement. He leaned close, muttering something you couldn’t catch, his hand brushing the small of your back.

From the side, a few teammates watched.

"Oi, Olise!" one of them called out.

Another chimed in, "Man’s been hiding a whole girlfriend this whole time."

Michael didn’t deny it. He didn’t even try. Just shot them a lazy smirk, pulled up his finger and turned to you like they weren’t even there.

Later, in the locker room changing his ,Jamal grinned as he passed him. "She’s cute, you act different around her."

Michael just shrugged, but his ears burned. "Yeah. She’s always been different."

That night, back at his place, you wore his hoodie. This time, it felt more intentional.

You were curled up next to him, scrolling through photos someone had taken of the two of you at the match. In one, you were mid-laugh, and Michael was looking at you like the world didn’t exist beyond that moment.

"You looked happy today," you said softly.

"I was."

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was thick. Full of tension neither of you had dared touch until now.

You shifted to look at him, noticing the way his jaw flexed as his eyes flicked from your face to your bare legs tucked beneath you. You hadn’t meant to tease. But the hoodie hit your thighs just right. And Michael—he wasn’t looking away.

“Why are you staring?” you asked, half-smiling, breath catching.

“I’m trying not to do something stupid.”

You raised a brow. “Like what?”

He didn’t answer. He just leaned forward, slowly, giving you time to pull away. You didn’t. Your breath hitched as his hand slid along your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.

The kiss was soft. At first.

Then it wasn’t.

His hoodie bunched in his fists as he tugged you closer, your knees sliding over his thighs as you climbed into his lap. All those years of friendship, of almosts, poured into the way his mouth moved with yours—hungry, deep, reverent.

The kiss grew urgent, hungry. Your legs wrapped around his waist and he groaned quietly into your mouth when you shifted just right.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, eyes dark now, voice wrecked with want.

You shook your head. "Don’t. Please."

His hoodie slid off you, fabric whispering across your skin. He took his time, fingers tracing every curve, every inch of skin like he was memorizing it. Like he’d waited years for this—and maybe he had.

You gasped when his lips found the hollow of your throat, when his hands dipped beneath the hem of your underwear. He whispered your name like it was something devine.

And when he finally—finally—was fully against you, inside you, around you, it felt like everything made sense.

There were no declarations, no dramatic confessions.

Just the press of your foreheads.

The quiet moans and groans that slipped from his lips.

And the soft, broken way he said your name like a promise against your skin.

You didn’t need the words.

You already knew.

And now, finally, so did he.

[wooahaes]

like pieces of a puzzle

pairing: non-idol!seungkwan x gn!reader

genre: fluff. established relationship.

warnings: food mentions (ice cream). introverted reader.

word count: 0.9k~

daisy's notes: theres puzzles in the hall closet lol maybe ill get one down and do it later this week. haven't done a nice puzzle in a while.

From the first party that Seungkwan ever took you to after you started dating, he learned quickly that it was the fastest way to drain your social battery. Not that you hated parties by any means: you always enjoyed socializing with friends, catching up with what’s changed in other people’s lives—especially the people you didn’t get to hang out with often. But the first time resulted in the two of you getting ice cream afterward and sitting outside of the convenience store that night, just relaxing for a bit before he dropped you off at home. Eventually, it became your little post-party ritual: ice cream and casual chatting between the two of you.

“Because you don’t drain my battery,” you’d said once while sitting on the floor of your apartment. The two of you had been playing video games together, even if he struggled to get the hang of this one. “I like being around you. That’s why I’m dating you, silly.” 

And years later, post-moving in together and many parties since, the same rang true for your birthday as well. He’d pulled it all together with your blessing in advance: not too many people, and he’d always rope at least one or two of his friends to help clean up alongside the two of you. And now that everything had been cleared away, except for the last slice of your birthday cake, the two of you were finally entering into the cozy part of late nights like this.

You’d been sitting in front of the couch, the carton of ice cream (the good kind, not the stuff Seungkwan bought for your party, even if it net him a little teasing from Joshua for “being cheap” about it) set between the two of you with two spoons stuck into it. The box of a puzzle sat a little beyond you, close enough that all you had to do was stretch a little more to reach it but far enough away that you didn’t have to worry about bumping into it. Seungkwan settled in the other space, tossing down two face masks on the outer edge of the table (those would be for later, after he put the ice cream away again), and he set your drink next to you.

“Did you like the party?” He asked, already looking for one of the edge pieces of the puzzle. It was one of the ones that looked like a piece of art—Minghao had bought it for you once he learned about your love of jigsaw puzzles, and Seungkwan had seen the way you lit up over it: a new puzzle for puzzle nights had been acquired. “I kept the guest list short for you.” 

“It was nice! I’ll have to do something for Vernon and Chan since they helped clean up,” you clicked another piece into place. “Maybe I’ll bring them brownies.” 

Seungkwan looked at you, the slightest pout on his face. “What about me?”

“You,” you reached out, pinching one of his cheeks, “get a kiss. And the privilege of this,” you let go of him to vaguely gesture to the apartment. “But I’ll save you a brownie if you want it, honey.”

He let out a soft chuckle. Brownie or no brownie… He did like being the person who got to see you when you were like this. A more at ease person than the one he saw in public, or with other people. It was like a weight always lifted off of your shoulders when it became just the two of you. There was no need for either of you to pretend when it came to things: he didn’t hide his anger when something got under his skin, always finding refuge in being able to rant to you about it until he was calm again. You opened up to him about your own worries, and he’d listen, giving you his genuine thoughts when you asked for them. He liked being the person who got to see you authentically, even your messy parts. You never ran away from his, after all. 

“I like this, by the way.” Seungkwan spoke up after a few minutes of peaceful quiet. “Spending time with you, I mean.”

You looked up for a moment, smiling just a little. “Well… I’d hope so.”

“No, I mean—” He pressed his lips together, trying to string his thoughts together in the right way. “I like being one of the people you trust. And… I like being someone who you can spend time with without feeling more tired.” Another pause, and he looked over at you. “I like resting with you.”

Your gaze softened as you reached over to him again, cupping his cheek gently. “You’re sweet. Thank you for putting all of this together, by the way. I liked your playlist.”

He smiled, nose crinkling a little. Well… good, because he’d scoured your playlists to pull everything together. Seungkwan scooted over a little, abandoning the puzzle for a moment to pull you in for a kiss. 

“Happy birthday,” he said when he pulled away. “I love you.”

Maybe next year, the two of you could take another trip… and maybe find a new puzzle for your growing collection. Instead, he just kissed you again, content with the way the two of you clicked together in life like your own puzzle pieces.

[redroomreflections]

Paint It Black Chapter - Friends, right?

Teen Natasha Romanoff x Teen Reader

Masterlist | General Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff has never known love—or at least, that’s what she tells herself. During her time in the Red Room, she encountered a girl whose memory was forcibly erased from her mind. Now, as an Avenger, she faces a new enemy who turns out to be more than just a threat; they share a tangled history that challenges everything Natasha thought she knew about herself and love.

Chapter Summary: Natasha learns that she and R are more than friends?

W/c: 6.7k

Warnings: This is a dark story, so read at your own risk. Mentions/hints of SA, violence, guns, and abuse. We're exploring the Red Room and Natasha's origins, kind of.

Note: This is a long one. I had it ready a month ago and well life got shitty soo.. i like it. i hope you do too.

The apartment was unusually quiet when Natasha woke up. Her arm was outstretched toward the headboard, subconsciously anticipating the pull and pinch of handcuffs and the cold bite of steel around her wrist. For a split second, she tensed, bracing for the tug that would signal another training day, another lesson, another punishment.

But it never came.

Just sunlight filtered through expensive curtains, and the sounds of a city that didn’t know who she was. The scent of burnt toast lingered through the penthouse from Karen’s poor attempt at breakfast.

Her fingers curled in the space beside her.

This was freedom, supposedly. Soft beds and unlocked doors. But her body hadn’t gotten the message. It was still awake, ready to fight, obey, hurt, or break. She sat up and rubbed the back of her neck, trying to ease the knot, but her eyes kept darting back to the spot on the headboard, expecting… what?

She had spent three years in a bedroom like this one with a pretend mother, father, and little sister. Toys on the shelf. Drawings on the fridge. Warm meals and bedtime stories rehearsed to perfection. But even then, her instincts had never dulled. The illusion had never held, or so she convinced herself.

This was just another variation of the same game.

Different set. Same rules.

She peeled the blanket off and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet touched the carpet instead of concrete. The nightgown she'd been provided was a bit too big for her, but it was better than the itchy nightdresses given by her handlers. She headed to the bathroom first, needing to wash her face and brush her teeth to scrub away the last lingering traces of sleep and nightmare.

It was all very routine.

The face in the mirror was the same as always: a young girl. Red hair. Pretty. Green eyes. Small. She'd been told a lot about the girl in the mirror: her name, age, and story. None of it was anything she defined on her own. She splashed water on her face and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. She brushed her teeth quickly, ignoring the way her arm twitched.

There were no gunshots today.

No explosions.

Nothing.

Her stomach growled.

Breakfast.

She'd learned long ago to keep her mouth shut. To do her job. To take her orders. Still, she struggled. Being twelve had its rules, and she had to learn them all over again. She padded out into the hallway, bare feet quiet against the laminate floors. As she passed your door, she hesitated. The lights were off. No movement. Still in there.

Fine.

She moved on.

In the kitchen, the table was covered in paper and grainy photos. Karen stood leaning over a mug of coffee. Ken was already seated, pointing something out on the printout between toast bites.

Natasha lingered in the doorway. She didn’t know the protocol.

“Morning,” Karen said without looking up.

Natasha didn’t respond. Her eyes scanned the table. The woman in the photos was elegant, mid to late twenties, with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes. Classic Widow. The kind that made men underestimate her.

“She defected last year,” Ken said, tapping the page like Natasha had asked. “Dreykov’s old files say she went ghost in Berlin, but she’s surfaced here. Been leaking intel to someone. We’re trying to figure out who.”

Natasha nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak.

"You hungry?" Karen asked.

Natasha shrugged. She was, but it wasn’t her place to admit that.

Karen gestured toward the fridge. "Eggs are in the crisper. It's about all we have."

Natasha nodded. She eyed Ken, thinking about last night and how he'd been at your bedroom door when she caught him. For that very reason, she decided she didn't like him. Even as she watched him, he barely looked up from his notes, already moving on to something else. Karen sipped her coffee like this was all routine. To them, it probably was. Just another day. Another asset.

Natasha stood stiffly by the counter. She didn’t reach for the eggs. She didn’t move until Karen finally addressed her again.

“You and y/n will go to Central Park today,” she said, flipping to a different page in the file. “Around nine. Our girl usually shows up near the fountain. Light trail. No contact unless it’s necessary. She jogs.”

Natasha blinked. “Just us?”

Karen nodded like it was apparent. “She won’t think anything of kids. That’s the point.”

That’s the point.

She swallowed the bitterness on her tongue.

Karen didn’t ask if she was ready. Or if she felt safe. Or even if she understood. She just handed over the mission like passing off a grocery list.

Natasha gave a tight nod. She understood just fine.

Useful, not protected. Seen, but not seen. A tool. Not a person.

She reached into the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs. The yolks were fresh. Good protein. Healthy.

She was still hungry.

Karen went back to the photos. "You'll get a call at eight. That's when you head out. We'll be here. Trying to get into her apartment." Karen pulled something out of her pocket. "This is a cellular phone."

"I know what a cellular phone is," Natasha muttered.

"Right. Of course. Anyway, here." She slid the device across the counter. "You'll need it."

She stared down at the phone in her hands like it might bite.

It was heavier than it looked. Sleek. Black. Nothing like the clunky handsets they'd used in training simulations. This one wasn’t for practicing field comms or running a scripted op. This one was real.

“Just answer when it rings,” Karen added, returning to her coffee. “We’ll handle the rest.”

No more instructions. No concern. No check-in. Just the phone and the job.

Natasha’s fingers closed around the device. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t say anything.

She was already expected to know what to do.

She cracked an egg into the pan and watched it sizzle, the scent rising like something familiar, something oddly domestic. But the taste never made it past her throat. Not really.

Behind her, Karen and Ken talked in low voices. They discussed strategies, surveillance angles, and aliases. They didn’t glance her way again.

She wasn’t a child to them. She was a pair of eyes and legs that could move through a crowd unnoticed. A face no one would question. The perfect shadow.

She put the phone in her pocket.

And when the egg was done, she plated it carefully. One for her. One for you.

*****

She knocked at your door gently, wondering what she could say to make you get up.

"Y/n?"

No answer.

"Your eggs are getting cold."

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, expecting the worst. But instead, she saw you sitting atop your windowsill reading a book. She briefly read the title "Are you there, God? It's Me, Margaret." She wondered where you got that from. Books were usually vetted before being given to the widows. So she could guess you'd stolen it, but from where? You didn’t look up immediately, even though you heard the door creak open. You’d half-expected it to be Karen, maybe Ken, coming to give you another order, lecture, or something you didn’t ask for. But when you saw the flash of red hair in the window's reflection, your shoulders tensed for a different reason entirely.

Natasha.

You shifted your posture quickly, trying not to look like you’d been comfortable. Like you were enjoying the stupid book. You pressed the paperback flat against your thigh, face warming as you tried to hide the title beneath your palm. Too late. You knew she saw it.

She didn’t comment, though. She just moved toward the dresser and set down a plate with eggs and a single piece of toast so black it could’ve been used as charcoal.

“Didn’t know what you liked,” she said, voice low. Awkward, almost.

You risked a glance at her. She wasn’t looking at you and just standing there, unsure if she should stay or go. Her hands were shoved into the pockets of her sweatpants, shoulders hunched.

You cleared your throat and mumbled, “Thanks.”

It came out sharper than you meant. Not grateful, but not hostile either. Just… defensive.

Natasha didn’t flinch. Didn’t press.

"We're going to Central Park today," She said.

"What?"

"They want us to tail the mark. You and me."

You blinked.

"Karen thinks the target will be less suspicious of kids."

"Right." You glanced down at your lap. "Sure. I guess."

You weren't sure if she was telling you the truth. She could've easily been sent to ensure you weren't hiding in your room. Not that you think either of those adults out there would have cared.

"Thanks," You said, expecting her to leave the bedroom.

But she didn't.

She stayed, eyes wandering the room.

"Did you sleep well?" She asked after a few seconds of silence.

You glanced up. Her gaze was trained on the bed. On the headboard. On the indentation left by a handcuff. Then down to the pile of clothes you'd had tucked into a corner. Pajamas that you switched out for the ones you were currently wearing.

"It's fine," you said quickly.

Her eyebrows furrowed.

"No one bothered you, did they? You know, while you were asleep," She explained at the raise of your brow.

You shook your head. "No?"

You didn't tell her about the nightmare, how you'd woken up alone and scared. You had never truly slept in a place alone before. She nodded slowly, but her eyes didn’t leave the mark on the bed. You could tell she recognized it. Of course, she did.

“Okay,” she said quietly, though it sounded like she didn’t believe you. Or maybe she didn’t know what else to say.

You shifted uncomfortably, the book still warm on your side. You hated how exposed you felt. Like she could see right through you. Like somehow, she knew about the nightmare, about how long you sat frozen in bed before the sun came up, about the tears you wiped away before they could fall.

She took a step closer, then stopped again. You didn’t look at her, but you felt the tension in the air shift like she wanted to reach out but didn’t know how.

Instead, she asked, “What’s the book about?”

You blinked, thrown off by the question. You glanced at the cover again, embarrassed.

“It’s… weird. Some girl talking to God about periods and bras and stuff.”

Natasha tilted her head slightly. “That sounds… awful.”

That got the smallest laugh out of you. “It kind of is.”

She gave a half-smile. It didn’t reach her eyes, but it was real.

You looked down again, fingers brushing the pages. “Why’d you bring me breakfast?”

Her silence lingered a beat too long.

“Because you didn’t come out,” she finally said. “And I thought maybe you were… hungry.”

You nodded. That was fair.

You didn’t thank her again, and she didn’t ask you to. Instead, she leaned against the doorframe for a moment longer, then straightened up.

“We leave in 20,” she reminded you. “Be ready.”

You didn’t answer, but she didn’t wait. The door clicked softly shut behind her.

And for a while, you just sat there, staring at the dent in your headboard and wondering what it meant that she noticed.

*******

You were both in the park several hours later, waiting for the target. You sat beside Natasha on the bench, your knees pulled to your chest, and your arms wrapped around them. She was quiet. Focused.

Natasha was a people watcher. She didn’t do it purposefully; it was instinct by now. Her eyes went from couple to couple, stroller to jogger, pigeon to pretzel cart. She cataloged everything: the man's hand too deep in his coat pocket, the teen pretending not to watch a tourist’s purse, and the woman pacing near the fountain with a cell phone to her ear, glancing over her shoulder every three seconds.

“She’s not here yet,” she said, almost to herself.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure how she could tell.

“She’ll run past,” Natasha added. “They said she always does. Loop around the west side, head back toward 72nd.”

You stretched your legs and looked around. So many people. Dogs and laughter and honking taxis. It should have felt like freedom. Instead, it felt like noise. Overwhelming noise. You hated to admit it, but Natasha had the edge out here. She looked so natural in the disorder, almost like she belonged in the blur of noise and motion. Her sharp eyes, her steady breath, the way she didn't flinch when a bike zipped past too close to the curb. You, on the other hand, felt like a loose thread just waiting to be tugged.

You hadn’t lied back at the apartment. Dreykov had rarely let you out of his sight. When you were out, it wasn’t like this. It was rehearsed. Controlled. Monitored. The people around you weren’t strangers. They were extras. Props. Trained to play their part in the illusion. You had been on a handful of missions, clean, calculated jobs. Ones where the risk was low and the point was to prove your obedience, not your instincts. You never fumbled. Never failed. You were good. Better than most girls your age.

But you still felt like a baby sometimes. Out here, especially.

Not scared. No. That wasn’t the right word. You knew how to defend yourself. You knew how to kill if you had to. But sitting on this bench, surrounded by life that wasn’t manufactured or staged, made you feel like a shadow at the edge of something bigger. You didn’t know where to put your hands or how loud you were supposed to laugh.

There was no script here. No handler feeding lines into your earpiece. Just you. And Natasha. And the noise of a world that moved too fast and too freely. And even now, you weren’t sure if you were pretending to be a girl… or if you’d forgotten how to be one.

So yeah. This was different. But not impossible.

You glanced at Natasha again. She didn’t even seem tense. Just watchful. Ready.

You opened your book, but your eyes didn’t stay glued to the page. Every few lines, you looked up. Checked the path. Scanned the faces. It wasn’t just about being alert. It gave your hands something to do. A rhythm. Something normal.

Beside you, Natasha shifted. She crouched down momentarily, picking something up from the base of the bench. A stick. Then another. Before long, a small pile formed by her boots. She didn’t say anything; she just let her fingers work, arranging the sticks into a small square and lining them up flat. Careful. Precise.

You didn’t ask what she was doing, and she didn’t explain. But it was nice watching her build something instead of breaking it.

"Why’d you hide away in your bedroom last night?" she asked eventually, her voice quiet and not looking at you.

You froze a little, then turned a page in your book without reading it. "I didn’t want anyone coming in."

Natasha nodded, like she understood. And maybe she did.

"Ken bothers you," she said.

You shrugged, but she wasn’t really asking. Just stating facts the way she saw them. Observing. Cataloging.

“Everyone bothers me,” you said after a beat. You didn't want it to seem too serious.“I just… I didn’t want to talk.”

You felt her eyes on you, but you didn’t look up.

“He knocked,” you added. “I didn’t answer.”

“That’s good,” she said.

You blinked, surprised by the softness in her voice.

Natasha returned to her little stick house, adjusting one of the walls. “You don’t have to let anyone in. Not unless you want to.”

You didn't say anything, but that made you feel a bit better.

A minute passed. Then two.

Suddenly, Natasha nudged you and nodded toward the path. You followed her line of sight, spotting a woman jogging in a pair of black running shorts and a blue sports bra. The target. You recognized her from the files. She was exactly how Karen and Ken had described. As she whirled past you, you averted your gaze, making sure not to seem too obvious.

"Is it her?" you asked, though you were already pretty sure.

Natasha nodded.

"Where is she going?"

"West. Around the loop."

She picked up a stick and set it carefully on top of the pile.

"So we follow?"

"That's the job."

You closed the book. Your heart was racing, and you weren't sure why.

You stood up and took a deep breath, then stepped behind her.

You watched Natasha as you walked along the path, and the woman continued her jog. She slowed ahead like she’d reached the halfway point of her loop. You subtly tapped Natasha’s hand, and you adjusted your pace.

“I think I’m going to ask my mom to pierce my ears,” you said suddenly, your voice pitched loud enough to carry.

“What?” Natasha blinked at you, confused but going along. “Your parents would let you?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t they?”

Natasha didn’t miss a beat. “It’ll hurt.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, but that’s not the point. My friend Sarah had hers pierced, and her dad took her out for ice cream. Plus, it would make me look more grown-up.”

Natasha gave a faint smile, but her eyes scanned the path ahead. “Well, if you truly think so—”

"Excuse me," a voice cut in.

You turned. The jogger had slowed to a walk and was standing a little too close now, her breath only slightly labored, her tone casual, but her eyes too sharp.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” she said, smiling politely. “I think I’ve seen you both around. You're in my building, right?”

Natasha’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Could be."

The woman’s gaze flicked toward you next, assessing and not threatening, not precisely. Just… curious. Like she was trying to place you in a memory she didn’t fully trust.

You looked away, pretending to adjust your jacket zipper.

“The building near Columbus Circle,” she added, still smiling. Fourth floor. The one with the ugly doormat."

Something in your chest tightened. How she said it, light and teasing, made it feel like a real memory. Like she knew you.

Her voice was smooth and rich, with a faint lilt you couldn’t quite place. England, maybe. Or somewhere near it. Did she grow up there? Her skin was warm-toned and clear, even glowing a little beneath the muted city light. Her hair, long and straight, was pulled back in a neat ponytail. Too perfect for someone who’d just been jogging.

You didn’t recognize her. But something about her made your palms sweat.

There was a kindness in her gaze. Genuine, even. She looked at the two of you like she liked talking to strangers. It came easily to her.

You smiled back. Disinterested but polite. Just a kid on spring break, irritated to be stopped.

But inside, your mind ticked like a clock. You were cataloging every detail: the subtle shift of her weight onto her back foot. The curve of her smile. The faint scar just above her brow, healed but not hidden. Widow marks. Signs you’d been trained to spot since you were old enough to walk in a straight line.

And suddenly you weren’t sure what scared you more—the possibility that she was dangerous.

Or the possibility that she was familiar.

You nodded politely, your heartbeat suddenly louder in your ears. You must have been waiting too long to respond since Natasha stepped slightly in front of you.

“Nice to meet you,” she said coolly. “We’re still figuring out where everything is. Central Park’s as far as we’ve made it.”

"We're here on vacation with my parents." You joined in with much more confidence.

"Vacation." The woman smiled again, but her eyes narrowed a fraction. "Must be nice. Where are you guys originally from?"

"Ohio," Natasha answered.

"That's lovely. My mother is from Cleveland. Do you know it?"

Natasha shrugged. "I've been a couple of times. "

"Ah. I bet it's nice."

"Not bad," Natasha said, a smile playing on her lips. "Though the zoo could use a renovation. The monkeys smell awful."

You stared at her, amazed by how easily she could lie. She was completely casual, even laughing, like this was a conversation she'd had a hundred times.

"Anyway, we should be going," You said. "It was nice to meet a neighbor, though."

The woman's eyes didn't leave your face. "Right. So great to meet you. I have to run. Literally." She chuckled at her own joke before putting her headset back over her ears. You and Natasha started walking again, keeping your pace measured. You didn’t look back.

But a few steps later, something caught your eye on the ground. A small item, half-tucked into the edge of the path.

A leather cardholder. Deep brown, worn at the edges, and unmistakably expensive.

Natasha almost missed it, but you stopped, crouched, and picked it up before anyone else noticed. Your fingers ran over the monogram at the corner. G.R.

“She dropped it,” you murmured.

Natasha leaned over your shoulder. “Are you sure it’s hers?”

You opened it slowly, careful not to look too obvious. Inside: a few subway tokens, a twenty-dollar bill, a photo of a dog sitting in front of a fountain, and a business card.

Georgina Rousseau, Behavioral Specialist.

332B West Tower, Behavioral Health Center.

A phone number, an email address, a faint scent of something.

You stared at the name. Georgina. You quickly put the business card in your pocket before sliding the wallet to Natasha to inspect. If she saw you, she didn't indicate otherwise.

Your mind flickered, something shifting.

“She’s already gone,” Natasha said.

You nodded. She was. "Ken and Karen will want to know about this." Natasha nodded and pulled out the cellular phone she'd been given.

*********

Leaving an entire penthouse to two teenagers was bound to be bad news. Under normal circumstances, a party would be held. Maybe even sneaking into the liquor cabinet if the teens were daring enough.

For you, it meant another night to dive into your book.

You were stretched across the bed, fresh from the shower, hair damp and curling around your ears and shoulders. The night had gone oddly quiet without Karen’s heels clicking or Ken’s voice carrying through the study. It was unsettling how easily the silence crept in. You quite liked it.

The book wasn’t even good. Just distracting. You didn’t relate. Not really. But you liked the way it was written. Simple. Soft. The kind of soft you’d never been allowed to be.

A knock on the door made you tense for a second. But it was light. Casual.

You didn’t answer, but Natasha let herself in anyway.

She was already in pajamas. An oversized tee and shorts. Her hair was tied in two braids like she didn’t know what else to do with it. She padded in barefoot, clutching a pillow under one arm.

You blinked at her. “What are you doing?”

She shrugged and tossed the pillow onto the foot of your bed. “You said we were close enough for sleepovers.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That was for the mission.”

“Right.” She walked over to the window and peeked out at the skyline. “Well, the mission's not over. And I’m bored.”

You closed the book but didn’t mark the page. “We have our own rooms.”

“And?”

You gave her a long look. “What do you want to do? Paint our nails and talk about boys?”

Natasha grinned a little. “Isn’t that what sleepovers are for?”

You rolled your eyes and shifted to sit cross-legged. “You’re weird.”

She sat down next to the bed, back against it, legs stretched out in front of her. "Normal teenagers do these things."

You studied her a bit. The girl who had been so adamant about you not being friends was initiating a sleepover.

"Did you have sleepovers before?" You asked.

"No. Not like this," She said softly. "With Yelena sometimes." She shrugged, trailing off.

You thought about that. How different it was. How odd.

"Were you allowed to be close to each other?"

Natasha hesitated, looking down at her hands. "No, but we were anyway."

"How come you are allowed to ask questions about my life, but I can't ask about yours?" Natasha said suddenly.

"Well, there's nothing to know," You said. "Nothing worth telling."

Natasha shook her head. "I don't believe that."

You shrugged and pulled a loose thread on your pillowcase.

"You always say that," Natasha said, her voice quieter now. "That there's nothing worth knowing. But I see the way Dreykov looks at you. The way the others avoid you. You’re not nothing."

You stilled.

A beat passed between you. Then two.

“I didn’t say I was nothing,” You murmured. “I said there’s nothing I want to tell.”

Natasha frowned, and for once, she didn’t push. She leaned back against the side of the bed, the two of you sitting close, but not touching.

“I’m not trying to make you tell me everything,” she said after a moment. “I just think it's best if we know more about each other."

You swallowed, eyes still trained on the thread in your hand. Slowly, you tugged it free.

"Just a few weeks ago, you were telling me to stay away from you," You began. "You thought I'd lied to you to get a leg up with Dreykov."

"You didn't," she said quietly.

"Yeah. Because I know what it's like to be under his thumb so closely."

She was quiet for a second. "But I was right. You do lie. To protect yourself. And not just for missions."

You didn’t reply. You knew you had lied, and not always because it was necessary. It wasn't even a lie, technically. Dreykov needed her to be at her best. He was going to send her on a mission. This mission. But you didn't think the test had come yet. You didn't want to tell her that part.

“I think you lie so much, you don’t even know what’s true anymore,” Natasha added, not accusing—just observing.

You closed your eyes for a second, not out of anger but because it hit too close.

“That’s the point,” you murmured.

Natasha didn’t respond right away. She leaned her head back against the edge of the bedframe, exhaling.

“We’re not normal,” she said finally. “We’re not supposed to have sleepovers or tell secrets or trust each other.”

“And yet here we are,” you said, voice quieter than before.

Natasha gave a weak smile. “You’re not as scary as they say.”

You gave a soft laugh. “You are.”

Her head turned slightly, just enough to catch your eye. “Good.”

Silence settled again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. Just… still.

Eventually, she spoke again. “Do you want to, maybe, watch a movie?”

You blinked. “Right now?”

Natasha shrugged, her eyes darting away for a moment. “Yeah. If we’re having a sleepover... we’re supposed to watch a movie, right?”

You considered it for a beat. Then you nodded.

“Fine. But I’m picking.”

She rolled her eyes, pushing up from the floor with a grunt. “As long as it’s not that weird puberty book in movie form, I’m good.”

You tossed a pillow at her back and followed her into the living room.

*********

Clueless played low on the TV, its light casting long shadows across your faces. The two of you sat curled up, only a few inches away from each other, on the couch as you tried to make sense of the movie. Apparently, it had been all the rage last year. The movie kept playing in flickers of pink and plaid. Onscreen, Cher was giving another grand monologue about makeovers and high school politics. Her voice was sugary and confident, like she'd never once been afraid of her reflection.

You grabbed the remote and paused it.

Natasha looked over, brow raised. “Why’d you stop it?”

You didn’t answer right away. You were staring at the screen, eyes distant.

“Are girls in America really like this?” you asked finally.

Natasha blinked. “Like what?”

You turned toward her slightly, one knee curling beneath you on the couch. “I don’t know. Loud. Flirty. Ditzy?"

She shrugged. "Some. Why?"

You hesitated, a frown tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Natasha gave you a look. "Do they scare you?"

"Of course not," you scoffed, but your voice sounded unsure. "It's just different from what I thought."

"How?"

"I don't know." You paused, thinking. “I mean, technically, I’m American, right? But I was raised in Russia. In the Red Room. This kind of life?” You shook your head. “It’s like watching a cartoon.”

Natasha smirked. “A very well-dressed cartoon.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “They act like nothing can touch them. Like everything will work out just because it has to.”

Her smile faded a bit as she turned toward you. “Maybe that’s the point.”

You paused. “I think I hate Josh.”

Natasha blinked. “What?”

You pointed at the screen where Cher and Josh were mid-argument. “He’s smug. And annoying. And way too old.”

Natasha let out a small laugh. “I thought you said you liked this movie.”

“I like Cher,” you clarified. “I don’t like that she has to fall in love at the end.”

"Eh," Natasha shrugged.

"I mean, boys are stupid," You continued. "Love makes you soft."

“Soft isn’t bad,” Natasha said.

“It is where we come from,” you replied. Your voice was quieter now. “And anyway… boys are stupid.”

Natasha was quiet for a long beat. Then she said, “Not everyone wants a boy.”

You looked at her.

You didn’t blink.

Not for several seconds.

Natasha didn’t look away either.

The room got quieter. The movie still frozen on the screen behind you, bright colors casting soft light against her face.

Her voice was lower now. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”

You scoffed. “We were trained to. That’s different.”

“No,” she said. “I mean for real.”

You shook your head slowly. “You?"

Natasha didn’t answer.

She just leaned in—slow, hesitant, uncertain.

And so did you.

The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was barely anything. But it was real. Not rehearsed. Not for a mission. Not for leverage.

It was just you and her.

And when you both pulled back, neither of you said a word. When she opened her eyes, those green eyes. You did what only you could do. You panicked. You stood up, rushing to the guest bathroom, before slamming the door.

"Y/n?" Natasha called. "y/n are you okay?"

You didn't answer. You didn't want this to seem bigger than it was. This wasn't what you came for. Kissing her wasn't what you intended. Did you even like her in that way? All of the thoughts were too confusing, and you hated yourself for the tears clouding your vision. Inside the bathroom, you pressed your hands to the sink, gripping the porcelain until your knuckles went white.

Stupid. Stupid.

Why did you let that happen?

You weren’t supposed to want anything. Not connection. Not softness. Not her.

You were supposed to be composed. Cold. Controlled.

Instead, your skin still buzzed with the kiss. Your face felt warm. Your chest felt tight.

And worse, you didn’t even know what you were angry about.

Not the kiss itself. Not her.

You were angry with yourself. For reacting. For letting your guard down. For wanting something you didn’t fully understand.

You stared at your reflection and hated how young you looked.

Fourteen. Widow or not, you were still a kid.

And you had no idea what the hell to do with that.

****

On the other side of the door, Natasha was having similar feelings.

She stood still, hands shoved into her sweatshirt pocket, eyes locked on the bathroom door like it might open if she just waited long enough. But it didn’t.

She replayed it in her head—the kiss. Quick. Barely anything. But still too much.

She hadn’t meant to do it. Not really.

Or maybe she had.

But she didn’t expect it to feel like that. Not like the empty rehearsals with dolls and dummies, or the Red Room training clips on seduction and manipulation. This wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t performance.

It was curiosity.

Warmth.

It was real.

And now she’d ruined it.

You ran. Not just emotionally, but physically. Slammed the door like she’d said something cruel. Like she’d hurt you.

Natasha exhaled through her nose and leaned against the opposite wall, head thunking softly against the drywall. She didn’t like this feeling. It reminded her too much of the early days in training, when she didn’t know the rules yet. When every mistake meant punishment. Uncertainty felt like danger.

She was only twelve, for god’s sake. Just a kid. But she didn’t feel like one most of the time.

She’d killed people.

She could speak four languages.

She could disassemble a pistol blindfolded.

But now she was standing in a borrowed penthouse hallway like some stupid girl in a movie—after a kiss.

The silence dragged on, heavy and uncomfortable.

She wasn’t going to knock again. She wasn’t going to beg you to come out or apologize for doing something she hadn’t even known was wrong.

But she did feel bad.

Not because of the kiss.

But because you looked so scared afterward.

Because for once, she thought she’d found someone who understood what it was like to be pulled apart and put back together in someone else's shape.

Maybe she was wrong.

Maybe she wasn’t supposed to get that close.

Her thoughts began to get more self-deprecating by the minute when the door opened from the bathroom. Her head immediately shot up as she watched you slowly step out. You didn't say much, but the short sniffles she heard from you said a lot.

You weren't okay.

You slid down in front of her, sitting against the opposite wall, your hands balled into fists by your side.

"Did he tell you to do this?" You asked quietly.

She didn't have to ask who.

"No," She tilted her chin. She was observing you. Hoping that it alleviated some pressure.

"Okay," You nodded. "Okay."

Her answer hung in the air like steam off a wound.

You wiped at your eyes roughly, like you were angry they'd betrayed you in the first place. But you didn’t move away. You just sat there across from her, breathing through the quiet.

Natasha stayed still too. She didn’t want to scare you off again.

“I didn’t plan it,” she said finally, her voice a bit hoarse. “It just happened.”

You nodded again, but it was the kind of nod that said you weren’t okay with it. Not because it happened. But because of everything that came with it.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” you whispered. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to feel.”

Natasha shifted slightly, arms draped over her knees. “Me neither.”

You both sat there in the narrow hallway, the tile cool under your legs, and the city humming far below. It wasn’t the Red Room, but it wasn’t safety either. Not really.

“I just…” Your voice cracked. You hated it. “I’ve only ever been his. Dreykov’s. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve learned, it’s all been for him. "

Natasha simply listened.

"We're not supposed to do that. We're not supposed to be that for each other." You sighed. "It's...things like that come with consequences and pain. It's weird."

"Is that why you ran?" Natasha asked.

"Yeah." You looked at her, but it was like you didn't see her. "I don't know why I kissed you back." You admitted. "It shouldn't be a big deal, right? People do that for fun."

"Yeah," She nodded. "You probably know more than me."

You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know anything, actually.”

Natasha blinked, surprised.

You gave a hollow laugh, your eyes trained on the floor. “I’ve never done anything because I wanted to. Not once. Not really. Not without looking over my shoulder or wondering what it would cost me later."

The words tumbled out faster than you expected. You didn’t look at her. You couldn’t. If you did, you might stop. And you needed to say it before you talked yourself out of it.

“I thought I was smart. I thought I had power, being his favorite. I thought that made me different. Untouchable.” You swallowed. “But it didn’t. He still—he still took things. All the things I never got to choose.”

Natasha’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

“And then you showed up,” you said. “And I didn’t know what to do with that. You weren’t scared of me. You weren’t trying to impress him. You just… were. You asked questions, you pushed back. You saw me.”

You rubbed your hand over your mouth, ashamed of the tremble in your voice.

“So yeah,” you finished. “That’s why I ran. Because no one’s ever touched me without trying to own me or hurt me. And you did it without asking for anything.”

The silence stretched between you, taut and heavy. You finally looked at her.

“Don’t say you understand,” you whispered. “Please don’t say that unless you really do.”

Natasha didn’t. She didn’t say anything. She moved closer, slowly and quietly, until she sat beside you. Not touching. Just near enough that if you reached out, she’d be there.

After a long pause, she said softly, “I don’t think I understand everything. "

You turned your head toward her, eyes glassy.

“And I’m not going to take anything from you,” she added. “Not ever.”

It wasn't a vow. Not a promise. Just words. But they meant something.

You nodded slowly, like that truth had been waiting years to be said out loud.

“I don’t want to belong to anyone,” you murmured.

Natasha looked at you.

“Then don’t,” she said. “Not even to me. Friends don't hurt friends."

You didn't know what changed between that day in the bathroom back home and here, but you were thankful for her. 

----> next part