#it's like a restless kind of boredom | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

norristrii · 9 days ago

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NOSTALGIA.

“Funny thing about nostalgia, didn't show up 'til I lost ya.” — You and Lando were childhood best friends until fate tore you apart in the most painful way. From that moment, you thought you’d never see him again—until you did. And suddenly, the past wasn’t forgotten, and the hurt still lingered.

pairing. Lando Norris x childhood friend! fem! reader.

warnings. angst, 12,8k words, hurt/no comfort, childhood friends to strangers to ??, huge timeskips, young asshole! lando, bitter reader (valid), drinking alcohol, I think that’s it ? PART TWO — I KNOW LOVE.

music. Nostalgia by Tate Mcrae.

IT STARTED AS SOMETHING INEVITABLE. You were always around each other, thrown into the same spaces, the same gatherings, the same long afternoons where the adults talked endlessly, leaving you both to entertain yourselves. At first, you hated it—hated the forced proximity, hated that your parents assumed you would automatically get along just because you were close in age. But there was no escaping him, no avoiding the way he always had something to say, always had some ridiculous idea brewing, always found a way to pull you into whatever chaos he was creating.

Lando Norris was too much—too reckless, too restless, too eager to push boundaries just for the thrill of it. He climbed trees that were too tall, ran faster than he could control, and seemed to have an unwavering confidence that made it impossible for him to ever admit when something was a bad idea.

And somehow, despite all of it, despite the way you told yourself over and over that he was annoying, that he was frustrating, that he was the kind of kid who made parents nervous—you started to follow him anyway.

Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that, even when he was pushing limits and doing things that should have gotten both of you in trouble, it was fun.

And before you even realized it, he had worked his way in.

You started hanging out even without your parents forcing you together, finding yourselves in each other’s orbit even when it wasn’t required. It was effortless, natural—the kind of friendship that just happened, without needing an explanation. You went to the same school, shared the same classes, sat together at lunch like it was expected, and walked home side by side, barely even questioning how normal it felt. It wasn’t a conscious choice—it was just the way things were.

Before long, there was no separating the two of you. He had become your constant, the person who had always been there, the one who knew you better than anyone else, the one who could read you without you saying a word. He could make you laugh with a single look, could drag you into some wild idea just by saying trust me, could fill the silence with whatever nonsense was swirling in his mind that day.

You never really decided to let him in. But somehow, he became the biggest part of your life anyway.

Life had been effortless for so long—filled with laughter, late-night conversations, and an unspoken understanding that no matter what, you always had each other. Every childhood sleepover, every ridiculous inside joke, every moment spent side by side had only strengthened the bond that had always felt unbreakable.

But then, racing became real.

Lando had always loved it—always talked about it, always dreamed about it—but when he got to F4, it wasn’t just something he loved anymore. It was something he had to commit to, something that took him away more often than not, something that started shifting the rhythm of your friendship into something unfamiliar.

At first, it was subtle—the missed hangouts, the postponed plans, the texts that came hours later than they used to. You understood, of course. This was his dream, and there was no way you’d ever resent him for chasing it. But then, the distance grew—not just physically, but in ways you hadn’t expected.

He was always traveling, always at a racetrack, always so caught up in training, in competition, in the next step that sometimes it felt like you were watching him from the outside, trying to reach through a window that kept getting harder to open.

And maybe that would have been fine—maybe the changes wouldn’t have felt so sharp—if it hadn’t started hurting.

If he hadn’t forgotten things he never used to forget.

─── October 2015

The anticipation had been building all week. A sleepover with Lando—something you hadn’t done in ages, something that felt like returning to the simplicity of childhood, to the nights spent laughing until your stomach hurt, to the effortless comfort of being around someone who had always been there. You had packed light, just the essentials, knowing you wouldn’t need much—just time, just space to breathe, just the familiarity of him.

When you reached his house, the front door swung open almost immediately, revealing Cisca’s familiar, warm presence. “Hey, sweetheart,” she greeted, her voice carrying the ease of years spent knowing you, spent welcoming you into their home like you were just another extension of the family.

You smiled, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Hey, Cisca,” you said, tone easy, comfortable, because it had always been like this—casual, effortless, familiar. “Is Lando home?”

And that’s when you saw it—the shift.

The way her smile faltered just slightly, the hesitation in the way she tilted her head, like she wasn’t sure how to say it without letting you down.

“No, he’s at training,” she said gently, shaking her head like she wished the answer had been different. “Had you something planned?”

Your stomach dipped, something heavy settling inside you before you even had the chance to process it fully. Wow. You hadn’t expected that. Or had you? Maybe part of you had known—had prepared for the possibility that things weren’t as simple as they used to be. Maybe you had just hoped this time would be different.

“Oh.” You exhaled, the weight of disappointment creeping into your voice, despite your best efforts to swallow it down. “We planned a sleepover.”

Cisca’s expression didn’t change—still warm, still understanding—but there was something in the way she sighed, in the way she noticed your disappointment, that made it clear she wished she had a better answer for you.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she said softly, her voice gentle, the kind that made it clear she knew. She knew how much you had been looking forward to this, how much it had meant to finally have time with Lando like before. “I thought he had told you.”

You swallowed, forcing a small smile, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, suddenly feeling silly. Of course, he hadn’t told you. Not because he didn’t care, but because racing had consumed everything now, because his days revolved around training and competition and an entirely new world that didn’t leave much space for things like sleepovers, for things like you.

“No,” you admitted, the weight of reality settling in deeper than you wanted to acknowledge. “He didn’t.”

Cisca sighed, shaking her head like she wished she could fix this, like she could see exactly what you were thinking. “He’s been caught up in everything lately,” she said, her voice softer now. “It’s not personal.”

You nodded, even though it felt personal.

Because this wasn’t the first time.

It wasn’t the first missed plan, the first forgotten promise, the first moment where you realized that your place in his life wasn’t the same anymore.

Still—you weren’t mad. You weren’t even surprised. Just tired.

Cisca hesitated, watching you carefully. “Want to wait for him?”

You wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe that waiting would change something, that staying would make this sting any less, that he would walk through that door, grin at you like nothing had happened, and make everything feel normal again. But realistically? You weren’t sure how late training would go. And honestly—you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep waiting.

So instead, you forced a smile, shaking your head. “No,” you said, pushing the glass she had offered away gently. “Just tell him I stopped by.”

The world felt different that evening—heavier, quieter, like the weight of everything had finally settled in your chest, making it impossible to ignore. You walked home with your bag slung over your shoulder, footsteps slow, aimless, as if dragging out the journey would somehow soften the disappointment curling deep inside you.

But it didn’t.

Your throat burned, your chest ached, and despite every effort to swallow it down, the tears still came. Silent, unbidden, slipping down your cheeks in a way that felt frustratingly inevitable.

You weren’t angry—not really.

Just hurt. A lot.

─── February 2016

The classroom buzzed faintly with background conversations—the low hum of pencils scratching against paper, the occasional shuffle of chairs, murmured exchanges between classmates—but none of it really registered. It all blurred together, distant and unimportant, as if the world had dimmed along with the gray sky outside. The day felt cold, the kind of dull, overcast afternoon that seeped into your bones, that made everything feel slower, heavier, emptier.

You lay on your desk, arms folded, cheek resting against the cool surface, phone loosely gripped in your fingers. There was no real purpose to your scrolling—just mindless motion, just a way to fill the silence, just something to look at to keep your thoughts from wandering. And yet, they wandered anyway, slipping into the past, into the memories frozen on your screen.

A collection of photos—moments that felt so effortless once, so simple. Lando grinning at the camera, mid-laugh, hair a mess from whatever ridiculous stunt he had just pulled. A blurry photo of the two of you, both smiling wide, caught mid-motion as if time itself had been too slow to capture you properly. A screenshot of a stupid conversation, filled with inside jokes that nobody else would understand.

He was supposed to be sitting next to you right now.

That thought clung to you, dug deep, settled in the pit of your stomach like a weight you couldn't shake off. He should be here—nudging your arm, making some dumb joke just to get you to crack a smile, distracting you from the mind-numbing monotony of the lesson in front of you.

But instead, the seat beside you was empty.

You stared at it—switched your gaze between the photos and the space where he should have been.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, hesitation pressing heavy against your chest. You knew you shouldn’t—knew that part of you expected silence, knew that this wasn’t the first time you were reaching out to him when it felt like things had already changed.

But still, you couldn’t help yourself.

The weight of the empty seat beside you, the ache of old photos, the way this felt different—it all pushed you forward.

So you typed.

yn sittin in mrs. evans class rn still sooo boring wish you were here i miss u

You regretted it the second you hit send.

The message felt desperate, like grasping at something that had already slipped too far away, like searching for reassurance where you knew there wasn’t any. And yet—you had sent it anyway, had let that flicker of hope push you forward, had let yourself believe, for just a moment, that maybe this time would be different.

But the response came too fast—too short, too simple, too distant.

lando yeah sorry

Silence would’ve been better, wouldn’t it? A clean break, a moment where you knew—without doubt—that things had ended, that you weren’t waiting anymore, weren’t lingering in the space between what you had and what you were slowly losing.

But this? This wasn’t closure.

This was uncertainty— not quite forgotten, not quite remembered, stuck somewhere in between where his absence loomed just enough to hurt, but never enough to make the pain feel worth confronting.

Because this wasn’t him saying goodbye.

This was him drifting, slipping further out of reach, making you question whether you should keep holding on or finally let go.

─── May 2017

The moment should have been perfect.

You had waited for this day for so long— had imagined it over and over, had pictured the ceremony, the walk across the stage, the applause that followed. You should have been smiling, should have been focused on the achievement, should have felt nothing but pride. But despite the celebration surrounding you, despite the cheers and the flashing cameras, your mind couldn’t quite settle, couldn’t quite accept the joy without feeling the emptiness lurking beneath it.

Because your eyes kept drifting—kept searching the crowd, scanning through the rows of chairs, looking for him.

And there it was.

The empty seat.

The one that should have held him, the one that was supposed to be yours together, the space where he had promised he’d be. It stood out among the rows of occupied chairs, a glaring absence in a sea of support, a reminder that no matter how much you tried to ignore it, this day wasn’t the same without him.

But he wasn’t there.

Because school had ended for him long before this day. Because racing had taken priority. Because everything had changed in ways that were impossible to ignore. You had known it, had felt it creeping in for years, had understood why things shifted. But today? Today, more than ever, it was undeniable.

You had asked him if he was coming, had heard the easy promise in his voice, the certainty in the way he had said it—like there was no question, no hesitation, no possibility of him letting you down. And for a fleeting moment, you had believed him. Had let yourself picture the way it was supposed to be—the two of you side by side, laughing at something stupid in the middle of the ceremony, making memories the way you always had.

But still—he didn’t come.

The diploma was clutched tightly in your hands, its edges slightly crumpled from how firmly you had been gripping it. The moment was supposed to be celebratory—loud cheers, flashing cameras, the rush of accomplishment filling your chest. But none of it felt right. None of it matched the image you had held in your mind for years—the picture of this day being yours and his, the two of you together laughing at something dumb during the ceremony, teasing each other over your gowns, making this milestone something shared.

But instead, an empty seat had stared back at you.

So you moved quickly, weaving through the crowds, heart hammering, breath uneven with frustration that had nowhere to go. You weren’t even thinking about where you were headed—you just wanted out, away from the suffocating weight of what should have been. Away from the reality of yet another promise broken. Away from the truth you didn’t want to admit.

Until—you crashed into someone.

The force of it made you stumble, steps faltering as you sucked in a sharp breath, ready to mutter an apology and keep moving. But then, your gaze snapped up—

And you froze.

Lando.

Lando?

Standing right in front of you.

Like he was supposed to. Like he should have been.

But it was too late.

Your anger surged before you could stop it, bubbling up, hot and unforgiving, spilling out before you had a chance to think.

“You’re late,” you said, the words cutting through the space between you like a blade.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably under your glare. “I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, sincerity laced in his voice. “There was traffic.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, gripping the diploma even tighter, frustration burning through you with a sharp, undeniable sting. That was his excuse? Out of everything, that’s what he went with?

“Gosh, stop making these stupid excuses!” you snapped, the words coming faster than you could stop them, sharper than you meant them to be—except, no. You did mean them. You meant every syllable.

“You don’t understand, Y/n!” Lando’s voice came sharp, slicing through the air between you. His frustration crackled like static, his jaw tightening, his hands gesturing wildly as if trying to make you see the chaos he carried. “I have so much going on! I’m busy—constantly! It’s not just racing, it’s training, it’s meetings, it’s travel—it’s everything! If you haven’t figured that out by now, then I don’t know what else to say!”

His words crashed into you, each syllable pushing against the weight already pressing on your chest.

You blinked, your breath uneven, anger curling inside you like a flame that had been waiting too long to ignite. Waiting. That’s all you ever did with him, wasn’t it? Waiting for a moment, waiting for a reply, waiting for him to show up like he said he would. Waiting for him to put you first.

“Yeah?” you shot back, voice loud, unrelenting, carrying months—years—of frustration. “Always racing, racing, racing! That’s your whole damn life, isn’t it? Nothing else matters—no one else matters! Not me, not this, not today!”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe where this conversation had gone, like you were the one making this difficult. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy curls, gaze flickering with something unreadable—frustration, guilt, exhaustion—all of it tangled together in a way that made it impossible to decipher.

Then, his next words shattered everything.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice lower, tighter, more bitter. “That’s why maybe your graduation wasn’t really that important to me.”

The breath slammed out of your lungs.

Like he had taken all the air, all the warmth, all the pieces of hope you had left and crushed them in the palm of his hand.

You stared at him—at this version of him, at the boy who once made promises he kept, at the person who had once made you feel like a priority. But suddenly, he didn’t look like that boy anymore. He looked distant. Unrecognizable. Like someone you had spent years loving and now couldn’t even reach.

Your grip on the diploma tightened, knuckles turning white, heartbeat pounding so loudly in your ears that it drowned out the distant sounds of celebration around you.

God. He had really said it.

You swallowed hard, throat burning, refusing to let the weight of everything sink you down into the ache curling in your chest. But your voice still wavered when you finally spoke, softer, lower, but sharp.

“You know what?” you murmured, the words slipping through your lips like the last breath of something you hadn’t realized was dying. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me in a long time.”

Lando inhaled sharply—so small, so brief, but you saw it. You felt it. Maybe he hadn’t expected you to say that. Maybe he hadn’t expected it to hurt this much. Maybe, for a split second, he realized exactly what he had done.

He had said your graduation wasn’t important—that the moment you had been waiting years for, the milestone that was supposed to be yours, wasn’t worth his time. And the second those words left his mouth, something inside you broke—not suddenly, not all at once, but slowly, like a fracture that had been forming for months, maybe even years.

So neither were his races to you, right? It wasn’t like you ever missed a single one. Every podium, every interview, every late-night live timing session, every pulse-pounding moment when he fought for position—you had been there for it. You had cared. You had celebrated his highs and sympathized with his lows because he mattered to you. You had tracked every result, known every stat, memorized the patterns of his driving like they were second nature to you. And maybe, foolishly, you had assumed that meant something. That even in the chaos of his world, even when the schedules got tighter and the obligations got heavier, you still mattered.

And yet, here he was, saying the worst thing he could have said. The worst part wasn’t just the words themselves. The worst part was that you didn’t even know if he actually cared. You waited—just long enough to see if there would be hesitation, regret, anything that hinted that he wanted to take it back. But there was nothing.

“Look, Y/n,” he muttered, exhaling sharply, shaking his head like you were the one making this difficult. “We’re not fourteen anymore.” Like that was supposed to excuse everything. Like growing up meant growing apart had to be inevitable.

You swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down, refusing to let the frustration and heartbreak choke you. You thought of the years you had spent together—of the stupid inside jokes, the late-night conversations that stretched until sunrise, the times when you truly believed that no matter what, the two of you would always be there for each other. That time and distance wouldn’t change that. That his world of racing and your world of growing up side by side could exist together. But maybe you had been wrong.

“Yeah,” you said, voice lower, rougher, edged with something final. “Maybe not.” Your gaze flickered over him, this version of him, the boy you used to know so well but now felt like a stranger. He looked the same—same messy curls, same sharp, quick movements, same intensity burning behind his eyes. But something fundamental had shifted, something irreversible, something you couldn’t unsee now.

You had promised yourself you wouldn’t cry—not here, not in front of him, not when he had already taken too much from you. But the tears burned anyway, hot against your skin, slipping past the walls you had tried so desperately to keep up.

“Fuck you, Lando!” Your voice cracked, but it didn’t matter—you meant every word. Every syllable was weighted with months of frustration, disappointment, exhaustion. “I don’t wanna ever see you again!”

───

You never saw him again after that day. The moment graduation ended, you packed your things, left the town you had spent years growing up in, and disappeared without a trace—no messages, no explanations, no attempts to soften the goodbye that had already been said. Because why would you? He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve to know where you were or how you felt or whether you ever thought of him again.

The only ones who did were Adam and Cisca—the two people who had been there, who had sat in the crowd, who had cheered you on when their son hadn’t. They were the only ones who deserved a proper goodbye, the only ones who had earned a place in whatever future you were heading toward.

And so, you left. The world beyond that town opened itself up to you, unfamiliar yet freeing, a fresh start wrapped in the quiet promise of never looking back. You settled into new routines, built a life that didn’t have his shadow lingering in it.

Some days, it was easy to forget—days when the weight of the past didn’t press quite so heavily on your chest, when laughter didn’t carry the bitter taste of memories, when moving forward actually felt like moving forward. And then, there were days when the past curled around you like a ghost, whispering its presence into quiet moments, slipping into your thoughts when you least expected it.

And then—two years later—you heard it. His name flashing across a news headline, appearing in an interview clip, mentioned briefly in a conversation you weren’t even part of. He had made it. Formula One. The dream he had been chasing since the moment he decided racing was the only thing that mattered.

For a split second—just one—you let yourself wonder what he was doing, where he was, how he felt now that he had everything he ever wanted. You wondered if, in the quiet moments between races, between podium celebrations and press conferences, he ever thought about you. If he ever regretted how things had ended. If he ever wished he had said something different, done something more, shown up when it mattered.

But it didn’t matter.

Because no matter how many times nostalgia grabbed hold of you, no matter how many times you found yourself wondering, the reality remained the same—you didn’t care.

You never checked his results. Never searched his name. Never let yourself linger in the world he now belonged to. Because that wasn’t your world. Not anymore.

Every time his face appeared on TV, every time his name was spoken like it was something larger than life, you switched the channel without hesitation. It was second nature now—like shutting a door you had long since walked through.

─── EIGHT YEARS LATER , march 2025

Monaco had been everything you had imagined—the yachts lining the marina like shimmering jewels, the streets humming with the sounds of expensive cars weaving through the winding roads, the very air thick with a sense of wealth and exclusivity. Fashion was everywhere, woven into the fabric of daily life, stitched into the essence of the people who walked past in designer coats and tailored suits. It felt like stepping into another world, one built from dreams and ambition, one you had spent years chasing, and now, finally, it was yours.

The apartment was still a mess. Boxes stacked on top of each other, half-unpacked belongings scattered across the floor, clothes draped over furniture in a way that made it clear you were still in the middle of making this space a home. You and your friend sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by unpacked memories, flipping through items that held pieces of your past. The smell of fresh paint mixed with the lingering scent of cardboard, and the distant hum of city life buzzed from beyond the windows. This was the start of something new—something separate from everything before. And yet, in the middle of the chaos, the past still found a way to crawl back in.

Your friend reached into one of the boxes, pulling out a framed photo. She studied it for a second, curiosity flickering in her expression before she turned it towards you. “Who’s this?” she asked, holding it up for you to see.

The moment your eyes landed on the photo, you felt it—nostalgia slamming into you like a wave, pulling you under so suddenly that you almost forgot how to breathe.

There he was.

Lando, grinning by the sea, sunlight catching in his messy curls, his arm slung around you like it belonged there, like it always had. You were laughing, caught in a moment of ease, the sky a breathtaking shade of blue behind you. The photo was from that family vacation—the trip the Norris’ had taken you on, the one where the days stretched lazily along the coast, filled with late-night talks, stupid jokes, and a kind of simplicity you hadn’t realized you would one day lose.

You blinked, forcing the lump in your throat down. You could tell her everything—about the friendship that had once felt unbreakable, the way he had always been there, the way you had been there for him, the way time had twisted everything into something that no longer resembled what you once knew. You could tell her about the laughter, the inside jokes, the trust that had felt like it could withstand anything. You could tell her about how it ended, about the fights, the disappointment, the realization that sometimes growing up meant growing apart in ways you could never prepare for.

But instead, the words stuck.

Your fingers hovered over the frame for just a second longer before you exhaled, shaking your head slightly, swallowing back everything you wanted to say.

“It’s just,” you started, voice quieter, the weight of the past pressing heavily against your ribs. Then, after a beat, you exhaled again, steadier this time, forcing yourself to move on. “Someone I used to know.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing that your answer wasn’t the full truth, that there was more beneath the surface. “Really?” she said, flipping the frame in her hands, studying it closer. “You look so happy.”

Why did she keep asking?

You exhaled sharply, shrugging your shoulders in a way that you hoped looked effortless, casual, unaffected. “Really,” you said, forcing out the words, ignoring the way your chest ached. “Just an old friend.”

You knew it was anything but casual. You knew this wasn’t just some old friend. But that didn’t matter anymore.

Without another word, you reached forward, took the frame from her hands, and set it aside, facedown. You didn’t need to look at it. You didn’t need to remember.

And just like that—you moved on.

Or at least, you pretended to.

That night, boredom settled into your chest, heavy and unshakable, the kind that made your thoughts wander places they shouldn’t. There was nothing to distract yourself with—no texts lighting up your phone, no unread messages waiting for a response, no new shows to binge, nothing that could pull you out of the restless grip of your own mind. You paced for a bit, moving from the kitchen to the living room, opening and closing cabinets with no real purpose, sipping on a drink you barely tasted, mind still circling the same thoughts. And then, before you even realized it, your steps carried you toward the box.

It was still sitting there, untouched, exactly where your friend had left it—the lid slightly askew, revealing just a glimpse of its contents, like it was waiting. Waiting for you to give in. Waiting for you to finally sift through the pieces you hadn’t had the courage to throw away. You sank down onto the floor, back pressed against the bed frame, exhaling slowly as you stared at the mess of memories in front of you. Damn. You had a whole box dedicated to him.

Photos—some bent at the corners, some still pristine, all holding pieces of a past you weren’t sure you wanted to remember. You pulled one out, fingertips tracing the familiar image. You had been laughing, caught mid-motion, a blur of sun and saltwater, with Lando standing beside you, his own laughter bright, effortless, easy. It was so easy back then, before everything had changed, before life had twisted in ways that pulled you apart instead of holding you together.

The plushie he had given you sat at the bottom of the box, the soft fabric still familiar beneath your touch. You remembered the night he had handed it to you—some inside joke about always having something to hold onto, something that wouldn’t leave, even when everything else did. The memory made you scoff now. Ironic. But still, you hadn’t left it behind. Hadn’t left any of this behind.

His racing cap, worn and creased from years of use, was tucked neatly beneath the rest, the sight of it forcing a sharp inhale from your lungs. There had been a time when you had worn it all the time—flipping it backward, teasing him about his obsession with racing, pretending you belonged in the world he had immersed himself in. Back when you had cared about every race, every result, back when you had celebrated his wins like they were your own.

And the worst part?

You had taken them all with you.

Why?

If you hated him so much for what he did, if you had truly moved on, why had you packed these things alongside the rest of your life? Why had you carried them with you all the way here?

You sighed, shaking your head, bitterness curling in your chest as you flipped through the photos, fingers ghosting over smiles that didn’t belong to the person you knew anymore.

But shit—you used to be so close.

You pulled out another framed photo. The frame felt heavier in your hands than it should have, like the weight of the memories pressed into the glass, refusing to let go. You traced the edges absentmindedly, fingers skimming over the smooth surface as your mind drifted backward, pulled into a past that still sat quietly in the depths of your chest.

Karting. Your birthday. His laughter ringing out across the track, bright, effortless, teasing. You could still hear it if you closed your eyes, could still picture the way he had grinned at you from his kart, shaking his head as you struggled to control yours, the tires skidding slightly as you oversteered. You had been so bad at it— horrible, actually. But he had made it fun. He had made it feel like it didn’t matter, like failing wasn’t embarrassing, like it was just another thing to laugh about. The way he had looked at you that day—full of amusement, full of something warm—had made you believe it wasn’t about winning, wasn’t about proving anything. It was just about being there, about sharing something that was his, about letting him pull you into his world for a little while.

You exhaled slowly, the memory twisting something deep in your chest, something tangled between nostalgia and regret. It had felt so easy back then, so simple, so natural to believe that forever meant forever, that nothing would change, that no amount of time or distance could erase what you had.

But time had proved you wrong.

Your fingers tightened around the frame, the edges pressing sharply into your skin as you flipped it over, eyes scanning the back without thinking, without expecting anything more than a blank surface.

But there it was.

"Love you 4ever. Lando."

The words slammed into you harder than they should have.

Your breath hitched, a sharp inhale getting caught in your throat, emotions rushing up too fast for you to control, too fast for you to push away. Salty, bittersweet tears burned behind your eyes, threatening to spill, threatening to break past the walls you had spent years reinforcing.

Because back then, you had believed it.

Back then, you had thought forever meant forever, not just until life got too busy, not just until priorities shifted, not just until everything crumbled beneath the weight of not caring enough.

─── march 2025

The remote sat loosely in your grip, your movements slow and idle as you flipped through channels, letting the dull hum of background noise fill the space around you. The apartment finally felt like yours—no more boxes cluttering the corners, no more unpacking to distract you, no more mess making it feel like just another transition instead of a permanent home. Everything had its place now.

The couch was soft beneath you, the room dimly lit, the quiet settling in comfortably around you. For the first time since moving, you let yourself relax. You skipped through channels mindlessly, barely paying attention to the flickering images, letting them blur together without much thought. Nothing caught your interest—nothing held your focus—until something familiar slipped onto the screen.

The Australian Grand Prix. It wasn’t intentional. You hadn’t meant to land on it. But before you could even think about switching away, your gaze lingered. The podium ceremony was already underway, the celebration unfolding in bright lights and flashing cameras, the winner standing tall at the top, drenched in champagne, soaking in the moment of victory. You weren’t really paying attention at first. Not to the commentary, not to the energy radiating from the crowd, not to the excitement buzzing through the broadcast. Until you saw the name.

Lando Norris.

Your breath stilled. And then, slowly, your gaze sharpened, your focus narrowing in on the figure standing at the top of the podium.

It was him. But not the version of him you had last seen. Not the boy you had walked away from, not the friend you had left behind. No—this was someone else entirely. He had grown so much. His features were sharper, more defined, the youthful softness replaced by something stronger, more grown, more changed.

The messy curls had stretched longer, spilling into a mullet that framed his face differently, giving him an edge that hadn’t existed back then. His shoulders had squared, his stance more solid, more certain, the weight of experience shaping the way he held himself. He looked different—older, more weathered by time, by racing, by life itself. But his eyes. The green hadn’t changed. It was the only familiar thing left.

No matter how much you wanted to turn it off, to look away, to pretend like it didn’t matter, you couldn’t. You sat there, frozen, the remote resting in your hand, thumb hovering over the button, the familiar instinct urging you to switch the channel like you always had before. But something stopped you. Something kept your eyes locked on the screen, on the figure standing tall at the top of the podium, drenched in champagne, grinning like he had just conquered the world.

The cameras flashed, the crowd roared, the energy of the moment rippled through every pixel on the screen, making it impossible to ignore. This was his moment—his victory, the thing he had fought for, worked for, sacrificed your friendship for. And now, after years of avoiding everything that had to do with him, years of refusing to acknowledge his existence beyond old memories, you were watching.

─── april 2025

Monaco was made for nights like this—bright lights reflecting off the glistening streets, the hum of expensive cars weaving through the roads, the buzz of laughter spilling out from exclusive lounges. It was the kind of city that begged you to live in the moment, to let the night swallow you whole, to forget about anything that existed beyond the golden glow of luxury. And that was exactly what you and your friend had decided to do. Like any young woman in Monaco, dressing up and heading to the most electrifying party in town felt like the only reasonable choice. Who wouldn’t want that?

The club pulsed with energy, bodies moving in rhythm to the beat, music loud enough to drown out every thought, every worry, every lingering ghost of the past. You were lost in it, fully surrendering yourself to the moment, swinging your hips in time with the music, laughing carelessly between sips of your drink. Drunk, carefree, weightless—that was what tonight was supposed to be. Nothing but excitement, nothing but escape. Until your friend tapped your shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, leaning in closer, voice raised just enough to be heard over the music. “Isn’t this that guy from the photos?”

The words barely registered at first, your mind too fogged by alcohol and the blur of flashing lights to process what she was saying. Confused, you furrowed your brows, turning slightly to follow her gaze, not expecting anything, not preparing for what came next. And then your eyes landed on the DJ stage.

You almost fainted.

Everything around you seemed to slow, the world tilting slightly under the weight of your shock. For a moment, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you, that the alcohol had distorted reality, that there was no way—absolutely no way—this was happening. But as you stared, as you focused, as you took in every detail, you knew. You knew exactly who it was.

Lando?

Lando.

You knew him very well, all too well.

The realization hit hard, stealing the breath from your lungs, sending a wave of emotions crashing into you too fast to control. He looked different—sharper, older, changed—but there was no mistaking him. The same green eyes, the same familiar presence, standing right there when he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near you. You swallowed hard, pulse thudding loudly in your ears, shaking your head quickly in an attempt to shove the moment away, to deny the reality of it.

“Definitely not,” you said, dismissing the thought, waving her off as if the words would make it true.

But God, it was him.

And no matter how badly you wanted to convince her otherwise, the person you really needed to convince was yourself.

“I may be drunk, but I’m not dumb,” she said, rolling her eyes with exaggerated patience, her hand outstretched expectantly. “Give me your phone.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, already regretting handing over your phone. Your friend was relentless—too relentless.

She wasn’t about to let this go, not when she knew damn well that the truth sat right there, in your gallery, in your past. You should have known better. Should have made up a more convincing lie. Should have walked away, pretended like you hadn’t heard her, redirected her focus to something else, anything else. But instead, you hesitated just for a second. And that was enough for her to pounce.

You sighed, already knowing how this was going to end. Begrudgingly, you handed it over, bracing yourself for the inevitable. She wasted no time—her fingers flew across the screen, tapping, scrolling, searching. And then, just as you had dreaded, she found it. The photo. The one you should have deleted years ago but hadn’t. The one that still sat there, preserved in pixels, a reminder of something you had tried so hard to forget.

Your breath hitched as she held it up, comparing the image on the screen to the man on stage, flicking her gaze back and forth between them like she was studying two versions of the same reality, like she was dissecting proof of something that had long been undeniable. Like it wasn’t just some stupid coincidence. Like it meant something. Like it mattered.

“That’s definitely him,” she said, voice firm, confident, staring at you with an expression that made it clear there was no point in arguing.

And you just stood there, frozen, unable to speak, unable to deny it, unable to pretend like seeing him—like knowing he was here, so close, so real—hadn’t completely thrown you off. Because it had. And no matter how much you wanted to push it away, to pretend it didn’t affect you, the truth sat heavy in your chest, refusing to be ignored.

“Let’s go say hi,” she offered, her voice bubbling with excitement, like this was some ordinary encounter, like it wasn’t the exact moment you had spent years avoiding. Absolutely not. The second the words left her mouth, you shook your head, firm and unwavering. No way. No chance. You were not doing that. “Old friends reunion,” she added, grinning, nudging you like this was just some fun little moment that needed to happen. But you weren’t falling for it. Not even a little. Blah blah blah—whatever she wanted to call it. You were not going up there, not seeing him, not acknowledging whatever twisted fate had thrown him into the same room as you after all these years.

She sighed dramatically, clearly exasperated with your refusal, the kind of sigh that told you she wasn’t going to drop this easily. “C’mon, Y/n,” she whined, her fingers tightening around your wrist, tugging on you like she could physically drag you towards him. “He’s hot, at least.”

Yeah. He was. So annoyingly hot.

But also an absolute asshole. At least, that was what he had been when he was eighteen. That was the version of him you knew—the version that had made you walk away, that had made you promise yourself that you would never deal with his bullshit again. And sure, maybe time had passed, maybe things had changed, maybe he wasn’t the same person anymore. But you weren’t someone who judged purely on appearances—except, God, look at him.

White button-up, half undone like he was starring in some careless, effortless, look-at-me-I’m-perfect movie. Backwards cap, messy curls sticking out just enough to add to the whole I don’t care but I look good anyway vibe. Confident stance, lazy smirk, body language screaming that nothing in the world could touch him. Every bit of him exuded the same energy he had back then—like the years hadn’t done much more than make him hotter, like he was still the guy who thought life would always bend in his favor, like he had never needed to grow up at all.

Fuckboy.

Through and through.

And you had zero intention of dealing with that again.

“Y/n, seriously, you have a chance to shoot your shot.” Her voice was teasing, playful, as if she didn’t understand the storm brewing inside you, as if this was just some harmless fun. But shoot your shot? With him? With the boy who had forgotten your graduation, who had ghosted you when you needed him most, who had taken you for granted like you’d always just be there, waiting, unshaken?

Maybe you should tell her the whole story. Maybe you should make her understand that this wasn’t some game, that he didn’t deserve this moment. But before you could even blink, before you could form the words to stop her, you were standing under the stage.

The music pulsed through your chest, the energy of the club drowning out every rational thought, every bit of logic telling you to run. Lando leaned forward slightly, his stance easy, his presence effortless, bending down just enough to hear your friend, completely unaware of the way your body had gone rigid, completely unaware of the way your mind was screaming for an escape. “Hey, can you play this song?” she asked, sweet, casual, unbothered by the fact that she had just dragged you straight into hell.

You hardly listened, your ears ringing with everything except the conversation in front of you, your gaze flickering toward the exit, toward anything that wasn’t him. You tried to act like you didn’t know them. Tried to pretend you were just another person lost in the crowd, just another passerby in a place you didn’t belong. But she was smart. Too smart. And too cruel.

“For Y/n.”

Your stomach dropped. Your pulse stopped.

His reaction was instant. The way his body stiffened, the way his head snapped toward you, the way his mouth parted just slightly in disbelief. His eyes widened, searching, recognizing. “Y/n?” The way he said your name—like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, like you weren’t supposed to be standing there, like this wasn’t supposed to be real. Everything came back.

And then, as if the universe wanted to twist the knife deeper, as if your friend wanted to ruin your life entirely, “yea, Y/n L/n,” she confirmed it. Loud. Clear. Unmistakable.

Your whole name. Given to him so easily, so casually, like she hadn’t just shattered the fragile distance you had spent years crafting between you and him. Omg. Why did you friend an idiot like that?

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face even as his eyes locked onto you—wide, searching, unbelieving, like he couldn’t quite piece together how you were standing in front of him. “Y/n? She’s here?” he asked, the words sounding almost stupid the second they left his mouth, carrying just enough disbelief to make it nearly funny. If you weren’t too busy fighting off the urge to scream, maybe you would have laughed.

Because yes, you are here.

And maybe if his eyes weren’t staring right at you, he could have asked that question to someone who wasn’t standing right in front of him. But no—he was looking straight at you, drinking in the sight of you, the reality of you, like his brain just couldn’t quite accept that this was happening.

You didn’t move, didn’t react, just stood there, letting the weight of the moment settle, letting the air between you grow heavier with something unspeakable. Everything felt slower, stretched out, too thick with unspoken words, with the unbearable past forcing its way into the present.

And honestly? He looked so stupid for asking.

“Y/n, don’t act like you don’t know him,” she said, tugging you forward with way too much force, her grip firm, unrelenting, dragging you closer to the one person you wished you never had to see again. You barely had time to process, barely had time to resist, barely had time to breathe before you were suddenly there— closer than you wanted to be, closer than was safe.

And then, as if the universe wasn’t already mocking you enough, Lando spoke.

“What about you guys going up here?” he asked, referring to the stage, his voice casual, like this wasn’t the most surreal, earth-shattering moment imaginable.

Your stomach twisted. Your pulse hammered against your ribs. Your friend lit up beside you, clearly entertained, clearly loving every single second of this disaster.

But all you could do was wish you didn’t know him at all.

You barely had the chance to protest before she cut you off entirely, jumping in with way too much enthusiasm, her grip tightening around your wrist as if she had just won some personal victory.

“Sorry, we need to—” you started, voice tight, desperate for an escape, desperate to pull yourself out of the disaster unfolding in front of you, desperate to disappear entirely before anything got worse.

But she didn’t let you finish.

“That’s a good idea,” she answered instead, flashing a grin, fully committing to the mess she had just created, fully ignoring every ounce of panic rushing through you, fully pushing you into a moment you never signed up for.

You stepped onto the stage, the energy of the club pressing into you from all directions, the flashing lights making everything feel just a little too surreal, like you had just walked into some alternate reality that wasn’t supposed to exist. Your friend wasted no time, seamlessly folding into conversation with Lando’s friend, her body language open, animated, comfortable—like she had belonged here all along, like this was exactly what she had been planning from the second she dragged you into this mess. She was talking, laughing, exchanging words that you barely registered, already adapting to the situation in a way that only she could. It was effortless. It was unfair. It was everything you couldn’t do.

And you, on the other hand, stood there stiffly, caught between the suffocating heat of the room and the overwhelming weight of him, standing way too close, way too present, way too real. The music thumped beneath your feet, the beat vibrating through the soles of your shoes, pulsing through your chest, drowning out everything except the thoughts racing through your mind at a pace you couldn’t control. You could feel the tension settling thick in the air, could feel the invisible force pulling your attention toward him, toward the quiet way his presence still managed to fill every inch of space around you. It was unbearable. It was unavoidable.

And you did what anyone would do in this situation—nothing.

Just stood there, frozen in place, staring down at nothing in particular, refusing to meet his gaze, refusing to acknowledge him, refusing to entertain the idea that this was happening, that you were here, that he was here, that time had twisted itself cruelly enough to bring you back to this moment, back to this person, back to whatever mess had been left unresolved all those years ago. You could feel him there—watching, waiting, probably trying to figure out the words to say, probably wondering if he should say anything at all.

And you?

You were just waiting.

For someone, for something, for anything to save you.

Your chest tightened, pulse hammering beneath your skin as the space between you disappeared far too quickly, dissolving into something suffocating, something unavoidable, something you had spent years ensuring would never happen again.

Oh hell no.

“Y/n?” His voice was cautious, uncertain, dripping with something unspoken, something fragile, something that made your stomach twist violently. He rubbed the back of his neck—a nervous habit, one you hadn’t seen in years, one that somehow still belonged to him, one that made the moment too real. No way. No way was this happening. No way was he standing here, looking at you like that, speaking to you like nothing had happened, like time hadn’t stretched between you like an unfixable wound, like he hadn’t made the choice to let you slip away.

And then, as if things couldn’t possibly get worse, as if the universe truly had no mercy, he added another layer to the disaster unfolding before you.

“You changed since we last saw each other.”

The words hung in the air, soft, hesitant, laced with something just shy of regret—or maybe curiosity. Maybe nostalgia. Maybe something else entirely.

Your stomach twisted again, the weight of it pressing deep into your bones.

Had you? Had you changed? Or had you simply become the version of yourself that no longer had space for him? That no longer had room for the kind of heartbreak he had carelessly handed you all those years ago? That no longer needed the version of him standing in front of you, pretending like this conversation wasn’t drenched in every painful, unresolved moment he had left behind?

And why the hell did he care?

What exactly was he hoping for?

You narrowed your eyes, skepticism laced in your stare, your tone still tangled with the bittersweet remnants of everything that had come before. The years had stretched long, had pulled at the edges of old memories, had tried to reshape the hurt into something manageable, something distant—but it was still there. Lingering. Settled deep beneath the surface. It had never truly disappeared, no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much effort you had put into convincing yourself that it didn’t matter anymore.

“And did you?” you asked, voice steady, yet laced with something just shy of accusation, something that made it impossible to pretend like this was just casual conversation, like it was just two old friends catching up, like it didn’t hold the weight of every unanswered question you had let rest for years. The words slipped past your lips too easily, too naturally, as if they had been waiting for their moment to finally be spoken.

Lando hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing into him, making him pause just slightly before he finally answered. The seconds stretched thin between you, the silence pressing against your ribs, forcing your pulse to quicken. You watched him, studied the way his expression flickered between uncertainty and something else—something unreadable, something you weren’t sure if you wanted to name.

“Pretty much, yes,” he shrugged, his words careless, simple, like they didn’t hold the gravity they should have. Like they didn’t mean as much as they should have. It was an answer, sure, but it wasn’t a real answer. Not the one you wanted. Not the one you needed. It felt hollow, like he had tossed it out into the air just to have something to say, just to fill the space between you before it became too unbearable.

And then—he added it.

“I think.”

Two small words, dangling at the end of his sentence, uncertain, hesitant, a mistake.

Because if he wasn’t sure—then what was the point of saying it at all? What was the point of answering if he didn’t know what he was even saying?

Your pulse spiked.

Had he changed? Had he grown? Had he actually become a different person, or was this just some empty attempt at convincing you that things weren’t as bad as they had seemed? That maybe, just maybe, you weren’t justified in holding onto the bitterness that still lingered in your voice?

─── one hour later

It had taken about an hour—just enough time for the alcohol to settle into your system, just enough for the world to feel a little softer around the edges, just enough for decision-making to become questionable at best.

You weren’t drunk enough to forget things, not enough to completely erase history or drown out the quiet truths that still lurked in the back of your mind. But you were definitely drunk enough to agree to stupid decisions. The kind of choices you wouldn’t have considered under the harsh light of sobriety. The kind of choices that felt too easy when the world was buzzing and blurred, when the weight of the past didn’t seem quite so suffocating.

And that stupid decision?

A late-night walk with Lando. Drunk. Alone.

Something absolutely absurd. Something that didn’t quite fit with the carefully crafted distance you had spent years maintaining between you. But you hadn’t argued. You hadn’t fought against it. And now, somehow, you had ended up here—sitting cross-legged on the ledge of a stone wall, overlooking the vast stretch of the Mediterranean Sea, the moonlight reflecting against the gentle waves below like some impossibly perfect painting. The air was warm, the city behind you humming softly in the distance, the quiet of the night settling against your skin like an old, familiar embrace.

And despite everything—despite the mess of unresolved history, despite the tension still lingering between the moments of silence, despite the sheer ridiculousness of finding yourself in this exact situation—you were sitting there, eating McDonald’s with Lando Norris.

Your childhood best friend.

Lando glanced over at you, a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips, like he knew exactly what he was about to unleash. “Do you remember how I took you karting?” he asked, voice dripping with amusement, clearly ready to relive your humiliation.

You barely had time to process his words before laughter burst out of you—loud, uncontrollable, instant, like the memory had slammed into you at full speed, just as violently as you had crashed that day.

“Don’t even start,” you gasped between fits of laughter, shaking your head, barely holding yourself together as you tried to take another bite of your hamburger. The second the ridiculousness of it all fully hit, you had to physically fight to avoid spitting it all over yourself.

Lando grinned, his eyes lighting up with amusement as he watched you dissolve into laughter, the memory hitting you full force, crashing back into your mind with all its chaotic, humiliating glory.

“Oh, come on,” he teased, shaking his head as he took a bite of his own burger, smirking like he had been waiting years to bring this up again. “It wasn’t that bad.”

You barely managed to swallow before shooting him a sharp look, still breathless from laughter. “Not that bad?” you scoffed, eyebrows raised, voice coated in disbelief. “I crashed so hard that the guy running the place had to come check if I was still alive, Lando.”

He snickered, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Okay, fine,” he admitted, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Maybe it was a little bad.”

“A little?” You nearly choked on your food, shaking your head as you wiped at your mouth, still struggling to contain the laughter bubbling inside you. “I’m scarred, Norris. Scarred.”

He laughed loudly, the sound unfiltered, genuine, slipping through the easy rhythm of the night like it belonged there—like it had never left.

Lando shook his head, laughter still lingering in his voice as he watched you struggle to compose yourself. The memory was too good, too vivid, too perfectly disastrous for him to let go.

“You were so bad,” he teased, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth like he wasn’t about to single-handedly ruin your night with humiliation.

You groaned dramatically, wiping at your mouth, still trying to stop yourself from choking on your own laughter. “Yeah, well, excuse me for not being a child prodigy in motorsport.” You shot him a look, eyes narrowed, but the smirk he threw back was unbelievable.

“That’s not what I meant,” he insisted, though his grin didn’t falter for a second. “You just had, like, zero concept of turning. It was literally a straight line, and you still managed to crash.”

You gasped, slapping his arm in mock outrage, though the memory did technically support his argument. “It was a complicated turn!” you defended, though the absurdity of the statement was immediate.

“A complicated turn?” He nearly choked on his drink, eyes wide. “Y/n, it wasn’t even a turn. You drove straight into the barriers like the track just disappeared in front of you.”

You huffed, crossing your arms, shaking your head, but the laughter bubbling in your chest was uncontainable. “Yeah, well, maybe I just wanted to give everyone a good show.”

Lando snickered, throwing a fry at you. “Mission accomplished.”

And somehow, in the warmth of the Mediterranean night, with laughter spilling between shared bites of fast food, it felt almost like nothing had changed at all.

You looked at him, really looked at him for the first time that night, and something inside you shifted.

His smile—so easy, so natural, so completely him—pulled at something buried deep in your chest, something you hadn’t let yourself think about in years. It was familiar, painfully so, a reminder of everything that had once made this friendship effortless, everything that had once made him yours.

His humor hadn’t changed—still sharp, still quick, still laced with that dry British edge that made everything just a little bit funnier, a little more ridiculous. And in that moment, between the laughter, the shared food, the warmth of the night curling around you, you remembered.

You remembered why you were friends.

You remembered why you had loved him.

You turned to Lando, the memory slipping through the cracks of the night, resurfacing with all its chaotic, hilarious glory. A smirk tugged at your lips as you nudged him lightly, already knowing he’d try to defend himself. “Do you remember how we got kicked out of Mrs. Evans’ class?” you asked, voice laced with nostalgia, with amusement, with just the slightest hint of accusation. “Because you couldn’t stop making me laugh.”

Lando grinned, his eyes lighting up the way they always did when mischief was involved, when trouble was just a little too tempting to resist. He shrugged, casual, completely unbothered, like he wasn’t single-handedly responsible for one of the most chaotic moments of your academic history. “And what should I have done?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, feigning innocence with absolutely no sincerity. “It was so boring!”

You scoffed, shaking your head, though the laughter bubbling under your breath gave away the fact that you weren’t actually mad—just exasperated. “Boring enough that we almost got detention,” you reminded him, leveling him with a pointed stare, though the ridiculousness of it all made it impossible to sound truly scolding.

Lando only laughed, stretching his legs out in front of him, like he had no regrets. “Key word—almost,” he teased, throwing a playful wink your way, fully basking in the chaos like it was some kind of badge of honor.

The words hung between you, soft yet unavoidable, stretching across the quiet, sinking into the space where the past had been tucked away for too long.

“I’m glad I had you by my side growing up.”

So simple. So soft. So undeniably true.

And yet, something inside you twisted at the sound of it, at the weight of it, at the way it should have felt warm but instead carried a sharp edge—an unspoken ache buried beneath nostalgia. It was honest, sure, but honesty didn’t erase the years, didn’t undo the mistakes, didn’t rewrite the nights you had spent wondering where things had gone wrong. Because he could have had you by his side for more than just childhood. He could have had you always—if he hadn’t been careless, if he hadn’t let things fall apart, if he hadn’t made the choices that had cracked the foundation between you until it was barely holding together. If he hadn’t been such an idiot.’

Your jaw clenched, bitterness surfacing before you could push it back down.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just about growing up together. It wasn’t just about the laughter, the memories, the late-night conversations that once felt like they’d stretch on forever. It was about everything after—the parts where he wasn’t there, the parts where silence replaced friendship, the parts where the absence was louder than anything he had ever said before.

And yet, despite all of that—despite the anger that still lingered beneath the surface—you couldn’t bring yourself to say what was truly pressing against your ribs, couldn’t let the words spill out, couldn’t tell him that he could’ve had you forever if he had just chosen to keep you.

The words slipped out of his mouth softly, like he had been holding onto them for far too long, like they had been sitting heavy on his chest for years without escape. “I’m sorry for the graduation.”

Simple. Direct. Honest. And yet, the weight of them hit harder than you expected, settling deep into your ribs, pressing into the space where that memory—where that absence—still lingered.

Graduation. The day that should have been filled with celebration, with excitement, with closure that never really arrived. It had been a day of transition, of stepping into something new, of leaving behind childhood and stepping forward into a future that had felt both thrilling and terrifying. And yet, despite all of that, despite the bittersweet nature of endings and new beginnings, he wasn’t there.

You had told yourself it didn’t matter. You had convinced yourself it didn’t change anything. And yet, standing there, waiting for that familiar face to show up, for him to be there—he never came. And suddenly, it had mattered a lot.

Now, years later, with the ocean stretching endlessly in front of you, with the night settling warmly around you, with the past creeping in between bites of fast food and nostalgia, he was apologizing. Your chest tightened, something complicated twisting inside you, something bitter yet soft, something that wanted to hold onto resentment but wasn’t sure if it could anymore.

“You should be,” you murmured, voice steady, not cruel, not sharp—just honest. And Lando just nodded. Slowly. Thoughtfully. He didn’t argue. He didn’t make excuses. He didn’t try to talk his way out of it like he had done in the past, like he had done with so many other things, so many other moments.

Lando exhaled slowly, shifting slightly, gaze fixed on the waves, the silence stretching between you in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable—but was definitely heavy. He had never been the type to sit with things like this, never been the type to let the weight of past mistakes settle into his chest without some quick distraction, some clever deflection. But this time, he didn’t try.

“I should’ve been there,” he said finally, voice lower now, less casual, less teasing. Just honest. “I should’ve shown up.”

You stared at him for a moment, studying the way his fingers drummed lightly against the stone ledge, the way his posture wasn’t as relaxed as it had been earlier, the way his words carried something real—something that felt less like an empty apology and more like remorse.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice steady, simple. “You should’ve.”

Another beat of silence. The kind that wasn’t awkward. The kind that just existed.

Lando sighed, running a hand through his curls, shaking his head lightly. “I was a bit of an ass, wasn’t I?”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “A bit?”

He shot you a look, but his grin—small, hesitant, almost self-deprecating—surfaced anyway. “Alright, fine. A lot.”

You smirked, though there wasn’t malice in your expression—just nostalgia, just something soft wrapped in the edges of lingering hurt. It wasn’t like everything could be fixed with a single apology.

It wasn’t like words could erase the years apart, the way things had splintered without resolution, the way wounds had settled so deep you had forgotten what it was like to exist without them. But maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of something new.

Something better.

The conversation had shifted—still warm, still easy in some ways, but laced with something deeper now. Something that wasn’t just nostalgia, wasn’t just laughter over childhood chaos, wasn’t just revisiting memories like old photographs tucked away in forgotten drawers. This was different. This was real in a way that it hadn’t been for a long time.

“I wanted to reach out,” he admitted suddenly, voice quieter, more careful. Like he wasn’t sure how the words would land. Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to say them at all. “After graduation. After—everything. But I didn’t know how to fix it.”

You studied him for a moment, the way his expression had shifted from mischievous to contemplative, the way he actually seemed hesitant—like he had spent years thinking about this exact moment, about how he would say these exact words if he ever got the chance.

And part of you knew that if he had tried back then, if he had sent that text, made that call, said something when it mattered—you wouldn’t have ignored it.

You wouldn’t have been able to.

But he hadn’t. And time had stretched between you, pulling everything apart until you weren’t sure if there was anything left to hold onto at all.

“Why didn’t you?” you asked, and it wasn’t bitter, wasn’t sharp—it was just curious. Because after all this time, after all the years spent wondering, you deserved an answer.

Lando’s lips pressed together for a brief second before he exhaled again, shaking his head. “I was scared you wouldn’t want to hear from me,” he admitted, voice raw, honest. “And maybe... I thought I deserved that.”

And for the first time, since the distance had formed, since the resentment had settled, since the laughter had faded—his regret felt real.

Lando’s voice was steady, careful, carrying something unspoken beneath it—something raw, something real, something fragile enough that it almost felt like it didn’t belong in the easy rhythm of the night. “I really want to be your friend again, Y/n,” he said, and for the first time since this conversation had begun, since nostalgia had crept in and laughter had softened the edges of old wounds, you felt the weight of every single moment that had led up to this one.

It wasn’t a lighthearted remark. It wasn’t just words tossed into the sea breeze without meaning. It was something deeper, something intentional. And then, like he realized that saying it once wasn’t enough, like he needed to make sure it landed the way he intended, he added—“and I want you to be my friend again.”

Not just that he wanted to be yours.

But that he wanted you to want it, too. That he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness, wasn’t just trying to smooth over years of absence and missteps and hurt—he was asking for something real, something that required more than just words.

He was asking for a chance. For the possibility that this wasn’t just reminiscing, wasn’t just two people revisiting a past they had lost, but maybe—just maybe—the beginning of something new. And suddenly, after all this time, after all the years apart, you held all the power.

The tear slipped down your cheek, warm against the cool night air, but you didn’t wipe it away. You let it fall, let the weight of emotion settle deep into your chest, let the moment exist without hesitation, without restraint. “I miss you, Lan,” you said, voice raw, uneven, laced with something fragile—something true. “I missed you over the years. Nonstop.”

Lando inhaled sharply, like the words had knocked the breath out of him, like hearing them out loud made them real in a way that thoughts alone never could. His fingers curled slightly against the stone ledge, his posture tense for just a second before he exhaled, slow, measured. When he spoke, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty—just honesty, just everything he had been holding back.

“I miss you too,” he admitted, and it wasn’t rushed, wasn’t just a response for the sake of filling silence. It was real. It was heavy. “I always thought about you. In the car, before sleep.” His voice dipped slightly at the end, quiet but steady, carrying the weight of years, of regret, of something so much bigger than just missing someone. He glanced at you then, expression softer, more exposed than you had seen it in a long time. “And I also thought about how much I fucked up.”

"I can't hate you, Lando," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them, before you could think too hard about what they meant.

Because it was true.

Even after everything.

Even after the hurt, the silence, the years of unspoken apologies—you never could.

Lando’s breath hitched, just slightly, just enough for you to notice. His fingers curled against the stone ledge, his posture rigid for a moment before he exhaled, letting the weight of your words sink into his chest. He nodded once, barely, his gaze flickering toward the waves as if searching for something—some kind of grounding, some kind of steadiness in the moment that was suddenly too real.

“I thought you did,” he admitted, voice quieter now, less controlled, less confident. “For a long time, I thought you hated me.”

You swallowed, lips pressing together, letting the truth sit between you, because maybe—back then—you had tried to. Maybe you had wanted to. Maybe it would’ve been easier if you had.

But you never did.

“I was angry,” you said finally, voice steady but soft. “I was hurt. But I never hated you, Lan.”

He turned toward you then, fully, eyes searching yours with something raw, something desperate—not in a selfish way, not in a way that begged for more than you could give, but in a way that told you this moment meant everything to him.

Your voice was steady, but there was something fragile underneath it—something you hadn’t meant to admit out loud, something that had been sitting in your chest for years, tangled up in old resentment and unspoken frustration.

Lando’s expression flickered, something shifting in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or understanding, or both. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to laugh it off, didn’t do anything except wait, letting you say the thing you had never really let yourself process before.

“I wanted to be happy for you,” you continued, inhaling slowly, like the words were harder to say now that they were actually being said. “But every time I saw you winning, every time I saw you smiling on that podium, every time I saw you getting everything you wanted, I just… I was bitter, Lando.”

He swallowed, his fingers curling slightly against his knee, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “Because I wasn’t there?” he asked, voice careful, like he didn’t want to assume—but like he already knew.

You nodded, lips pressing together, letting the truth settle between you. “Because you weren’t there,” you echoed. “Because I wanted to be part of it. Because I wanted to be your friend, but instead, I was just—just some person watching it all happen from a distance.”

Lando exhaled, slow, measured, like he was absorbing all of it—like he wasn’t just hearing your words, but feeling them, carrying them in the space between past and present. He shook his head lightly, eyes dipping downward before meeting yours again. “I should’ve reached out,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, less certain, more vulnerable. “I should’ve had you with me. Should’ve made sure you never felt like that.”

And for the first time, since this conversation had started, since the past had resurfaced, since the years of distance had finally been acknowledged—you felt like he understood.

“I didn’t want to feel that way,” you admitted, voice quieter now, more careful. “I wanted to be proud of you, wanted to celebrate with you. But instead, it just felt like proof that—" You inhaled, pressing your lips together for a brief second, steadying yourself before letting the words slip out. "Proof that you didn’t need me anymore.”

Lando’s expression flickered, something deeper shifting behind his eyes—something that looked dangerously close to pain.

“No,” he murmured immediately, shaking his head, his fingers curling into a fist for a brief second before he exhaled, forcing himself to breathe. “It was never that. It was never because I didn’t need you, Y/n.” He looked at you now, really looked at you, like he needed you to understand, like he needed to make sure there was no space for doubt, no space for misinterpretation.

“I was an idiot. A selfish idiot who didn’t know how to deal with everything changing, so I—” He sighed, running a hand through his curls, his voice dipping lower, carrying something raw, something heavy. “I handled it badly. And I let everything slip away, because I was scared to—scared to admit that I couldn’t do any of it without you.”

Lando was quiet, until he broke the silence with one, short question.

“Do you think I deserve a chance?” he asked, voice softer this time, like he was bracing for whatever came next. His fingers drummed lightly against his knee, his posture just a little too rigid, his expression just a little too careful. He wasn’t asking lightly. He wasn’t expecting an easy answer. He was giving you the space to decide.

You inhaled slowly, letting his words settle, letting yourself really think about them. It wasn’t just about whether he deserved it. It was about whether you wanted to give it. About whether you were ready to step into something new, to let go of the bitterness that had clung to the edges of the memories you had tried to hold onto for so long. And maybe, just maybe, you were.

“Yeah, you do.”

babsie radio ! For my dearest @haniette and for all the lovely people reading this !! This is my longest and favorite fic I have ever written. This is literally asking for part 2!! Let me know if u are interested !<3

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nicholasluvbot · 1 month ago

Text

STUCK WITH Uㅤ 𓂃 ㅤ 或 ❜ㅤ ── 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗐𝖾'𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 ၃

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ🐋ㅤㅤ𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗌 𓈒

𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 ! 𝖻𝗇𝖽 ⟡ 𝖿𝖾𝗆 ! 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ─── 1400 ✴ 𝖽𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿ㅤ w. 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀ㅤ੭୧ 𝗅𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗋𝗒

𝗂 𝖺𝗆 𝗌𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 '𝗇𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗋𝖾' >< !

𝖯𝖠𝖱𝖪 𝖲𝖴𝖭𝖦𝖧𝖮

the door creaks open with the low thud of footsteps, and the moment you look up, there he is—tie slightly loosened, hair tousled, broad shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

he’s got his arms around you before you can even say hi, nose tucked into your shoulder, exhaling like the weight of the world just lifted.

you rub his back gently, and he only hugs you tighter. your hand reaches up to cup the side of his face, fingers threading through his hair.

“tough day?”

he nods into the curve of your neck. “i missed you so much,” he mumbles, voice soft and muffled as he sways you slightly. “did you miss me?”

you chuckle under your breath. “you saw me this morning.”

“yeah,” he pouts, pulling back just enough to look at you, “but that was so many hours ago.”

your heart melts at the sincerity in his voice, and you let him hold you, swaying gently with him in the quiet. the only sound is the soft crackle of the chimney behind you, casting a warm glow across the room.

even when you pull away slightly to ask if he wants dinner, he tugs you right back in, mumbling into your shirt, “not yet. just a few more minutes like this.”

and so you stay like that, his head resting on your shoulder, arms around your waist, wrapped up in the quiet thrum of home.

𝖫𝖤𝖤 𝖱𝖨𝖶𝖮𝖮

riwoo’s sprawled on the couch beside you, one arm draped around your shoulder as you snuggle into him, a blanket messily thrown over your tangled limbs and a bowl of popcorn resting on your lap.

a romcom plays on the television—the kind that’s equal parts cheesy and charming—and riwoo’s been providing commentary on every single scene, ridiculous and exaggerated, leaving you wheezing with laughter, clutching your stomach. he looks so proud of himself every time you laugh, flashing that boyish grin every time you laugh, even when you playfully shove him for his hilarious comments.

you’re laughing more than watching.

and then, the ending hits. the music softens, the screen dims, and the two lovers finally reunite after being apart.

riwoo’s about to crack another joke when—

sniffle.

he pauses, turning to look at you, and his smile fades into something softer. “wait, are you crying?” he asks, his voice low, surprised.

you nod, wiping your cheek quickly. “it just got me, okay?”

without hesitation, he scoots in closer, tugging the blanket snugly around both of you, his fingers gently reaching for yours. “hey, come here.”

no more jokes. just his arms around you, chin resting on your head, and his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles into your palm—quiet, warm comfort wrapped in the soft glow of movie credits from the screen.

𝖬𝖸𝖴𝖭𝖦 𝖩𝖠𝖤𝖧𝖸𝖴𝖭

it’s still dim when jaehyun wakes, the room washed in blue-grey light. your limbs are tangled beneath the blanket, one hand resting over his chest, your breath brushing against his collarbone in a steady rhythm.

his lips lift in a soft smile when he looks at you. your lips are parted slightly, brows relaxed, your expression peaceful—like you’re perfectly content staying wrapped in his arms. his gaze lingers, tracing over your face, memorizing every curve softened by sleep.

he brushes your hair back, thumb gently grazing the slope of your cheek.

the minutes stretch on. he checks his phone. no emails, no messages, no noise. just the quiet beating of his heart, somehow louder in the stillness.

eventually, the boredom seeps in—not the restless kind, but the yearning kind.

so he leans in, pressing a featherlight kiss to your temple. then your cheek. then your nose.

you groan, sinking deeper into the blankets. “too early.”

jaehyun hums, slotting his leg between yours, voice barely above a whisper. “i missed you.”

you sigh, exasperated, but you let him curl fully around you. he’s warm—annoyingly so. he smells like his body wash, and home.

and when he rubs his nose against yours and mumbles, “if you really want me to stop, i will,” you let out a tired laugh.

“don’t stop,” because even if you act mad sometimes, you still love his affection so much.

𝖧𝖠𝖭 𝖳𝖠𝖤𝖲𝖠𝖭

taesan bursts through the door, soaked from head to toe, water dripping all over the entryway.

“you didn’t take an umbrella?” you ask, arms crossed, brows furrowed in disappointment.

“i forgot,” he says pitifully, hair plastered to his forehead and shirt soaked through. “it started pouring out of nowhere.”

your glare doesn’t falter—you’d reminded him to carry an umbrella, more than once. but he never listens.

he pouts a little and leans into you, like a wet kitten looking for sympathy. “comfort me. i’m wet.”

“you’re also gross,” you deadpan. “go shower before you catch a cold.”

when he reappears fifteen minutes later, his hair is damp and clean, shoulders bare, skin flushed from the hot water. he sits at the edge of the bed, and you kneel in front of him, gently toweling his hair dry.

he hums, soft and content, until you accidentally tug his ear a little too hard.

“ow.”

“sorry,” you say, trying not to smile.

he turns to pout at you, cheeks puffed like a cartoonishly. “you’re not being gentle. are you really mad at me?”

you chuckle, setting the towel aside and pulling him closer until his head rests against your stomach. he immediately wraps his arms around your waist, face pressed into your shirt.

“better?”

“mm,” he hums, already snuggling in. “much.”

𝖪𝖨𝖬 𝖫𝖤𝖤𝖧𝖠𝖭

leehan is sitting on the floor between your legs, his back warm against your ankles, and his cheek rested snugly against your knee. the living room is quiet, save for the soft hum of whatever show is playing on the television.

your fingers move through his hair slowly—carding out the little tangles, smoothing each strand with care. leehan hums under his breath as you part it carefully, smoothing it down before starting a braid.

your hands move in gentle patterns—over, under, over—and he tilts his head slightly to give you more space. he leans into your touch, shoulders relaxed, breathing slow and steady.

“is this okay? too tight?” you ask, pausing to lightly scratch his scalp

“no,” he murmurs, eyes closed. “feels nice.”

you finish the braid—neat and simple—but your fingers keep moving, combing through the rest of his hair with soothing, lazy motions.

he shifts slightly, turning his head to look up at you with that soft, half-lidded gaze that makes your chest ache a little. “let’s do nothing all day,” he says, voice thick with comfort.

you chuckle, brushing a thumb against his cheekbone. “that’s what we’re doing right now.”

he nods, satisfied. and you both stay just like that for hours, long after the braid is done—quiet tv, soft touches, and hearts full.

𝖪𝖨𝖬 𝖶𝖮𝖮𝖭𝖧𝖠𝖪

you wake up to the softest poke against your shoulder and woonhak’s voice in your ear. “hey. wake up, please?”

you groan, blearily blinking at the clock. “it’s 1:30 in the morning. what do you need?”

he grins. “i’m craving ramen. come with me?”

you grumble but get up anyway, feet padding after him into the kitchen.

you sit on the counter, half-asleep and smiling as he throws absurd ingredients into the pot just for the sake of experimenting.

“strawberries are not for garnish,” you mumble, amused, watching him cut strawberries into tiny pieces.

“i just wanted some colour,” he laughs.

he keeps looking over his shoulder at you. you’re smiling in a sleepy, squint way: the one that he’s grown to adore so much. he cracks another egg into the pot, absolutely no reason other than wanting to hear you laugh again.

you don’t trust the ramen he’s cooking at all, but he’s glowing—loose tee, messy hair, eyes sparkling—and you let him play chef.

once the lid is on and the noodles are simmering, he sets the chopsticks down, steps between your legs, and leans in to kiss you. slow. warm. just because he can.

you kiss back, fingers curling into his hair—until your nose twitches.

“woonhak,” you murmur against his lips, “the ramen.”

he yelps, rushing back to the pot, cheeks flushed pink, clearly embarrassed for getting distracted so easily.

when it’s finally done, you eat straight from the pot (because who’s bothering with dishes at 2 am?). and somehow, it turns out edible delicious, even.

you sit side by side on the floor, knees bumping, chopsticks clinking, trying not to laugh too loudly.

you’ll probably regret this when you’re both running late in the morning—but that’s a worry for tomorrow.

ㅤnetworks ◞ @kstrucknet @k-films @sgz-net

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melanchoire · 5 months ago

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PRICE OF CONCENTRATION ──── yu jimin

── ( 📓 ) your focus is laser-sharp on the lecture, but your classmate karina, ever the mischievous one, decides boredom is a personal invitation to drive you wild; first with innocent attempts to catch your eye, then escalating to a secret game of teasing touches that slowly melt your resistance, until a shared, unspoken look seals the deal – textbooks forgotten, and the dorm room beckons for a different kind of study.

pairing. switch!student!karina x switch!student!fem reader

warning(s). cunnilingus, fingering, making out, pet names, scissoring.

word count. 4,5k

request. for some reason this request disappeared from my inbox 💔

the bright lights of the lecture hall hummed, a monotonous drone that mirrored the professor’s voice, droning on about something you were sure was important, but karina couldn’t for the life of her care. you, however, were a model of academic focus, a bastion of attentiveness in a sea of glazed—over eyes and restless fidgeting. she watched you, her gaze tracing the neat, precise strokes of your pen as you filled your notebook with information. you were a machine, a perfect student, and it was honestly a little vexing.

you were a study in contrast to her current state. your posture was impeccable, your focus unwavering, your pen moving with a rhythmic precision across the page, capturing every nuance of the lecture. karina’s eyes seemed to trace the smooth lines of your handwriting, the neatness a stark contrast to her own messy scrawl.

she straightened a little, trying to emulate your focus. she leaned forward, eyes darting to the screen where the professor was projecting dense formulas and colorful graphs. you could almost see the struggle in her face, her brow furrowing in concentration as she attempted to follow along. but it was like watching a car try to start on a cold morning, sputtering a few times before succumbing to silence. her concentration faltered, her gaze drifting to the window behind the professor, where a few brave sparrows were flitting about.

karina leaned back in her own chair, stretching her legs out beneath the desk, a silent protest against the suffocating boredom of the class. she crossed her arms over her chest, a gesture that screamed, “i’d rather be anywhere else.” she turned to you again, a small frown creasing her brow as she watched you. how could you be so engaged in this? it was like you were a different species entirely. she tried. oh god, did she try. she tried to mimic you, focusing her attention on the professor, willing herself to absorb the words, the concepts. but it was like trying to grasp water — the harder she tried, the more it slipped through her mental fingers. it was as if her ears were working, registering the sounds of the lecture, but her brain was refusing to process them, like a stubborn computer refusing to run a program. her mind was a tangled mess of “why was she even here?” and “does this really matter?”

giving up, a defeated sigh escaping her lips, she decided to go for a different approach. she scanned your pencil case, a kaleidoscope of brightly coloured pens and highlighters, and plucked out a vibrant purple one. she made a pathetic attempt at taking notes, the pencil scratching against the paper, but her handwriting was a chaotic mess of angles and loops, completely devoid of the neatness you possessed. vague, disconnected words filled the page, interspersed with doodles of abstract shapes and grumpy—looking faces.

boredom gnawed at her, a restless beast demanding attention. she turned towards you, poking your arm with the end of the pen. she wanted to talk, she wanted your attention, she wanted anything but this agonizing lecture. you didn't even look up. you knew what it meant. she was like a bored child, seeking attention, eager to find someone to share her misery with. you continued to transcribe the professor’s words, unfazed.

you didn’t miss a beat of the professor’s monotone, your hand still moving across the page. karina felt an inexplicable urge of annoyance bubbling up within her. then came the poke again, this time a little harder. she was persistent, you had to give her that. still, you refused to acknowledge her. so, she poked you again, a third time this time, it was quick as if giving you the pencil. that’s when you reached out, taking the pencil from her fingers. you didn’t even break eye contact with the professor. you didn’t see the small scoff that escaped her lips, the way her eyes narrowed in playful frustration.

she wasn’t going to be brushed off that easily. karina reached for the cord of your headphones, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. she yanked it from your ears, the soft humming of the song you were listening to floating into the air, a low, rhythmic pulse. you finally turned to look at her, one eyebrow arched in a silent question. karina knew that look. she was going to get a lecture about class soon if she didn’t diffuse this now. she’ll take the risk. she loved when she got you going.

you gave her a light punch on the arm, just a playful tap, but it still stung a little. “pay attention.” you mouthed, your voice low, a clear line drawn in the sand, but she couldn’t help but notice the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of your lips.

“class is boring.” she retorted, hitting you back in the arm, a little harder this time. “i’m bored.”

“well, if you paid attention, you might not be.” you whispered back, a hint of exasperation in your eyes, but it was clear you weren’t actually mad.

“you’re weird for actually liking this.” she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief. you chuckled lightly.

“you know i like learning.” you said. “It’s not my fault you can't focus for five seconds.”

“hey!” she exclaimed, her voice a little louder this time, drawing a quick glare from the professor. you exchanged a quick look, a silent agreement that she had pushed it, before you returned to your notes, effectively shutting her out.

for a good five minutes, she was silent. you figured she had finally run out of energy. then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw her pick up a pen and begin to write in her notebook. “okay.” you thought, that’s unexpected. you didn’t let it distract you, though, because you were focused on the next set of formulas.

that is, until you felt it. a touch, feather—light, on the side of your knee. you glanced down, your heart doing an unexpected leap in your chest. karina’s hand, warm and soft, was resting there, seemingly innocent. she was still writing in her notebook, her attention appearing to be fixed on the professor, but that hand, though, was doing more than just resting.

you tried to dismiss it. maybe she was just being absent—minded, maybe she didn’t realize she was touching you. but then the hand started to move, inching upwards slowly, tracing the curve of your leg as it went, the subtle graze of her fingers sending shivers up your spine. it reached your thigh, the warmth of her palm making your skin tingle.

you shifted slightly. surely she would stop now. it was a blatant invasion of your space, and you were certain she was doing it on purpose. but no, the hand kept moving, its fingers now pressing gently into your flesh. it was heading higher, angling to slip under the hem of your skirt.

your breath caught in your throat. the lecture faded into background noise, the formulas on the screen becoming a blur. your heart was pounding in your chest. you could feel the blood rushing to your face, your cheeks getting warmer, and you were sure you were turning as red as a tomato. you glanced sideways to meet her eyes, not before letting out a small cough, trying to sound as subtle as possible.

“karina.” you hissed in a low, barely audible whisper, a warning laced in your breath. you tried to sound stern, but there was a tremor in your voice that was quite embarrassing. her gaze flickered from her notebook to meet yours, the corner of her lips twitching upwards in a knowing smirk. she raised an eyebrow, as if to say “what?”, her eyes wide and innocent.

“stop.” you mouthed, your voice barely a breath.

she simply shook her head, her fingers now almost touching the edge of your skirt, and whispered back, “pay attention.” her voice an innocent whisper that barely reached your ears. the smirk never left her face, the mischievous glint in her eyes telling you everything. she was playing with you, teasing you, testing your patience. and you had a feeling she was enjoying every second of it.

karina’s hand, a warm, persistent weight on your knee, was the culprit. it had started subtly, a gentle brush, and had gradually escalated, inching higher with each passing minute.

it was a battle against your own body, a struggle to focus on the quadratic equations scribbled on the chalkboard when karina’s hand rested, bold and possessive, on your thigh. it wasn’t just on your thigh, not really. her fingers were creeping higher, inching towards the hem of your skirt, the whisper of fabric against skin sending shivers that had nothing to do with the overly air—conditioned room.

now, her fingers were perilously closer to the edge of your skirt, threatening to slip beneath and find the delicate lace of your panties. your breath hitched. you couldn’t focus on the teacher’s droning lecture; every nerve ending was screaming under the tantalizing pressure of her touch.

a simple glance, a fleeting lock of your eyes with hers, was all it took. you saw the same anticipation mirrored in their depths, a shared understanding of the unspoken desires crackling in the air between you. a silent promise of something more, something that couldn’t happen within the confines of the brightly lit classroom.

you knew the dance by now; the way her eyes, dark and mischievous, met yours, a coded language spoken only between the two of you. it was a simple exchange, a silent understanding of the desire that simmered beneath the surface.

you were barely registering the teacher’s droning voice, your attention consumed by the escalating heat radiating from karina’s touch. your breath hitched, a small, involuntary gasp that you hoped went unnoticed. you glanced at her, a question in your eyes, and her answering smirk sent a thrill through you. it was time.

karina’s voice, smooth as honey and laced with a playful urgency, cut through the monotonous lecture. “excuse me, mr. kim?” she called, her hand still firmly planted on your thigh. your skin prickled with anticipation. “i think that… well, maybe we should go to the bathroom. she’s not feeling too well.”

all eyes turned to you. you felt your face flush even more, a blush that wasn’t entirely faked. the combination of karina’s touch and the sudden attention had your heart hammering against your ribs. you felt the familiar clamminess of your palms, and the slight sheen of sweat on your forehead was real enough, lending truth to karina’s claim. the teacher, a middle—aged man who barely registered his students beyond the first row, glanced at you with a perfunctory frown. “you alright, miss…?” he squinted, searching his register your face.

you could feel the heat rising more in your cheeks, mirroring the flush you already felt from karina’s touch. you pressed your lips together, trying to look convincingly ill. a slight sweat dampened your forehead, the nervousness and anticipation adding to the charade. you gave a weak little cough, hoping it added to the effect.

mr. kim, ever the gullible academic, peered at you with concern. “oh my, you do look a bit pale. are you alright?”

you managed a feeble nod, grateful for the dramatic flare that karina had instigated. “yes, just a bit lightheaded.”

he seemed convinced enough. “alright, go along then. but don’t take too long.” he dismissed you with a wave of his hand, turning back to the whiteboard, utterly unaware of the charade playing out before him.

you practically bolted from your seat, grateful for the reprieve. you expected karina to lead you toward the bathrooms or the infirmary down the corridor, but instead, she took your hand again, her grip firm, and guided you in the opposite direction, toward the dormitories. a thrill shot through you. you glanced at her, raising an eyebrow in question.

“the infirmary is that way.” you murmured, a hesitant question hovering in your tone.

“we’re not going to the stupid infirmary right now. of course, we’ll get there, don’t worry.” karina replied, her hand now resting on your lower back, guiding you forward. “but first things first.” she said, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “my room is closer. we can… recharge there."

“but what about class?” you asked, trying not to let your voice betray your excitement.

karina winked. “after the fun, we'll go to the infirmary, get a note. problem solved. you’re still 'sick', after all.” she said, emphasizing the last word with a mischievous lift of her brow. “we’ll get a medical certificate, and we can give it to your professor.”

“he’ll probably notice that there’s a big time difference between when we left the classroom and when we went to the infirmary. and he’ll wonder why it took us so long to get to the infirmary after we left class.” you pointed out, trying to sound like you were trying to be responsible, even though your heart was already racing at the prospect of what was about to happen.

“we’ll say that we were in the bathroom because you were nauseous or you went to wet your face and cool off. or maybe even that you felt dizzy and almost fainted? i don’t know, but we’ll figure something out.” she says, her grin growing at the look of disbelief on your face. karina bit her lip, her eyes sparkling. “too extreme, isn’t it? well… how about we just say we went out onto the terrace or something because you needed some fresh air? maybe we can even blame it on the awful school lunch, if he still asks.” she added, her voice laced with amusement. “he never pays attention anyway.”

you couldn’t help but laugh, any lingering doubts swiftly melting away under her infectious energy. as you approached her dorm door, you noticed a name tag next to it. “wait, what about your roommate?” you asked, remembering the other girl whose name you vaguely recalled being “giselle”.

karina chuckled, pushing the door open and waves a dismissive hand. “don’t worry about her. she hasn't been in the dorm since the party last weekend. she always crashes at someone’s place after parties… she’s probably sleeping off a hangover at her boyfriend’s place. i haven’t seen her around since then, at least.” you had to admit, you had expected her to be there. you found yourself thanking her party habits internally. “don’t worry about her. let’s just focus on what matters, okay?”

she pulled you into the room, the door clicking shut behind you, and suddenly, you were alone. the room was neat, a stark contrast to the controlled chaos of karina’s personality. it smelled faintly of vanilla and something uniquely hers, a scent that made your senses swim.

but the air in the small space crackled with a palpable tension. karina turned, her eyes locking with yours, and all the words, the worries, the questions, evaporated.

she reached for you, her hands cupping your face, her thumbs tracing the line of your jaw, and you were lost. her lips met yours, a soft, gentle pressure that quickly deepened into a hungry kiss. you tasted her, the sweet tang of her lip gloss, the warmth of her mouth, and you melted into the sensation.

your hands moved, finding their way to her shoulders, pulling her closer, desperate for any skin-to-skin contact. her fingers tangled in your hair, gently tugging as she deepened the kiss, and you moaned into her mouth, the sound raw and unfiltered.

the world narrowed to the feel of her lips on yours, the soft gasp of her breath mingling with your own. you could feel her body pressed against yours, the soft curves of her hips and the firm press of her chest, sending shivers of desire through you. you could practically feel her grin against your lips, as if she was just as giddy as you were.

but of course, you two couldn’t stay as two lovey—dovey people for long.

now the kiss was hot, demanding, a release of all the pent—up tension that had been simmering between you since earlier in class. her hands, now free from the confines of your skirt, tangled in your hair, deepening the kiss. you leaned into her, your body pressing against hers, the soft texture of her shirt against your skin igniting a fire within you.

karina broke the kiss, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. she was a sight to behold, dark eyes shining, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and red: an absolute goddess. “wow.” she whispered, her voice husky. “that’s... more than i was expecting.”

you, a little flustered still, managed a breathy laugh. “better than boring classes, right?”

she grinned, a flash of white teeth against her flushed face. “absolutely. come here.” she murmured.

she grabbed your wrist and practically dragged you towards her bed, her nails digging into your skin. as soon as you two reached it, she pushed you down onto the mattress, crawling over you with a predatory grace.

she straddled your hips, her knees on either side of your thighs as she loomed over you. her hands gripped the hem of your shirt and in one swift motion, she yanked it up and over your head, tossing it carelessly to the side. she took a moment to admire your bared skin, her eyes roaming over your curves hungrily.

leaning down, she pressed her lips to your collarbone, her tongue tracing the delicate bone before she nipped at your skin. her teeth grazed your neck, leaving a trail of red marks in her wake as she made her way up to your jawline.

she captured your bottom lip between her teeth, tugging on it gently before soothing the sting with her tongue. she kissed you deeply, passionately, pouring all her lust and desire into the kiss. her hands slid down your sides, her fingers splaying across your ribcage.

karina’s hands slid further down, her fingers hooking into the waistband of your skirt. with a wicked grin, she tugged them down your legs, taking your panties with them. she tossed the pleated fabric and lace aside, leaving you bare and exposed beneath her.

she took a moment to admire your naked form, her eyes darkening with unbridled lust. she licked her lips, her gaze lingering on the juncture between your thighs. slowly, teasingly, she ran a finger along your slit, feeling the slick heat gathering there.

“fuck, baby, you’re so wet already.” she purred, her voice low and dripping with desire. “i’ve barely touched you and you're already dripping for me. such a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

she circled your clit with the pad of her thumb, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. her other hand slid up your stomach to your breast, kneading the soft flesh roughly. she pinched your nipple between her fingers, rolling the hardened nub between them.

karina leaned down, her hot breath ghosting over your aching core. she inhaled deeply, the scent of your arousal filling her nostrils. a low, approving moan rumbled in her throat before she dragged her tongue along your slit, tasting your essence.

”mmmh, you taste even better than i imagined.” she murmured, her voice vibrating against your sensitive flesh. she circled your clit with the tip of her tongue before suckling on the hardened bud, sending jolts of electricity through your body.

she dipped a finger into your entrance, pumping it in and out of your tight channel. she curled it upwards, stroking that special spot inside you that made your toes curl. her thumb continued its relentless assault on your clit, rubbing quick, tight circles around it.

karina could feel your walls fluttering around her finger, your body tensing as she brought you closer to the edge. she added a second finger, stretching you further, filling you completely. she pumped them in and out of you, her palm slapping against your clit with each thrust.

karina could feel your body trembling beneath her touch, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. she knew you were close, teetering on the brink of ecstasy. she doubled her efforts, her fingers pumping into you harder, faster, determined to push you over the edge.

“that’s it, baby, come for me.” she growled, her voice rough with lust. “i want to feel you come undone on my fingers, i want to taste your pleasure on my tongue.”

she sealed her mouth over your clit, sucking hard as she thrust a third finger deep inside you. she curled them, stroking that sensitive bundle of nerves, pushing you ruthlessly towards your peak.

your back arched off the bed, your hands fisting in the sheets as the coil of tension in your belly snapped. you cried out, your voice echoing off the walls of your dorm room as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave.

karina didn’t let up, continuing to work you through your climax with her fingers and tongue. she drank down your release, moaning in satisfaction as your essence flooded her mouth. finally, as the aftershocks began to subside, she slowed her movements, gentling her touch.

she crawled up your body, her fingers trailing over your sweat—slicked skin. she captured your lips in a searing kiss, forcing you to taste yourself on her tongue. she smiled against your mouth, a wicked, triumphant smile.

“not bad for a warm-up, gorgeous.” she purred, nipping at your bottom lip. “but we’re far from done.”

her fingers find the waistband of her jeans, unbuttoning the button and lowering the zipper, pulling down her pants along with underwear from her long legs in the blink of an eye. a wicked grin spread across her face as she rolled onto her back, pulling you on top of her. she gripped your hips, her fingers digging into your soft flesh as she guided you to straddle her waist.

“c’mon baby.” she purred, her voice low and dripping with lust. “let’s see how well you handle being on top. impress me.”

she reached up to cup your breasts, kneading the supple mounds in her hands. she rolled your nipples between her fingers, pinching and tugging on the hardened peaks until you gasped.

karina’s other hand slid down your back, her nails raking over your skin until she reached your ass. she gripped your cheeks, squeezing the firm globes in her hands before pulling you forward, grinding your slick heat against her own.

karina’s eyes darkened with lust as she felt your wetness coating her skin, your arousal evident in the slick slide of your folds against her own. she rocked her hips up against yours, the hard ridge of her clit rubbing against your sensitive nub in a delicious friction.

“fuck… you’re so fucking wet.” she groaned, her voice strained with desire. “i can feel how much you want this, how much you need to fuck me.”

she guided your hips in a slow, sensual grind against hers, the movement allowing you both to feel the heat and pressure building between your thighs. her hands slid up your sides to your breasts, kneading the soft flesh roughly as she watched your face intently.

karina could see the pleasure playing out across your features, the way your lips parted in soft gasps and moans as you moved against her. she leaned up to capture your mouth in a searing kiss, her tongue delving deep to dance with yours.

she nipped at your bottom lip before trailing her mouth down to your neck, her teeth grazing the delicate skin. she sucked hard, intent on marking you as hers, on leaving her claim for all to see.

“ride me, baby.” she commanded, her voice low and rough with lust. “take what you need, what you want. ise me for your pleasure.”

karina’s hands gripped your hips tighter, guiding you as you began to move. you rolled your hips in a slow, sensual grind against hers, your slick folds sliding against hers. the sensation of your wetness mingling with hers was intoxicating, the friction sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your core.

as you found a rhythm, you started to bounce on her lap, your breasts jiggling with each downward motion. karina’s eyes were glued to your chest, watching the mesmerizing dance of your curves. she leaned up to catch a nipple in her mouth, suckling hard as her hand kneaded your other breast roughly.

her hips jerked up to meet yours, the head of her clit catching on your own with each thrust. the pressure built inside both of you, the heat coiling tighter and tighter in your bellies. you could feel karina’s muscles tensing beneath you, her body drawing closer to the edge.

karina’s fingers dug into the flesh of your ass, spreading your cheeks wide as she pulled you down harder, urging you to give her more. she could feel your walls fluttering around her, your body tightening like a coiled spring.

“that’s it, baby, fuck me just like that.” she panted, her voice ragged with desire. “i’m so fucking close. come with me, come on my pussy. i want to feel you fucking soak me.”

karina could feel your movements becoming more urgent, more desperate. your hips were moving frantically, grinding and rolling against hers in a wild dance. the obscene sound of your wetness filled the room, the slick slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls.

she could feel her own release building, the tension in her core winding tighter and tighter. she was so close, teetering on the brink of ecstasy. she needed you to come with her, needed to feel your pleasure as you rode her hard and fast.

“fuck, don’t stop.” she growled, her voice strained and rough. “i’m gonna come, baby. come with me, fucking soak me with your cum. i want to feel you fucking drench me as i come undone.”

she slammed sharply her hips up against yours, her clit rubbing hard against your own. the sensation was electric, sending a jolt of pure pleasure shooting through your core. your body stiffened, your back arching as your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave.

karina let out a guttural moan, her voice echoing off the walls as her own orgasm consumed her. her hips jerked and twitched beneath you, her body shaking with the force of her release. she could feel your walls clenching around her, your essence gushing out to coat her skin.

she gripped your hips hard, holding you in place as she ground against you, riding out the aftershocks of her climax. she panted harshly, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. finally, she collapsed back onto the bed, pulling you down with her.

karina wrapped her arms around you, holding you close as she peppered your face with soft kisses. she smiled up at you, her eyes shining with satisfaction and contentment. “... that was incredible.” she murmured, her voice soft and sated. “we’re definitely doing that again, baby. and again, and again…”

just as she was about to continue, a knock on the front bedroom door brings you two out of the intimate moment you were having.

“karina? are you in there? it's me, giselle. can you open the door? i lost my keys during the party last friday! actually, i think i lost my entire handbag…”

#yu jimin #yu jimin x fem reader #yu jimin x reader #yu jimin smut #yoo jimin #yoo jimin x fem reader #yoo jimin x reader #yoo jimin smut #karina #karina x fem reader #karina x reader #karina smut #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #aespa smut

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mochieekittenz · 7 days ago

Text

Hold Me After

cw: p*ssy eating, (not so) dry humping, thighf*cking

character(s): caleb x f!reader (smut, fluff)

aaaaand before we begin! thank you so much for all the love on my last Sylus post — your comments, reblogs, and general interactions absolutely made my week. You guys are insane in the best way, and I adore you for it!! <3 It makes me genuinely so happy seeing people enjoying my work because I try to put my everything in it

THIS FIC is brought to you by my sleep deprivation and the ghost of my dignity. Warning! This is 90% my Caleb obsession and 10% me desperately trying to keep up. I take no refunds. Proceed with caution and enjoy! :>

──★ ˙

It was summer — Last year of highschool

The school year was practically over. Graduation was just a few weeks away, and for the first time in ages, the idea of “what comes next” didn’t make your stomach twist with anxiety — it actually excited you. You were done with the routine, the crowded hallways, same questions, same answers. There was something thrilling about the thought of stepping into the world on your own terms.

You’d always dreamed of that moment. Of being your own person, following your own rhythm. It should’ve been exciting. You were ready for it — or at least you told yourself that.

But the truth was, independence didn’t always feel like freedom. It felt like silence, sometimes. Like boredom. Like being left behind.

It also meant change. Real change.

Especially when it came to Caleb

You used to see him every day. He was your partner in crime. A best friend, someone with you didn’t have to pretend anything. You knew each other too well for that. You shared the same roof, same stories, the same stupid inside jokes that could only build after years of proximity.

He’d tease you, you’d mock him, you’d steal food off each other’s plates, pinch eachother, even argue at some times. The unstoppable bickering between you two was a no stranger.

It was simple like that

But now? Now everything felt…grown-up. Fragile. Like if you said the wrong thing, you’d ruin the balance.

He’d started college — aviation. He was chasing clouds while you were stuck finishing essays and pretending high school still mattered. And Caleb changed — not drastically, but in little ways that stung. He spoke differently now, carried himself with a quiet kind of confidence. He was sharper. More thoughtful. His voice deeper, his face leaner. There was still the same warmth when he smiled at you, still the same teasing edge — but something else, too. Something you couldn’t name without feeling stupid for noticing.

He was visiting you and grandma as much as he could, when he wasn't heavy with his responsibilities, like now — early June when holidays were almost there. When the sense of nostalgia filled the air and made everything rush back to you.

However — Today the house was still. Caleb had been out all day, catching up with old friends he hadn't seen since winter. Dinner was long over. Grandma had gone to bed early with one of her crime novels. You were laying on your bed, freshly showered and still warm from the steam, your hair damp against the back of your neck. The heat had lingered even after sunset, turning your small room into a suffocating bubble of humid air and sticky skin. An old fan clattered weakly at the foot of your bed, doing more noise than good.

It was too hot to think. Too hot to sleep. You lay on your stomach, chin propped on the pillow, staring at your phone screen and scrolling through the same posts, fingers moving out of habit more than interest. Pictures. Videos. Nothing new. You were bored out of your mind.

That restless kind of bored that made your skin feel too tight. That kind of bored that made you itch for something, anything to feel.

You sighed heavily and locked your phone, you let it rest on your chest, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness. It was so hot. It was so fucking hot.

It felt ridiculous. But your body wouldn’t settle, no matter how many positions you tried, no matter how many apps you opened and closed again.

There was nothing to do

There was no one to talk to

And you couldn’t stop thinking about Caleb

Not in that way. Not…like that.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But he’d been so different lately. Distant, quieter. Still kind, still Caleb — you caught him looking at you sometimes. Not in a way that you could call out. Just…a second too long. A flick of the eyes when you weren’t wearing a bra under your tank top, or you were wearing something shorter. You never wanted to admit it to yourself, you never let such thoughts even cross your mind — You felt bad about it.

But on the other hand.

You weren’t stupid

You noticed the way his eyes flicked away the instant you met his gaze, like he was caught but unwilling to admit it. That brief pause, that half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. It made your heart both race and ache, all at once.

Your legs shifted, thighs pressing together. You exhaled slowly through your nose. Your hand moved to rest on your abdomen, fingers mindlessly fumbling with a string of your sleep shorts.

It was dumb

But you can still feel it — the way he looked at you, those barely-there glances that never failed to set that weird sensation in your stomach. It made your skin tingle in the worst way possible. Your heartbeat quickens just at the thought of it, a slow, taunting ache blossoming inside you.

Without really thinking, your fingers twitch at your waistband. Your hand drifts, almost hypnotically, sliding underneath the soft fabric of your shorts.

Not because of him. Of course not. He was just a passing thought.

A shiver runs up your spine as your fingers press gently against your underwear. The touch is light at first, a delicate tease as your fingertips trace the smoothness of your panties. You feel the faint heat beneath, a warmth you hadn’t fully acknowledged until this very moment. It makes every nerve in you ignite.

With an heavy exhale you begin to circle your fingers. Your touch slow at first, barely there. Just enough to make your body tense, to make your hips lift slightly into your own hand. Your other hand gripped the sheets. Your breath stuttering. The world outside faded, leaving only the uneven rhythm of your breath and the gentle rise and fall of your chest.

Your mind drifts again, tangled in fantasies of what those looks might mean — what might possibly happen if you dared to meet his gaze and hold it.

And you imagine his voice.

Low

Breathy

Over your ear

Saying your name the way he doesn’t.

Just a passing thought. Yeah

You press harder, your fingers finding that perfect spot over your underwear, that little bump covered by the fabric, rubbing in gentle, measured circles. The friction — the pressure — it’s not enough, but it’s a good start.

You know this won’t take long

Not when your body already knows what it’s chasing. Not when you’ve been carrying this heat all day, pretending it wasn’t there.

You bite your lip, trying to keep quiet, a soft sigh escapes. Your legs part a little wider, giving your fingers more room to move, pressing harder, faster.

Your whole body is flushed, caught in that delicious, desperate chase. You catch the inside of your cheek with your teeth. And just as your thighs started to tremble—

...

Click

The door swings open

Caleb.

You freeze

"Hey pipsqueak, I've—" you can swear that his face just went through at least 15 emotions, all at once.

....

"Shit...Sorry—"

You lay wide eyed. Heart hammering. Hand still buried under your shorts, caught in motion.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He didn't knock — because he never had to knock — and now there he is — Caleb. Standing in the doorway, just like he’s always done, comfortable, casual — except this time, he had seen everything.

In one frantic motion, you yanked the sheets over your hips, sitting upright so fast your head spun.

“Jesus—Caleb, knock—!” you blurted out, voice breaking somewhere between anger and panic.

He had seen.

“I—fuck,” he stammered, eyes darting to the floor, but he didn’t step back, didn’t shut the door.

“I didn’t know — I thought you—"

“Y-you were supposed to be out—" you muttered, your voice strangled.

“I was. But I left my charger in your room,” he whispered, voice low and ragged. “Didn’t think…”

....

Your skin prickled. Your heart wouldn’t slow down, no matter how hard you tried.

“…didn’t think I’d walk in on you doing that.”

You swallowed hard, chest heaving.

“W-Well—congrats. You did. So—"

He still stood there, caught like he’d stepped into a dream he wasn’t sure was real. His gaze raked over you—slowly, like it hurt to look and hurt more to stop.

You both stared at each other, locked in the kind of silence that stretches forever. He didn’t move. Didn’t leave. And for the first time, you saw something in his expression that wasn’t brotherly at all.

Something else flickered there — a shift you didn’t know what to do with.

His gaze was too steady. It made your stomach clench. You saw the way he shifted his weight, the way his hands curled and uncurled at his sides. You were both hovering on the edge of something irreversible.

“Were you...gonna finish?” His voice was quieter now, lower. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just… raw.

What. The. Fuck

"Wha-...C-Caleb, what are you—"

“You were gonna finish, right?” he asked again. “When I walked in?”

The way he said it — not teasing, not cocky. Just…careful. Wanting. So painfully full of restraint it almost hurt.

Your eyes were like two red coals, Caleb never saw such desperation on your face, he really did done something to you. As if this insane desire was matching up to his own - long suppressed one.

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie.”

You looked at him and you didn’t even knew what to say anymore.

He ran a hand through his hair. He was flushed — from frustration. Confusion. Something messier.

You swallowed, your face turned crimson by now.

“Caleb—”

“Please...Tell me what you were thinking about.”

You shook your head, your eyes dropping to the floor.

“Tell me,” he said again, quieter.

“I… I don’t…”

"Please. I need to know." he groaned as if he was going through some kind of pain

You couldn't find your voice at this moment.

Caleb took a nervous second of look back, then clicked the door shut gently, the sound barely audible. He paused, motionless, as if weighing his next move. Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he approached the bed and crouched beside it.

“Did I ever cross a line with you pipsqueak?” he asked. “Ever made you uncomfortable?”

“I...No.” you shook your head.

“Then tell me the truth.”

You bit your lip, eyes cast down.

“Were you thinking about me?”

You were silent, but the corner of your eye twitched. That was everything he had to know.

And he breathed out like if you had just knocked the air from his chest.

Caleb's heart raced, pounding against his ribs like a drum. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He couldn't believe what he was witnessing. You, touching yourself, thinking about him? It was everything he had ever fantasized about and more. But it was also so, so wrong.

He swallowed hard, trying to push down the dark, depraved thoughts that flooded his mind. He couldn't think about you like that.

“…Shit. Please don't do this to me." he exhaled heavily.

His voice was low, like it barely made it out of his throat. Like he regretted the question even as he asked it.

You didn’t know where to look. You couldn’t meet his eyes. Your thighs squeezed together and it only made it worse.

He knew he should put a stop to this conversation right now, should push you away and pretend he had never heard your confession. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't bring himself to deny you, to deny himself the chance to be close to you in a way he had always secretly dreamed of.

He was too fucking selfish, too consumed by his own dark desires to do what was right.

“I was trying so hard not to be a sick fuck. So hard.” his face was washed with something you've never seen before. His hand moved out, intertwining his fingers with yours. He swallowed. Hard. His eyes flicked up to your face.

"I'm trying to be good , pipsqueak...I really am. But I don’t know what the fuck we are anymore.” he muttered. ”And do you?”

Your fingers curled tighter around his as you were watching how your hands connected.

“I…” your voice came out small. “I don’t know.”

Caleb exhaled through his nose, eyes shutting like he was trying to keep something inside from spilling out. But it was already too late for that.

“I keep thinking it’s just a phase,” he said. “That I’ll get over it. That it’ll pass.”

His eyes met yours, and they were haunted. Desperate.

“But then you look at me like that. All wide-eyed. Like you’re scared of me. Like...you don't know me? Or worse — like you’re curious.”

Your eyelashes fluttered, your eyes taking in every inch of expressions that were washing over his face at this very moment.

“I hate myself for it. For all of it.” he continued

“I’m not...—proud of what I thought,” he admitted. “Of what I felt. Of the things I imagined when I was alone.” you could swear that his eyes were freaking glossed as he rambled.

"Caleb..."

“I'm so sorry pips. But...I just— I don’t think I can play pretend to be your good proper brother anymore. It's driving me batshit crazy. I’ve been swallowing it down for so long. Every glance. Every goddamn brush of your skin against mine. And it’s—it’s eating me alive.”

He stared at you like he needed you to hate him. Or need him back.

“I don’t want to be this guy,” he said. “I really fucking don’t…”

He moved closer, forehead pressing against the edge of the mattress like it physically hurt to hold back.

“If you tell me to leave, I swear to God I will. I’ll walk out that door and never bring this up again.” his voice came out a muffled desperation.

“But if there’s even a part of you… that feels this too…Then please. Let me stop pretending.”

You felt your throat tighten, the words caught somewhere between fear and fire.

“I…I thought I was crazy.”

He stilled. Moving his face up to look at you.

“I thought...it was just me,” you whispered. “The looks. The way my stomach would flip when you’d come into my room—” you felt your eyes starting to sting, you bit your lip to prevent your emotions from showing. Caleb was watching your face silently.

“I...I hated it. Hated...how wrong it felt. How wrong I felt. But you were always so calm. So normal. Like it didn’t even cross your mind. And I figured it was just me being…sick.”

“No,” he said instantly. “God, no, baby—”

“I know,” you whispered. “Now I know.”

Your fingers curled around his.

He was silent, his eyes bright as all the stars brought together. His lips were parted slightly, as If he couldn't believe his own ears. He swallowed and exhaled through his nose, rising slightly on his knees.

"Can I...Can I kiss you?—"

“Yes.” your response came faster than you could think. You thought about it. Fuck you thought about it so many times, even if you wouldn't admit it to yourself.

His breath shuddered. He leaned in slowly, as if he was giving you every second to back out. But he never found any hesitation.

He closed the distance. His lips brushed yours like he was testing the idea of a kiss, not taking it. Feather-light, his breath trembling over your plushy lips.

You made a small, aching sound in the back of your throat — not even a word. Just need.

And that was it.

He pressed his lips against yours. He kissed you, this time real. His hand curled into the sheets near your hip, still not daring to touch your skin, but his mouth moved over yours like he was starving for it. Like kissing you was a sin and a salvation all at once. You whimpered against him, your lips parting, and he groaned into your mouth like the sound had been ripped straight from his chest.

Your hand reached up blindly, curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer with a breathless little noise you couldn’t hold back. That was all it took for him to lose the last of his control.

He deepened the kiss — not harsh, but needy, hungry in a way that felt like it had been building for years. And you kissed him back — shy, nervous, a pure instinct.

As if driven by some quiet courage you didn’t know you had, your free hand found his wrist. You squeezed it gently.

He pulled away to catch his breath, his eyes flicked open, searching yours — surprised but not pulling away.

Slowly, hesitantly, you guided his hand downward, until his palm rested against your inner thigh. You held his hand there for a heartbeat, your heart hammering in your chest like a drum. And then, with a trembling breath, you guided it further.

Right between your legs.

Caleb froze for a second — his breath caught in his throat. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he looked at you with something fierce and tender all at once.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, voice rough and barely controlled.

You nodded, cheeks flushing hotter than before.

He shuddered and leaned back towards you. He started to plant soft kisses over your jaw, sliding down to your neck. He nuzzled his nose into your collarbone, letting out a shaky breath as he let his fingers fumble underneath your sleep shorts.

His breath caught — sharp and audible — and for a second, his whole body visibly shuddered.

“Holy—…” he whispered, voice cracking in his throat.

His fingers pressed gently against the dampness soaking through the thin cotton, like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling. You squirmed, your face twisting slightly as you felt his fingertips grazing your panties.

“You’re—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “Fuck, you're soaked..”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face flushed, lips parted, chest rising like he couldn’t catch his breath.

“You got like this… just from touching yourself?” he asked, eyes searching yours, stunned and wrecked.

You nodded, shy but unable to lie.

His fingers kept moving slowly over the soaked fabric, each drag making you twitch beneath him. It was maddening — warm, steady pressure just shy of what you needed, and you couldn’t stop the quiet, aching sounds spilling from your throat.

Caleb was staring at your face like he was watching something sacred. His jaw was tight, eyes wild, and his lips hovered just inches from yours — close enough that you could feel every shaky breath.

You whimpered, hand fisting the sheets beside you.— like the sound was dragged out of your chest without permission. Your eyebrows pulled together.

His breath caught again — like every sound you made hit him straight in the chest.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmured, voice rough. “And I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

Your breath shook — a sharp, broken sound that made his whole body jolt.

“I can feel you through them,” he rasped, fingers teasing along the edges of your panties. “You’re so wet I could probably taste it through the fucking fabric.”

You squirmed. His mouth found your ear, he kissed it slowly, reverently, as his thumb dragged down the soaked center of your underwear once more — slower this time.

“I’m...trying to go slow,” he murmured against your earlobe, words hot and wet against your skin. “Trying not to scare you. But, fuck, pipsqueak…”

He groaned, soft and strangled, his hand pausing again.

“You feel like this and expect me to be normal?”

You shifted, thighs twitching around his wrist, and his fingers twitched in response — a helpless reflex.

“God, pips… I’m so hard right now.”

He swallowed hard, eyes dark and desperate.

“I swear, it’s like my cock’s about to burst.”

He leaned downwards. His lips found the corner of your mouth, moving down to jaw, then your neck — slow, open-mouthed kisses dragging down every inch of your skin. You whimpered uncontrollably.

“You have to be quiet,” he murmured, barely above a whisper, “Because if Gran' hears, we’re both fucked.”

Caleb’s hand massaged you for a moment longer, trembling with every touch — before he slowly pulled back, his eyes dark and searching. His fingers hooked under the hem of your shorts, sliding them slowly down you.

You swallowed hard, cheeks flushing even more, caught between embarrassment and want

“I hate that you couldn’t finish… because I walked in. I’m gonna make it up to you,” he vowed, voice desperate but soft. “I promise.”

“I want to do this right,” he whispered, voice low, rough with need. “I want to make sure you feel everything — all of it.”

Caleb stripped your shorts off with practiced ease, the fabric pooling at your ankles. He dropped to his knees beside the bed again, hands firm as they slid beneath you, pulling your hips to the edge with a quiet hunger. His breath hitched, eyes locked on the darkened center of your underwear, his pupils wide with want. He wetted his lips slowly, gaze flicking up to meet yours — a silent question, or maybe...just maybe — a promise. He leaned in.

His mouth found you through the damp fabric, a low hum escaping him immediately as he kissed you there. His nose grazed against you as he breathed in, savoring the scent of your arousal. You gasped softly, hips jerking upward in response, and his eyes didn’t leave yours for a second — dark, burning, and full of intention.

”H-Hah...Caleb—" you whined out

He lingered there, lips pressing to the soaked fabric as if testing your patience — or his own. He exhaled a shaky breath, then slowly, deliberately, let the tip of his tongue drag along the dampness, tasting you through the thin barrier. His hands gripped your hips tighter as he let out a low sound of approval, the vibrations humming against you.

His mouth moved with purpose now — no longer tentative, but hungry, sure of the effect he had on you. His tongue traced slow, deliberate circles, then flicked with precision, alternating rhythm and pressure in a way that made your thighs tense around him.

Your face twisted with that kind of pleasure — that you didn't even knew could exist - until now of course.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured into you, his voice breaking on the edge of awe. “You taste so sweet… I need—” his breath caught, “—I need to make you cum…"

And with agonizing slowness, he hooked his fingers under the edge of your underwear, his fingers tracing the lacy frill that was already soaked by your arousal. He lifted his eyes to yours once again — a silent pause, waiting for your permission, your surrender. When he saw it, he pushed the fabric aside, baring you to his heated gaze.

"Gods—You're so...pretty, pipsqueak."

He took his time, as if memorizing every detail, before leaning in again. This time, there was no hesitation. His tongue met you fully — wet and hot — It made your hips jerk up harshly, your hand flew to cover your mouth. Fuck and the whine he made...was pure need. Each drag of his tongue was hurried, worshipful, drawing a gasp from your nose as your body arched into his mouth. You couldn't blame him, he waited for so long after all. He held you there, pinned by the weight of his hunger, devouring every reaction with his mouth, his breath, his eyes.

You shivered like you've never did before. A bead of sweat rolled down your back. Your fingers found his hair, threading through the soft strands, pulling instinctively as your hips arched toward his mouth. He responded with a low growl, gripping your thighs tighter, holding you open, guiding you exactly how he wanted you — nowhere to run, nothing to do but feel.

His lips sealed around your clit. Tongue closed around the delicate bud, flicking and teasing with maddening precision, the tip of his tongue blessing it with kitten licks, sending shockwaves of fire straight to your core.

"C-Caleb, I-I can't—" you whimpered over your hand.

“I wanted to get my hands on you...for so long...” he stammered, then sucked — hard. His lips locked tight around your clit like he was trying to drink the years of longing straight from your body.

”I...I just wanted to do this to you...” his fingers stroked your thighs, tender but desperate, like he couldn’t decide whether to hold you or worship you.

“You don’t get it,” he gasped against your heat. “You don’t fucking get it. I’ll ruin myself for this. For you. I’ll tear myself apart. I’ll fall on my knees, I’ll beg, I’ll fucking crawl. I'll do anything you ask me for—"

He whined like a damn puppy. It was cute — in it's own way, but so fucking sick and twisted at the same time.

“Can’t believe you’ve been walkin’ around with this between your legs…and I couldn’t touch it,” he whispered raggedly, kissing your inner thighs, his voice cracking like he was close to crying. “All those nights thinking about it. Thinking about you—how you’d taste. How you’d sound.”

He groaned like it hurt to say it, to feel it, to taste it. His fingers trembled slightly as he spread your folds open, almost like he was afraid you’d disappear if he wasn’t careful. He pressed his tongue flat against you and dragged it up with aching precision, then locked eyes with you again, pupils blown wide.

You try to hold back, to stay quiet, but the tight, uncontrollable squeeze inside you betrays your will. Your hole contracts reflexively — even though there’s nothing inside, it clenches around empty air, like it’s already craving him, already hungry for the fullness you know only he can give. Your hips buck upwards sharply, and he pulls you by your hips even harder.

“Shit...please. Please just...use my...—Use my face.”

You swear you could feel your eyes almost rolling back your skull. A single tear rolled down your cheek — From the immaculate pleasure you couldn't comprehend. Your body shuddered, hips jerking instinctively as he devoured you, tongue pressing harder, driving you closer to the edge. You grind into his mouth, desperate, needy, gone — and he doesn’t stop. He won’t stop. He’s slurping you up through the edge, into it, past it — until your vision whites out and your body forgets how to do anything but come, violently, endlessly, wrecked on his tongue.

As soon as you whine out into your clasped over your mouth hand — you feel him stiffen. A strangled cry — half a whine, half a gasp — ripped from Caleb’s throat. His whole body tensed like he’d been shocked, a sharp ache crossing his face.

“Fuck—” he gasped, pulling back slightly, breathing heavy, a flush spreading across his cheeks.

You froze, heart pounding, eyes wide.

”C-Caleb? What's...What's wrong?" you breathed out harshly, still struggling to compose yourself.

Before you could ask more, he shook his head, swallowing hard, voice hoarse and embarrassed. “I… I just… came,” he gasps out, breath ragged.

Came from freaking watching you come. Fucked.

A flush rises to your cheeks, a mix of surprise and something tender swelling inside you. You didn’t expect this vulnerability, this raw honesty from him. It makes your heart skip, even as your body aches, still pulsing from the way he touched you.

“Caleb…” you whisper, voice soft but steady.

“I-I'm okay,” he whispered, voice trembling. He reached up to brush your sweat drenched bangs from your forehead.

“Fuck, it never happened to me before” Caleb huffed as if he couldn't believe himself. He swallowed hard, biting his lip as if to hold back something fierce. He pushed himself up and leaned over to press a kiss to your temple.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered, voice rough but tender. “I didn’t mean for that to happen now. I just… I need you. Need you so much.” His hands trembled slightly as he reached for your panties. He gently pulled them back into place, like he was protecting you — even though inside he was burning up with need. You furrowed your eyebrows in question.

“I don’t deserve to touch you bare—not yet.” he explained. Then, without breaking eye contact, he slid his hand down to the front of his pants and freed himself.

You saw him — like really saw him for the first time. Your breath hitched. That was this moment, a flicker of time when everything else fades away. His cock was still hard and pulsing, it was something you’d imagined a thousand times, but nothing could prepare you for the reality of it.

Your eyes traced every line, every vein, the way it throbbed with need. The heavines of his arousal was suffocating. You felt a flush creeping up your neck, your heart pounding as a mixture of excitement, nervousness, and something almost like awe washed over you. It was bigger than you expected, powerful and alive, and seeing it like that—so close, so exposed—made your skin tingle all over.

For a heartbeat, his confident, desperate facade cracked, and a flicker of fear passed through his gaze. Were you scared? Did he push too hard, too fast? There was a flicker of worry in his eyes, like the intensity of your stare unsettled him more than you realized. “If you’re… if you’re scared, I get it. I just—”

“No,” you breathed, voice shaky but sure. “I’m not scared.”

He still didn’t move. His hands hovered, frozen in the space between reaching and retreating. You saw how tightly his jaw was clenched, the way his brows pulled together like he was bracing for rejection.

“I’ve just… never seen one in real life before,” you said quietly, eyes flicking down, then back up to meet his. Your cheeks burned. “And it’s… bigger than I thought.”

Silence.

Caleb’s entire body tensed like you’d hit him with something physical. His jaw dropped a little. His eyes went wide — stunned — and then something deep, guttural escaped his chest, like the sound was ripped from him. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice breaking as his hand flew up to cover his mouth, like he was physically trying to hold back whatever that did to him.

You could see it — the way his stomach tightened, the way his cock twitched, visibly, painfully. His knees almost buckled.

"I'm gonna lose it..." he groaned.

He moved slowly, but with purpose — stepping back into your space, his hands curling tight around your thighs. He didn’t rush. Instead, he pressed himself against you—through the thin fabric of your panties—his desperate need to feel you flooding every inch of his body. The thick, hot head of his cock found the damp center of your panties, and you both sucked in a breath at the same time.

"A-Ahh—...Caleb–" you hitched sharply.

He let out a deep, broken groan as he rocked his hips forward — slowly, like he was trying to savor every millimeter of friction. The tip of his cock dragged along your soaked fabric, sliding right through the heat of your folds. He hissed, forehead falling against your shoulder, like the sensation alone had him unraveling again. His hand moved down to his own cock, fingers wrapping around the thick shaft, stroking hard and steady while he pressed himself into you.

“Your clit… fuck, it’s right here,” he whispered breathlessly, dragging the tip of his cock over the wettest spot he could find through the fabric.

You whimpered. He whimpered too, his control fraying with every slow stroke. Your body reacted instinctively, thrusting forward as if desperate to chase that burning touch, though you didn’t even understand how just panty-rubbing could fuck with your head this hard.

You couldn’t handle it. The urge to reach out, to pull him closer, to feel him pressed against you in a way that wasn’t just teasing, was unbearable. You let out a soft moan, your hands twitching, craving contact.

Caleb caught it immediately. Of course he did. He was watching your face more than anything in this world. It was always like that. Even when you two were still kids. He always wanted to catch every emotion, to know if you were scared, shy, uncomfortable — It became a habit of his own. Without hesitation, he shifted, moving over you until he was hovering, chest pressing down on yours gently, his heavy breaths mingling with yours.

He kissed you fiercely, lips claiming yours in a hunger that matched the ache between your thighs. His hands slid down to your legs, wrapping around your thighs with a gentle grip.

“Squeeze your thighs for me,” he murmured against your lips, voice thick with desperate need.

You looked at him strangely for a moment but without thinking about it for too long — you pressed your thighs together. And Caleb not wasting his time, guided himself between your legs — Slowly, carefully.

You saw his cock sliding out from between your thighs, looking straight at you, making your breath hitch. Your eyes flicked up at him as your teeth tortured your lower lip. He held your eyes as he began to thrust—not inside you, but between your thighs, grinding firm and steady. The fabric of your panties stretched and slickened under the pressure.

Caleb groaned deep in his throat. His hands roamed your body, holding at your hips as he continued to thrust between your thighs, hips rolling in needy circles, desperate for every inch of your warmth. His mouth claimed yours again, kissing fiercely, tongue exploring with a desperate hunger that matched the relentless grinding below.

“Gods—...you're so soft here pipsqueak..." he muttered over your lips as he pulled away to rest his sweaty forehead over yours.

You whined a little bit, trying to keep your noises mindful. Your eyes were locked down on your closed thighs. The sight of his hardness vanishing and reappearing between your plushy flesh was making your head spin.

"S-Squeeze them tighter..." he choked out, your eyes flicked up to his face, watching it closely.

You clenched your thighs harder, grinding up a bit to help his cock catch onto your clothed folds better. And when you did that — the look on his face was absolutely everything. His face scrunched in pleasure, eyebrows drew up together, he looked as if he was about to cry — at least.

It was that easy for you to make him lose his mind.

”Shiiiit...Just like that—Good girl.” the nickname made something ugly churn in your stomach. He used to call you that earlier. Many times. Like when you got a good grade on your test, or when you achieved something he knew you could do. But now? It was an entirely different thing — and it made you mewl.

”You're making so much noise pips, you're some kind of pervert?...” he chuckled softly, even though his breath was ragged and he was clutching his self control tightly.

"S-Shut up..." you squirmed, your hand pushing at his shoulder.

”Don't get your panties in a twist pipsqueak...I always knew you liked when I called you that — You used to be fishing for my praise, y'know?...”

"I-I wasn't—"

"You were. No need to hide it pips...I think it was cute — it still is, if you ask me..." he snorted softly, laughing through his nose.

Then he groaned, his hips speeding up in it's moves. Your sweaty thighs slapping together.

"Ah...Fuck...” he hissed, taking a shaky inhale.

”You know, pipsqueak...I think, that you've always liked my attention on you.”

His hand sank down, to press himself better over your underwear as he fucked your thighs. You whined, and he smiled. Fucker.

”When you were younger you always found your way to have my eyes on you. You were pinching me, biting, kicking, stealing my stuff, showing off...” he huffed, his eyes closing as he tried to keep himself at the bay.

”But now when you got older, you understood some things...You know what I mean, yeah?"

You squirmed as the head of his cock firmly rubbed over your center with each thrust.

"N-No—"

”You know.”

He leaned down to your ear, placing a hot kiss over it.

”When you started to understand how to rile me up in a much better way — Like...You stopped wearing a bra whenever I was around. Those teasing touches when we would watch a movie together. When you—Ah...Shit—When you would tickle me because you knew I wouldn't put my hands on you anymore....You can tell yourself that you didn't know what you were doing, but deep down you know you wanted me to notice. You're not stupid, and i'm not stupid either.”

”Caleb—” a shiver rippled down your spine as he murmured into your ear. Not only from how close he was, but because of how right he was. You were losing it fairly.

”You're not going to shy away now, are you?” he scoffed, his hips slapped foward, making noise. He let out a shaky moan.

"Fuck i'm so close already..." he muttered over your earlobe, your fingers tightened on his shoulder, your eyebrows drawing together, overwhelmed from the friction. He moved his thumb to press his tip strictly over you.

"Y-You feel, too good...I can— Feel...How wet you are...It's doing things to me that you won't understand.”

You let our a shaky breath and moved to wrap your arms around him. You needed him close in this moment, heart to heart. Your thighs started to tremble as he rubbed against you, that similar ache blooming deep inside you once more, it was all purely for him, only for him.

"Gonna cum baby?..." he caught onto it immediately, his efforts doubled.

You choked down a moan and nodded, your back arching subtly as you bucked up to meet his delicious movements.

"H-Hah...You gonna cum with me, okay?..." he breathed over your skin. Everything was becoming dizzy so fast. Your eyes closing, all of your senses heightened.

You felt — Everything

Starting from the way his ragged breath shook over your ear, how your slick with sweat bodies slid against eachother as if they were meant to be together, the squelching noises you two were creating, the subtle slaps that eachoed through the walls of your suffocating room when he pressed close. It was so much. It was beautiful, because it was you and him, just like it should always be.

You begin to feel a knot after knot, tying down in your abdomen. Your thighs clamp instinctively, you grip tighter around Caleb as if holding onto the very source of your rising pleasure. The friction builds relentlessly, a delicious torment that tightens your belly and curls your toes. You can feel the muscles deep inside your pussy, contracting and relaxing in an involuntary rhythm — trembling with the power of what’s coming.

Your breath hitches and stutters, uneven and quick, like you’re struggling to catch the air that keeps slipping away. Caleb's hands clutch at your hips, fingers digging into your skin as if trying to hold you close forever. His jaw clenches tight, muscles taut as he fights to keep himself together, but the heat is overwhelming—too intense to control. He breathes deeply against your lips, his eyes squeezed shut.

”Cum for me...P-Please cum for me..." he whines, his face contorting. He's almost there. And so are you.

Just as the wild surge of pleasure begins to shatter your control, your breath catching in ragged gasps, Caleb moves with urgent purpose — he closes the distance, his lips crashing over yours in a fierce, searing kiss that shuts down any cry before it can escape.

And there it is.

You squeeze your eyes shut, Caleb swallowing every single of your moan, and so you are his. Your whole vision went blank as your thighs shook off the stimulation. Pure bliss washing over your body.

You feel the wave of his own orgasm wash over him—hot, intense, overwhelming. His body shakes and his hips stutter — his essence spurting out over the place where you meet, a testament to the fire you’ve ignited together. He elongates the kiss before pulling back from your lips to catch his breath.

The silence afterward feels sacred. Caleb is still above you, but there’s no urgency now. His body is trembling, his chest still heaving, but his hands… his hands are soft. Careful. Like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t keep holding on.

And he kisses you. Once on your temple. Then your cheek. The corner of your lips. Reverent, unhurried. His touch glides from your hips to your stomach, slowing with each stroke, like he’s trying to calm your body and his at the same time.

“A-Are you okay?” he whispers finally, voice still hoarse with what just happened, but gentler

You don’t answer right away. Just a small nod, soft, but there’s that tiny smile — faint, tender, a little dazed — And it makes his heart melt.

Without a word, he reached over and pulled the hem of his shirt up, tugging it off of him, careful not to disturb you. The fabric was soft against your skin as he pressed it lightly against your lower stomach, where a few stray marks of his release still glistened. His touch was delicate, almost hesitant, as if afraid to break the fragile quiet between you.

”I'm sorry i've made a mess...” he muttered

You shook your head to reassure him. ”We are even.”

He raised his eyes to you and a bashful smile blossomed on his face. He gently swiped the fabric across your skin, wiping away every trace with a tenderness that made your heart squeeze. It wasn’t just about cleaning—there was a sacredness in the way he cared for you, in how he always cared for you.

“I got you,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

You felt the weight of those three words, how much they meant for you, coming from him — gentle and devoted.

He discarded his dirty shirt somewhere on the floor without a care in the world. He reached beneath you, sliding his hands to the edges of your underwear. His fingers trembled just slightly as he carefully pulled them down your legs, his gaze never leaving your face. You feel no shame here, only a profound tenderness as he helps you shed the last remnants of the night’s intensity. He folded them neatly and set them aside — mentally noting to wash them tommorow. Then leaned down to kiss the soft curve of your hip, his lips warm and soothing against your skin.

He moved up, letting himself slump beside you. Intertwining your hands together — As if he has to know you're here, that you're not just a speck of his imagination. His thumb moved slowly over the back of your soft hand, he pulled it up to press a gentle kiss over your knuckles.

Your breathing slows in unison. The chaos of earlier melts into a soft hum beneath your skin. You don’t speak for a long moment, because there’s no pressure to fill the silence. It’s the kind of quiet that only comes when you’re held by someone who sees you—truly sees you—and stays anyway.

Eventually, Caleb lets out a quiet laugh.

“What?” you murmur, turning your head to look at his side profile.

“I don’t know,” he says, exhaling slowly. “I just… I feel like I waited forever for this. And now that it happened, I keep thinking I’ll wake up. Like maybe I fell asleep on the couch while you were ignoring me and now I’m dreaming the whole damn thing.”

You shift, lifting your chin slightly to meet his eyes. “You’re not dreaming, Caleb.”

He smiles, and it’s soft. His thumb traced the line of your knuckles. “If I was, though, I think I’d want to stay asleep.”

You nudge him playfully with your forehead. “That’s so corny.”

“Mm. You like it.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop smiling either.

He leans in and kisses you again—not hungrily this time, but with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. His lips move slow, reverent, and he pulls away just to whisper, “You look like a mess right now.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Caleb, you meanie.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. You smile and nuzzle yourself into his lips. With a small, content sigh, he slid his arm around you, tugging you gently closer until there’s no space left between you. You feel his heartbeat thrumming against your back, steady and strong, and it grounds you deeper than any words ever could.

”Can you stay in my room for tonight?” you hummed softly.

”I wasn't exactly planning on leaving, y'know” he murmured quietly, amusement tugging at his voice

”Good.” you smiled to yourself

You both sink deeper into the bed, the softness of the sheets a gentle cradle beneath you. His cheek rests against the top of your head, his breath tickling your hair, his heartbeat a lullaby only you can hear. Your eyelids grow heavy, and a calmness unlike anything you’ve felt before settles over you.

You've never felt more at peace than you did now.

Just before sleep can pull you two under, Caleb’s arms tighten just a little, holding you closer as if to reassure you that he's here.

”I love you.”

That little whisper was everything you ever ached to hear. You didn't realize it until this very moment.

...

”I love you too.”

And in that shared silence, wrapped together in warmth, you both drifted gently into dreams. In his arms, you feel safe. Loved. Whole.

...

And now?

Now the change you were so scared of — turned out to not be bad at all.

Now It felt — Like home.

373 notes · View notes

thehothcast · 3 months ago

Text

inconclusive

pairing: gregory house x reader

synopsis: have you ever gone to your birthday dinner with your co-worker as your date to please your parents? was it simple? no. right... right...

word count: almost 9k (wowzers)

warnings: none (?)

message from the authors: blame the cane.

You’ve always had a unique relationship with Gregory House. It wasn’t typical, it wasn’t even close to normal but it was the kind of bond that made sense in its own way. You had known each other for years, both being doctors at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. You specialised in cardiology and cardiac surgery, while House was the diagnostic genius with a knack for solving the hardest medical cases.

You were head of cardiology, highly respected, and often relied upon for the toughest cases. But your work in diagnostic medicine had always intrigued you, and House always respected that, even if he’d never admit it.

Despite his abrasive exterior, you understood him better than most. You had the ability to see past the sarcasm and the often scathing remarks, to the person who was lonely and hurting. Maybe that’s why, after all these years, the two of you had become closer than you would both care to admit.

It was late at night. You sat in your office, feet up on the desk, fingers resting over your eyes. The day had been exhausting. Your most recent patient had been on the table for eight hours while you performed a heart transplant after they were diagnosed with end-stage heart failure. The surgery was successful, and now you were writing up the paperwork when your phone rang.

You swivelled in your chair and picked up the receiver.

“Cardiology department, Head of Cardiology speaking.” You shut your eyes for a brief moment.

“Hi, darling! It’s me and your father.” A familiar voice chimed.

Crap. You’d been at the hospital so long you’d forgotten your parents wanted to catch up. And you knew exactly what they would ask about.

“Are you at home, sweetheart?” your mother asked.

“I’m still at the hospital, Mum. Had a long surgery today, lots of paperwork,” you replied flatly.

“Successful?” your father asked in the background.

“Yes. Heart transplant,” you said, and immediately heard, “That’s my girl!”

Before you could go into detail about the case, your mother spoke up again.

“So… have you been getting out much? Socialising? Dating? We know you’re very focused on work, but sweetie, we just worry you don’t have balance.”

And just at that moment, someone burst through your office door.

You didn’t bother looking up. The forced entry with no knocking, the deliberate tap of his cane on the floor because you hadn’t acknowledged him. It could only be Dr Gregory House.

He stood at the door, posture slightly off-kilter, leaning more on his left leg as he gripped his worn-looking cane. His frame was tall and lean, but there was an underlying tension in the way he held himself, like someone perpetually bracing for pain but refusing to show it. His piercing blue eyes studied you with a mix of sharp intellect and barely concealed amusement, as if he’d already picked apart everything about you within seconds.

His face was rugged, lined with exhaustion and years of cynical observation, yet there was an undeniable charisma about him, even when his expression settled into its usual mask of detached boredom. His scruff, more neglect than style, added to the air of someone who didn’t care much for appearances, and his unkempt hair only reinforced that. His clothes were casual yet oddly distinctive: a creased button-down over a graphic tee, paired with jeans that had seen better days.

He shifted slightly, rolling his cane between his fingers, restless but calculated. There was something almost predatory in the way he watched people, like he was waiting for them to say something stupid just so he could tear them apart for sport. But beneath the sarcasm and the gruff exterior, there was something else, something guarded. And you just weren’t quite sure what it was yet.

Lifting a finger, you silently mouthed, “Just one sec.”

House gave a polite nod and stayed quiet.

“Mum, Dad, you don’t need to worry so much about my personal life. It’s hard to keep relationships when I work this much,” you sighed, rubbing your temple.

Your mother wouldn’t drop it. She kept pressing you, insisting that you needed to get out there more. You glanced up in frustration, only to see House grinning to himself before turning on his heel and walking out.

You frowned but continued talking.

Until suddenly, the office door swung open again.

“Hey, honey. Are you ready to go home yet?” House called loudly.

Your head snapped up. Eyes wide.

What. The. Hell.

“Who was that? Is that who I think it is? Have you been dating someone? What is he like? What’s his name?… What does he look like?” your mother squealed, unleashing a barrage of questions.

You froze, completely thrown off. Your gaze flicked to House, who simply smirked. Damn that bastard.

“What are you doing?” you mouthed angrily.

House’s smirk only deepened.

You swallowed hard. “Uh… yeah, I’ve been seeing someone.”

Silence. Then:

“So? Who’s the lucky man? You have to give us something!” your mother cheered. “Did you hear that, hun? She’s seeing someone!” she gushed to your father.

You exhaled sharply. “Mum, as much as I’d love to stay and chat while you pry into my social life, I have to get home.”

“Just one thing about him. Anything.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Fine. He’s from work. Head of Diagnostic Medicine.”

A pause.

“So he’s smart… is he attractive?”

You looked up. House looked smug as hell. He raised his eyebrows, feigning curiosity. “Answer the question,” he mouthed.

You clenched your jaw. You were going to kill him.

“You had your one question, Mum. Now I really have to go. I’ll call you both tomorrow. Love you.”

And just like that, the nightmare ended.

As soon as you slammed the phone down, you turned to House, who was still standing there, looking far too pleased with himself.

“What the hell was that?” you hissed, standing up from your chair.

House shrugged, completely unfazed. “What? I was just being supportive. I figured you needed an excuse to get off the phone.”

You scoffed. “You didn’t have to pretend to be dating me, House.”

He took a lazy step closer, tilting his head. “I didn’t. You did that all on your own.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Damn it.

House smirked. “Maybe you secretly wanted it. Maybe you like the idea.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Maybe I like the idea of strangling you.”

He let out a low chuckle, tapping his cane against the floor as he leaned in slightly. “That’s the spirit.”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Just… don’t do that again. I try to separate my personal and work life for a reason.”

House gave an exaggerated, innocent look. “Don’t do what? Be charming? Impossible.”

You glared. He grinned.

And then, as he turned toward the door, he called over his shoulder:

“See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

With that, he walked out, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, and completely unsure how to feel.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning you walked into the diagnostic room, still feeling the sting of the phone call with your mum. It was hard to shake off her constant questioning, but House didn’t care about your personal life, and that was one thing you appreciated. Of course, he had his own way of making everything about him.

The team was already gathered around, and House was lounging in his chair, tapping his cane against the floor rhythmically. His eyes flicked up as you entered, a hint of amusement flickering across his face.

“Glad you could join us,” House said, barely looking up from the case file in his hand. “We’ve got a hard one. And just in time for your daily dose of frustration.”

You barely managed to keep your annoyance in check. “What’s the case?” you asked, sitting down, eager to get your mind off the family drama.

House didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slid the patient file over to you, his fingers grazing the edge of the paper, slow and deliberate. “37-year-old woman with progressive muscle weakness, joint pain, shortness of breath, and mildly elevated creatine kinase levels. Nothing in her medical history points to anything obvious.”

You flicked through the file, barely listening to the team chatter. Everything about this case screamed complexity. “No autoimmune markers. Lung function’s shot, but imaging’s clear,” you muttered to yourself.

“Not bad for a first impression,” House said, leaning back in his chair, “But we both know you’ve got better than that.”

You looked up, meeting his gaze, and felt a flicker of irritation. “I’m not here for a compliment, House.”

“Shame. You’re missing out.” He smirked, clearly enjoying the game.

You exhaled, narrowing your eyes. You were determined to solve this case without letting him rattle you. “Her symptoms suggest a neuromuscular disorder, but the lack of sensory loss or atrophy doesn’t fit the typical profile.”

House raised an eyebrow, amused. “Go on. Keep thinking.”

You shifted your focus, your mind working through the possibilities. “The joint pain doesn’t fit with any classic rheumatologic disease either. No rash, no positive markers for lupus or RA.”

He leaned forward slightly, tapping his cane on the floor. “This is where you’re starting to bore me. What’s next?”

You barely suppressed the urge to snap at him. But you didn’t give in, instead letting your mind wander to a more unusual possibility. “What about restrictive cardiomyopathy?” you suggested, your voice steady. “It would explain the progressive muscle weakness, the lung involvement, and the elevated creatine kinase. This could be a heart condition mimicking a neuromuscular disorder. We’ve seen cases like this before.”

House froze. You could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, his smirk faltering for just a moment before it returned, sharper than ever.

“Restrictive cardiomyopathy?” He repeated, as though he was testing the words.

You met his gaze without flinching. “Yes. The restrictive nature of the cardiomyopathy could explain the restrictive lung pattern and the muscle weakness. The arrhythmias fit as well. We just need a better look at the heart to confirm it.”

For a brief moment, House didn’t say anything. His eyes were on you, considering, calculating.

“Alright, I'll bite,” he said, slowly nodding. “If you’re right, we’ll need to run an echocardiogram, MRI, and maybe a biopsy to get confirmation. But I’m not convinced yet.”

You didn’t let the challenge get to you. “Well then, let’s find out if I’m right.”

House raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before the usual smirk returned. His gaze was sharp, assessing. “Well, well, looks like you actually know what you’re talking about,” he remarked, a hint of begrudging respect in his tone.

You met his eyes, the challenge still burning in yours. “I do know my way around a heart, House. You should try not to forget that.”

House leaned back in his chair, tapping his cane thoughtfully. “Fine. We’ll run the tests you suggested, but if you’re wrong, I’m never letting you forget it.”

You smirked, feeling the familiar tension lift. “I’m counting on you to prove me right then.”

He stood up and paced the room with his usual confidence. “Oh, don’t worry. If you’re right, I’ll be the first to say ‘well done’. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

The team left the room in order to get the tests ordered. You stood and turned to leave, but as you reached the door, his voice called out after you.

“Don’t get used to being right before you even get confirmation,” he said, the words carrying that signature smirk of his.

You turned, glancing over your shoulder. “Because I’d turn out like you? Yes, that would be a disaster.”

He chuckles before entering his office, you had a fair point.

The following day, you were back in the diagnostic room with House and the team, the air thick with anticipation. You’d suggested restrictive cardiomyopathy, and now the tests were complete. The moment of truth had arrived.

House sat at the head of the table, his eyes glued to the screen displaying the patient’s latest test results. The rest of the team stood by, waiting for him to dissect the data, but you were too focused on the numbers to care about his usual theatrics.

Chase cleared his throat. “Echocardiogram shows classic signs of restrictive cardiomyopathy: thickened walls, impaired diastolic filling.”

You could feel House’s gaze flicker towards you, but you didn’t look up, keeping your attention on the screen.

“Still not definitive,” House muttered, tapping his cane on the floor. “She could have an arrhythmic heart issue, or maybe it's some weird metabolic disorder-”

“House,” you cut him off, your voice calm but firm. “I’m right. The elevated creatine kinase, the lung involvement, the muscle weakness, all of it points to this. It’s not just the heart’s pumping ability that’s compromised; it’s its ability to relax properly, which is why everything’s cascading.”

House held your gaze for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then looked back at the screen. “Fine. Let’s see what the biopsy shows.”

The room fell silent as they reviewed the biopsy results, and then, almost as if by instinct, House leaned forward, a surprised look creeping into his face. The biopsy had confirmed the diagnosis. The heart muscle had thickened, impairing its ability to expand and contract properly, putting strain on the lungs and muscles, which had been misdiagnosed as a neuromuscular issue.

For the first time in a long while, House was quiet. He didn’t smirk or make a sarcastic comment. He simply stared at the data, processing the outcome.

Then, he looked at you.

“Well,” he said, his voice slower than usual, “I’ll be damned. You were right.”

There was a brief pause before the usual sarcasm returned to his tone. “Don’t get too smug. It doesn’t mean I’m going to let you have all the glory. You were lucky. Not a genius.”

You smiled, feeling the rush of satisfaction but refusing to let it show too much. “I’ll take lucky. But maybe you should stop doubting my expertise.”

He grinned, that familiar spark in his eyes. “If I started trusting you, it’d ruin everything.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, a challenge in your gaze. “Well, you might want to consider trusting me a bit more often. It’ll save you from looking like a fool in front of your team.”

He chuckled softly, and for a moment, it almost felt like a quiet truce between you both. But then, as quickly as the moment passed, he was back to his usual self, tapping his cane against the floor.

“Alright, now that we’ve got the answer, let’s get this patient on the right treatment.”

You smiled to yourself, more than a little pleased with your victory. “Understood, Dr House.”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a couple of weeks since the phone incident. You hadn’t brought it up with House again, finding the easiest solution was to ignore him, not letting him get a reaction out of you.

You had been working together on some tough cases, resulting in long hours and late nights. The most recent case had been particularly difficult. Every idea the group came up with seemed to be disproved, leading to dead ends at every turn. But amidst the frustration, there was a strange, almost addictive energy between you and House. His need to prove you wrong had only fuelled your determination to show him up, and while the others were beginning to crack under the pressure, you and House kept pushing each other. The competitiveness between you both was relentless, but it had started to yield some promising results.

Late one night, after yet another round of tests had come back inconclusive, you and House found yourselves alone in the diagnostic room, surrounded by piles of patient files. The others had left, their exhaustion evident as they filtered out one by one, but neither of you seemed ready to call it a day.

House, as usual, was the first to break the silence. “You still haven’t dropped it, have you?” he asked, his voice low but sharp, as though he were almost daring you to admit what was unspoken.

You didn’t need to ask what he meant. “I haven’t dropped it because there’s nothing to drop. You made your point.” Your voice was steady, but beneath it, you felt the familiar frustration stir again.

His lips curled into the faintest of smirks, the challenge never far from his gaze. “Are you sure about that? You didn’t seem too comfortable with my intrusion when it happened.”

You sighed, “Well you don’t see me interfering with your personal life, but I don’t see what’s left to discuss. It’s done.”

The silence stretched between you, thick with tension, but beneath it, there was an understanding that, despite the disagreements, the competition had led to something far more productive than either of you had expected.

“And yet here we are,” he muttered, his voice tinged with something you couldn’t quite place, an unusual tone that made you look up from the files you’d been flipping through. “Still working together, still pushing each other.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s just professional.”

House grinned, the gleam in his eyes mischievous, but there was something more there, something you couldn’t quite decipher. “Sure, professional. But I’ve got to admit, your way of thinking is almost as irritatingly brilliant as mine.”

You weren’t sure if it was the exhaustion or the proximity of your mutual respect, but the words caught you off guard. You blinked, processing them. “Did you just… compliment me?”

He didn’t respond right away, the corner of his mouth twitching up as he focused on the patient file in front of him. But then, just as you thought he might take his words back, he said, almost casually, “You’re competent. Just like me. We make a pretty good team, don’t you think?”

It was the first time in weeks that he’d said something without the sharp bite of sarcasm, and you almost didn’t know how to respond. The words felt different.

“Yeah, we do,” you agreed, your voice quieter than usual. You glanced over at him, the line of your jaw softening, just for a moment.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, as you sat in your office, minding your own business and reviewing a new case, the door swung open and closed with a soft click. You didn’t even glance up, assuming it was another of House’s usual interruptions.

“House, I do not have the time nor the patience for your antics today,” you began, not even bothering to hide the irritation in your voice, but when you didn’t hear his typical bold response, you looked up and immediately froze.

It was your parents.

“Surprise!” your mother exclaimed, her voice filled with excitement. “We wanted to surprise you for your birthday tomorrow! We’re staying for the weekend!”

Your father smiled warmly, standing beside her with that familiar, proud grin. The sight of them was enough to stop your heart for a moment.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Mum, Dad, what are you doing here?” you asked, your voice betraying your shock.

“We thought we’d fly in for your birthday,” your father said, still beaming. “We haven’t seen you in too long, and we thought we’d make the most of the weekend.”

You tried to steady your breathing, feeling your chest tighten. Of all the days… Of all the moments, this was the last thing you’d expected. The last thing you were prepared for. Your parents here, now, just in time for your birthday.

“Well, we’re staying at a hotel nearby. And we were hoping to catch up with you,” your mother added, her gaze sparkling with excitement. “And meet your doctor of course…”

Your stomach churned. The lie. The little white lie you’d been spinning for months. The lie about the man you had been “casually” dating. They were so sure of it, and you had managed to keep them at bay… until now.

"Yeah, that sounds great! I’ve got some work to finish up, and you’ll probably want to get settled in and have a look around," you said, your voice trailing off as you searched for a way to buy yourself some time. You could feel the panic rising in your chest. "I’ll call you when I’m done, and then I’ll come meet you. The hospital can be a bit overwhelming, and the layout isn’t the easiest to navigate. I’ll show you the way to the exit."

You ushered them down the hallway, your footsteps quick and deliberate as you tried to keep them moving in the right direction. You had to get them out of your office, away from House’s domain, and preferably out of sight before any more awkward questions could surface.

You kept your head down, focused on the path ahead. You’d almost made it to the elevator when your mother’s voice broke the tension with an audible gasp.

"Is that him?"

Your heart stopped. You followed her gaze, and the knot in your stomach tightened when you saw exactly who she was pointing to.

There was no mistaking him. House, as usual, in the middle of an animated conversation... or perhaps more accurately, an argument. You watched him with Wilson, their voices low but clearly heated over some obscure detail of a case. House’s cane tapped rhythmically on the floor, his posture relaxed but somehow still exuding that unmistakable energy that could only belong to him. Even from a distance, you could tell there was a tension between them.

"Is that who you’ve been seeing?" Your mother’s voice was almost too eager, and you could feel her eyes on you, expecting a response.

You had no idea how to play this. You’d been doing so well at keeping up the lie, but now you were on the verge of blowing it all.

Before you could respond, your mother continued. "I looked him up online, you know. There was a picture of him and everything."

Your stomach churned. The last thing you needed was for her to find out you had been lying all this time. And of course, House just had to pick this moment to stand there in full view, arguing with Wilson like he owned the place.

You quickly composed yourself, forcing a smile, and doing your best to sound casual, despite the rush of nerves. "Yes, that's Dr House," you said, your voice a little too forced. "We work together. He's, um, just... Well, House." You tried to sound nonchalant, but you were painfully aware of the situation growing more precarious by the second.

Your mother’s eyes brightened with realisation, and she grinned. "He seems like quite the character. Not exactly the kind of man I imagined for you, but he certainly looks interesting. A doctor, no less!"

You were about to press the elevator button when your mother, in her usual overenthusiastic way, turned to you with a suggestion that made your stomach drop.

"Sweetheart, tomorrow night, how about you ask Dr House to come along for your birthday dinner?" she asked innocently, "You know, your dad and I would love to meet him. It’ll be nice to see what he’s like up close."

You had absolutely not anticipated this. You thought you could get away with the simple excuse that he was “too busy” to join you, but now your mother was looking at you with that expectant smile. And there was no way you could backtrack now without making things even more awkward.

You cleared your throat, the weight of the situation sinking in. "Mum, I-"

"Oh, please do! It’ll be such a nice surprise. You know how I love making things special," she continued, cutting you off. "We’d love to get to know him more. You’re always so secretive about him. Come on, sweetie, just ask him for us. It’s your birthday."

You blinked rapidly, trying to think of a way out of this without being exposed. But it was no use, she was determined.

With a sigh, you took one more deep breath before turning back towards where House and Wilson were standing. You needed him to play along for a few minutes, just long enough to convince your parents. He wouldn’t make this easy, you knew that, but you couldn’t face the consequences of telling the truth. Not with your parents standing there, looking so expectantly at you.

You approached them, trying to mask the nervous energy bubbling under your skin.

“I’m not dismissing it, Wilson,” House snapped, his cane tapping against the floor impatiently. “But this patient’s symptoms are physical, not mental.”

Wilson’s response was calmer but no less firm. “You’re ignoring the psychological factors. Stress is playing a massive role here, why can’t you just admit that?”

House rolled his eyes. “Because it’s not the issue. We need to find the real cause before this gets worse.”

You cleared your throat, drawing their attention. Both men turned to you, their argument momentarily forgotten.

“Hi, love,” you said loudly, linking your arm through House’s before he could react. “My parents were wondering if you’re coming to my birthday dinner tomorrow night. But of course,” you added with pointed emphasis, “they completely understand if you’re working.”

Wilson looked utterly, completely stunned. And, to your satisfaction, so did House. He stared at you, completely confused. Have you lost your mind? But then, as his gaze flickered to your parents, who were waiting in eager anticipation, something clicked. He realised.

His voice dropped to a low whisper. “It’s your birthday tomorrow? You always swore no one would find out.”

You blinked, taken aback. You had just pretended to be dating him in front of your parents, and that was what he focused on?

“That’s what you got out of this interaction?” you hissed under your breath.

But his shock quickly faded, replaced by that signature smirk. And at full volume, he announced, “Nope, I’m not working tomorrow night. I’m all yours.”

You forced a smile, knowing damn well he was only agreeing to this to wind you up. “Great. I’ll send you the details.”

You turned on your heel, ready to make your escape, but before you could take more than a step, his voice rang out again.

“Wait. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

You hesitated, glancing back at him in confusion. He lifted a finger and pointed to his lips.

Your stomach dropped.

There was no way.

You froze for a second, waiting for him to crack a joke, to let you off the hook. But he didn’t break eye contact, his expression expectant, teasing, yet entirely serious.

Your eyes darted to Wilson, searching for reassurance, but he only shrugged, just as baffled as you.

Slowly, hesitantly, you stepped forward and pressed the quickest possible kiss to House’s lips before immediately pulling away.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his smirk only growing as he met your flustered gaze. “I’ll see you later.”

His eyes stayed locked onto yours, smug, challenging, victorious.

You swallowed, and nodded swiftly, your parents looked absolutely thrilled. Wilson, on the other hand, still looked like he’d just witnessed a medical impossibility.

You shot him a quick nod. “Dr Wilson.”

And then, with your heart pounding in your ears, you walked away, your parents none the wiser to the absolute disaster you had just created.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For the rest of the day, you avoided House like the plague.

You took the long route around the hospital to dodge his office. You hid away in the clinic, only speaking to his team when absolutely necessary. You volunteered for every test and procedure that required patient interaction, knowing full well House wouldn’t go near them.

It was a solid plan. Until it wasn’t.

Late afternoon rolled around, and you found yourself in the lab, carefully swirling liquid in a test tube, deep in thought. The hospital was quieter now, the rush of the day fading. The rhythmic hum of machines filled the air, drowning out everything else.

Which is why you didn’t hear the door open.

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding all day,” a familiar voice drawled.

Your grip tightened on the test tube as you tensed. Slowly, you turned your head to find House leaning against the doorway, his cane resting lazily at his side.

“I haven’t been hiding,” you lied, your voice strained.

He chuckled. “Oh, come on. You’ve known me long enough to realise I am many things, but being oblivious is not one of them.” He limped closer and perched on the stool beside you.

You exhaled through your nose, shifting your focus back to the test, pretending he wasn’t there.

A few beats of silence passed before he spoke again. “You never told them the truth, did you?”

You froze for a fraction of a second, but you didn’t look at him.

House hummed knowingly. “Carried on the little fairy tale, huh?”

You finally turned to face him. “After that phone call, they were happy. They asked fewer questions. I didn’t plan for it to turn into this, but… I just carried it on for a little while. It wasn’t hurting anyone.”

“Well, congratulations,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ve now been officially dragged into this lie.”

You crossed your arms. “If I remember correctly, you’re the one who inserted yourself into my business. So really, this is your fault.”

His lips quirked. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll play along with your little charade for the weekend.” He started towards the door but then paused. “But I do expect something in return.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Such as?”

He turned back, leaning on his cane. “You do all my clinic hours next week.”

You huffed, amused. “And how do I know you’ll even be worth the trade?”

House smirked and took a slow step closer, lowering his voice. “I’ll be perfect boyfriend material in front of your parents.” He tilted his head, studying your expression. “Charming. Attentive. Maybe even a little affectionate.”

Your stomach twisted at the thought, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

He extended his hand. “So… Do we have a deal?”

You hesitated for only a second before sighing and clasping his hand in yours. “Deal.”

The smirk he gave in return was practically villainous.

You were definitely going to regret this.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, House stood in his office, absently scribbling possible diagnoses on the whiteboard, only to cross them out one by one. Frustration flickered across his face, whether from the case or his own distractions, he wasn’t sure.

Brucellosis

Cryoglobulinemia

Whipple’s Disease

Adult-Onset Still’s Disease

Hemophagocytic Lymphohistiocytosis

Relapsing Polychondritis

Wilson leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “You missed it.”

House didn’t look away. “Oh, great, you’re here to gloat. What did I supposedly miss?”

Wilson stepped closer, picking up the marker and tapping Adult-Onset Still’s Disease. “This.”

House raised an eyebrow. “I considered it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Wilson countered. “You were too fixated on Cryoglobulinemia explaining the kidney involvement, and when the cryocrit came back negative, you jumped ship. You ignored the spiking fevers, arthritis, and rash because they didn’t fit your inflammation theory.”

House’s jaw tightened. “Ferritin levels?”

“Through the roof,” Wilson said. “Like, absurdly high. You saw it and dismissed it as a secondary response. But it’s the key. Ferritin that high with intermittent fevers, sore joints, and a salmon-coloured rash? Classic Still’s.”

House exhaled, dragging a hand down his face before muttering, “Huh.”

Wilson smirked. “Yeah. Huh.”

For a few moments, neither Wilson nor House spoke, both of them fixated on the whiteboard, their eyes not straying for even a second.

"You know, you could've just told me you were going on a date," Wilson teased.

House didn't look up from the whiteboard, "Not a date. A deal. Clinic hours for playing 'boyfriend' in front of her parents. Nothing more."

Wilson raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Right, just a 'deal.' But I think we both know that's not the whole story. You’re not exactly the ‘boyfriend’ type, so what's the real reason you’re going along with this?"

House’s eyes flicked over to Wilson for a brief second, but he quickly averted his gaze back to the board, feigning disinterest. “I like to win, Wilson. Anything to get off clinic duty.”

Wilson smirked, crossing his arms. “You can lie to me all you want, but I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s eating at you. Why are you really doing this?”

House let out an exaggerated sigh, clearly frustrated, but he didn’t answer right away. He knew Wilson wouldn’t let up.

"Let me guess," Wilson continued, stepping closer. "You’re doing this to mess with her, right? Make her uncomfortable, keep her on edge. That's your style." He paused, watching House carefully. "But it’s funny, because it doesn’t look like she’s the only one who’s on edge."

House shot him a look, a mixture of annoyance and something else Wilson couldn’t quite place. "You think I care about her? Please. It’s a transaction, Wilson. I’m just doing her a favour."

"Really?" Wilson said, his tone teasing. "You know, for someone who’s ‘just doing a favour,’ you don’t seem to mind being her ‘boyfriend’ in front of her parents. Maybe you’ve got a thing for her after all."

House finally snapped, his voice sharp. "Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t do feelings. You know that." He took a deep breath, turning to Wilson.

Wilson didn’t seem convinced. "Sure. Whatever you say."

House turned back to the whiteboard, trying to focus on the case. But Wilson’s words hung in the air, making him uneasy.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The evening arrived, and you found yourself standing in front of the mirror, adjusting your outfit. You had been mentally preparing for the night ahead. House would be there, playing the role of your partner and you were already dreading how awkward it would be.

You met your parents in the lobby of the restaurant, where they were already waiting, dressed up and excited to see you. You could tell they were eager to get to know House better.

When House arrived, he was on his best behaviour. Gone was the usual sarcastic House. He shook your father's hand firmly, offering a genuine smile, then kissed your mother’s cheek as if he had done it a thousand times. Your parents were clearly taken aback by how charming he could be. The usual snark was replaced by soft, attentive conversation. It was surreal to watch him actively listen to your mother's rambling about her gardening hobbies and your father's endless questions about the hospital. House kept his responses just engaging enough, occasionally leaning in to listen more closely, his cane resting on the floor beside him.

Over the course of dinner, House answered questions about his work with impressive ease, even managing to make your mother laugh with a few anecdotes about his time in the hospital. You almost didn’t recognise the man sitting across from you.

As the evening wore on, your parents seemed content, chatting amongst themselves about the beautiful restaurant and the delicious food. They laughed and reminisced about old family trips. They were clearly satisfied with the whole evening.

When dessert arrived, your dad glanced at his watch. "Well, it's getting late. We should probably head back to the hotel before it gets later."

You could tell they were reluctant to leave, but they knew their time with you was coming to a close. Your mother smiled warmly at you as she stood up. "It was lovely meeting you, House. We’re so happy to see our daughter happy." You noticed House’s smirk softened for a moment.

"Thank you for dinner," House said smoothly. "I had a great time. We’ll have to do it again sometime."

With a final wave, your parents headed toward the door, leaving you and House standing at the table.

House turned to you, his expression unreadable for a second. Then he grinned. "Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?"

You raised an eyebrow. "You were perfect. You really want those clinic hours covered."

"Of course I was," House said, his voice smug. "I'm just that good."

You couldn't help but roll your eyes, but before you could say anything else, he surprised you. "So, what now? I’m in the mood for another drink."

You hesitated, but then you remembered how much House had played along, how convincing he had been, and a part of you felt a bit lighter.

"Sure," you said, giving him a small, somewhat reluctant smile. "Let’s stay out for a little while longer. But just a little."

"Of course," he replied, offering you his arm.

As you both walked out into the night, you could feel the shift in the air between you two. The facade might have been a cover, but it almost felt real.

You both walked side by side, moving through the quiet streets.

“I’m in the mood for something warm. Let’s find a coffee van or something.” House says with a glance at you.

You raise an eyebrow, surprised by the idea. “A coffee van?” you ask, laughing lightly. “You?”

His expression softens, but only just. “Don’t act so shocked. Even I need a warm drink once in a while.” He pauses, then adds with a sly grin, “But no promises that I won’t judge your choice.”

You roll your eyes but smile, as the two of you stroll toward a small coffee van parked on the edge of a park. The van is tucked under a tree, its lights casting a soft glow into the early night. The smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the air.

House orders his usual black coffee, of course, while you go for a hot chocolate, wanting something sweet and comforting to balance out the evening. The barista hands over the drinks, and the two of you make your way to a nearby bench with a view of the city lights.

The bench is positioned perfectly to overlook the park, with twinkling lights in the distance. You settle beside House, both of you holding your drinks, not saying much at first, but the peacefulness of the moment makes it feel natural.

“You know,” House says eventually, breaking the comfortable silence, “I can’t say I’ve ever had a hot chocolate before. Seems a little… too sweet for me.”

You take a sip from your cup, a smile tugging at your lips. “I thought you might say that. But it’s nice. Keeps things simple.”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t do simple.”

You chuckle softly, and the two of you settle into a comfortable silence again, watching the light breeze move the leaves in the trees.

You were sipping your hot chocolate, when House suddenly spoke up.

He reached into his bag, and handed you a small, carefully wrapped bundle, “Happy Birthday,” he said, his tone nonchalant. You raised an eyebrow, half-expecting another sarcastic remark or some ridiculous gift. But when you carefully peeled away the wrapping, it revealed a folder inside, your eyes widened, taking in the paperwork, patient notes, procedure details, and even original surgical tape recordings of the first successful heart transplant carried out.

“I remember you mentioning that you’d love to read the notes and hear the audio from Barnard’s first heart transplant, I’ve been looking for a while, thought there was no better time to give you it than your birthday.” he stated.

Your heart skipped a beat. You’d mentioned it a while back, in passing, how you'd love to get your hands on a copy of the original papers from the procedure. You had no idea he’d actually remembered, let alone worked to get it for you.

He watched as you absorbed the moment.

“This is incredible, House.” you smiled, turning to look at him.

For a few moments, you were too awestruck to say anything else. Then, with a grin, you grabbed your hot chocolate and nudged him. “Come on, let’s listen to it. You’ve got a recorder, right?”

He fished around in his bag for a moment and pulled out an old cassette player, handing it to you. “Let's do this.”

With a playful smile, you set the recorder up, each putting an earbud in your ears and settling back into your seats. You pressed play, and the muffled sounds of a busy operating room filled the air. It was surreal hearing the voice of Dr. Barnard himself, the man who made history.

And as you listened to the audio, you realised something: for all his gruff exterior, House really did know how to make someone feel special.

The tape clicked off, the last words of Dr. Barnard fading into silence. You pulled the headphones off, still staring at the paperwork, overwhelmed by the gift. "I can’t believe you did this, for me. Thank you." you whispered, your voice thick with gratitude.

House didn’t respond immediately, his gaze flicking to the papers in your lap, then slowly moving to you. The air between you two seemed to shift. You both sat in the quiet, not quite looking at each other but feeling everything.

Then, without warning, House leaned forward, his lips meeting yours in a desperate, however steady kiss. It was raw, full of emotion. His hands found your face, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t stop himself. You kissed him back, just as desperate, as if something inside you had snapped.

But then, just as quickly as it had started, House pulled away, his breath shallow. His eyes widened slightly, and he sat back as if the space between you could somehow shield him from whatever that had been.

“That was a mistake,” he muttered, his voice tight, eyes avoiding yours.

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words stuck in your throat. He’d already gathered his things, and stood up from the bench. The moment dissolved, and all that remained was discomfort.

The drive was silent, the tension thick in the air. Neither of you spoke. Every thought seemed trapped in your head, and the only thing you could hear was the hum of the engine.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, and he certainly wouldn’t look at you. He dropped you off home, with a simple “I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

You sat up in bed, reading the papers he had given you. You hoped this didn’t ruin everything. Was it still an act, or was it real?

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, you drove your parents to the airport. The ride was quiet at first, with the weight of last night's events still lingering in the air.

Your mother was the first to break the silence. “You know, we like him,” she said casually, glancing out the window as you stopped at a red light.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“House. We like him. He’s good for you.” She looked at you with a knowing smile. “You should keep him.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you quickly masked it with a forced smile. “Right,” you said, trying to sound casual.

Your dad chimed in from the back seat. “He seems like a solid guy. A bit rough around the edges, but sometimes that's what you need.”

You didn’t respond, your mind drifting back to last night. You still weren’t sure what to make of it all, but your parents’ easy approval of him didn’t help the whirlwind of thoughts in your head.

At the airport, you pulled into the drop-off zone, helping them grab their bags, “We will call you when we land, okay?”

“Okay,” you said with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, “Have a safe flight.”

Once they were inside, you lingered for a moment, watching them disappear into the terminal before you turned back to your car. You still had to go to work, but for some reason, the thought of facing House filled you with dread.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At the hospital, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being on edge. You had expected to find House in his office or somewhere in the building, but he was nowhere to be seen.

The day dragged on, and the more time passed, the more it felt like he was avoiding you. You passed by his office, but he was never there. You tried to catch a glimpse of him on the floor, but again, you couldn’t find him.

By the afternoon, you had to admit it: House was actively avoiding you.

You tried to shake it off, focusing on your work, but his absence kept distracting you. It wasn’t like House to pull away, and the fact that he was doing it now made your stomach twist.

Why was he avoiding you?

When you walked into the Diagnostics room, Wilson was there, scanning over some charts with his usual calm expression. You stepped in, standing by the doorway, watching him for a moment before speaking up.

"Wilson," you began, your voice portraying a hint of frustration. "Do you know where House is? He's been avoiding me all day."

Wilson didn’t even glance up from his paperwork. He knew exactly what was going on, "You think he’s avoiding you?"

"Well, yeah," you replied, folding your arms across your chest. "He's not in his office, and I’ve barely seen him all day. What else am I supposed to think?"

Wilson sighed, leaning back in his chair and giving you a long look. "You know House," he said, his voice soft but with a knowing edge. "He’s not exactly great at dealing with feelings. He’s hiding. He always does."

You furrowed your brow, confused. "Hiding from what?"

"From you," Wilson said, "From whatever happened between you two. It’s easier for him to pretend it didn’t happen than to deal with whatever he’s feeling." He paused, meeting your gaze, "I don’t think House knows how to handle it. But trust me, he’s avoiding it. And to do that, he’s avoiding you."

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that evening, House entered Wilson’s office, dragging himself in with his usual dissatisfied expression. He dropped onto the couch with a heavy sigh, tossing his cane aside.

Wilson didn’t look up from the papers on his desk, but the silence was heavy with unspoken tension.

Finally, Wilson set his papers down, slowly lifting his gaze to meet House’s. "I’m not sure if I need to say this, but I will anyway," he started, a knowing glint in his eyes.

House raised an eyebrow, not thrilled by the direction this conversation was headed. "If you’re about to offer advice, Wilson, save it."

Wilson leaned back in his chair, his voice casual but laced with meaning. "You’ve been avoiding her, haven’t you?"

House shifted uncomfortably on the couch, eyes glued to the floor. "I’m not avoiding her."

Wilson didn’t let it slide. "You’re lying, House. And you’re not fooling anyone. You think she doesn’t know? She’s starting to get suspicious."

House’s gaze snapped to him, defensive. "I’m not pulling away. I’m busy."

Wilson shrugged, "I’m sure. But that’s not the problem, is it? You’re scared. Scared of what’s happening between the two of you."

House’s posture stiffened, and he exhaled sharply, trying to brush it off. "This is ridiculous."

Wilson’s gaze softened with understanding, but his words remained blunt. "You don’t have to say it out loud. But you’ve got to stop hiding. You’re pushing her away, and you’re making this more complicated than it needs to be."

House ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated, but said nothing.

Wilson leaned in slightly, his voice quieter now. "I’m not asking for some grand declaration. Just don’t mess this up. You care about her, and you know it. She cares about you. If you keep running, you’re going to lose her."

House let out a long sigh, rubbing his face with both hands. "I know," he muttered under his breath, barely audible.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That evening, you couldn’t take it anymore. You had tried, and you had been shut out. You needed answers.

Without thinking too much, you grabbed your keys and drove straight to his apartment. When you knocked, you already knew he might try to shut you out again, but you weren’t leaving until you got an explanation.

He opened the door, and for a brief second, the surprise flickered across his face before his usual mask slipped back into place. “This isn’t a good time,” House muttered, starting to close the door.

“Too bad,” you shot back, stepping past him into his apartment.

He let out a sigh, slamming the door behind you. “I don’t have time for this,” he grumbled.

You crossed your arms, standing firm. “You’ve been avoiding me,” you said bluntly, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your chest. “Why?”

House froze. His lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes flickering with annoyance. He moved to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water and taking a long sip, pretending like he hadn’t heard you.

You didn’t let him get away with it. You walked over, standing directly in front of him, forcing him to face you. “Tell me why, House. I deserve that much, don’t I?”

His eyes flicked to you, and for the first time in days, you saw something vulnerable there. But he quickly masked it with irritation, narrowing his eyes.

“You’re the one who kissed me, and yet you’re the one running away.” you expressed.

“You wanted me to be a part of this arrangement,” he said sharply, a coldness in his tone. “The kiss didn’t mean anything, it was all part of the act. You can go.”

The words felt like a slap. You stood frozen, processing the harshness in his voice, but then, something changed inside you. You weren’t going to let him push you away this easily.

“That’s not how it was, and you know it,” you shot back, your voice growing louder. “You didn’t just kiss me for the act. You didn’t just make me think there was something real about this.”

He remained standing, completely silent, eyes not once meeting yours.

“Why did you kiss me back?” you asked, feeling deflated, “Why did you let it go that far if it was nothing to you?”

There was a thick tension in the air. And then, just like that, he snapped. “Because it wasn’t nothing. And I hate it.”

You took a steadying breath, stepping forward slightly. Your hand rose to his face, forcing him to look you in the eye. "Tell me you don’t want this, House. Tell me, and I’ll go. I’ll never bother you again."

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. His gaze flicked over your face, something unreadable in his expression. But then, his eyes softened ever so slightly, his usual defensiveness missing.

“I can’t.” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

You felt a weight lift from your chest. Neither of you moved, but for the first time, it felt like you were both finally, truly facing the truth.

House let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “You can’t,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

His laugh was humourless. “It means I’m me. I’m an ass. I’m miserable, I’m sarcastic, I push people away for fun. I lie, I manipulate, I-” He gestured vaguely. “I’m not nice. I’m not easy. You-” He pointed at you. “You’re smart enough to know better.”

You stared at him, your heartbeat hammering in your ears, “I like you.”

House scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, apart from the vicodin, and the cane, oh and the stubbornness-”

“I like you,” you interrupted, firmer this time. “I like that you challenge me, I like that you never let me win just because it’s easier. I like that you remember things I say, even when you pretend you don’t care. I like you. Just as you are.”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. For once in his life, Gregory House was completely, utterly speechless.

You just looked at him. Patient, steady, completely unafraid of what he was so sure made him unlovable.

Before you could say another word, he grabbed your face and kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate, like he was trying to memorise the way you felt. His hands fisted in your jacket, pulling you closer. There was no fighting this. Not anymore.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, matching his intensity. His stubble was rough against your skin, his grip firm, like he needed you to know that this was real.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless. His forehead rested against yours, “You know, you’re still covering my clinic hours this week.”

You chucked, “Oh shut up,” before pulling him in and kissing him again.

That night was the night you finally figured out what was beneath the sarcasm and the gruff exterior.

It was fear.

Not just fear of getting hurt, but fear of being wanted. Fear that if someone saw him, truly saw him, they’d decide he wasn’t worth it. That they’d leave.

But you didn’t, and you never will.

#gregory house x reader #greg house x reader #house x reader #house #house md #gregory house

505 notes · View notes

riddleriddles · 5 months ago

Text

ಇ margaret.

(delicate, part one)

pairing. mattheo riddle x hufflepuff!shy!reader

summary. After the night of the ball, Mattheo couldn’t shake the thoughts of that girl. No matter how hard he tried to focus on anything else, her image lingered in his mind.

add notes. hey guys, i kind of disappeared for a bit, but i’m back now (kinda of), and bringing more Mattheo because i just love him so much. I’ve been thinking about writing more and developing him a bit further, i still feel like I’m not doing him justice, so maybe there’ll be more of him from now on. And I translated this with AI this time, so let me know if it’s better than when I used Google.

visit my masterlist :)

ಇ

Mattheo was in the common room, immersed in a restless silence. The dim greenish glow of the fireplace was the only light, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. He stared at one of the paintings hanging on the wall, his hands buried in the pockets of his trousers. His eyes, though fixed on the painting in front of him, were unfocused. His mind wandered far beyond the room, lost in thoughts he couldn’t control.

In one hand, he balanced a cigarette between his fingers, occasionally bringing it to his lips with indifference. The bitter scent of smoke mingled with the heavy air in the room, but he seemed oblivious even to that. It was late—late enough that anyone else would have already been asleep. But for Mattheo, sleep was as distant as the faint moonlight barely creeping through the tall windows.

Meanwhile, Lorenzo was speaking incessantly, his excited tone filling the nearly empty room. He was recounting some Quidditch play with exaggerated enthusiasm, repeating details Mattheo had already heard countless times. Yet, Lorenzo’s words sounded like a distant buzz. It was impossible to care.

Because all that occupied Mattheo’s mind at that moment was her.

Mattheo hated it. He hated the weight of that involuntary obsession. It was as if she had quietly slipped in and taken possession of a space within him without asking for permission. He despised how his mind betrayed him, bringing back, like a cruel reflex, the memory of that smile she had given him at the ball. A shy, unpretentious smile, but one that had planted something within him—something he couldn’t name.

He knew how to handle girls. He always had. It was an art he mastered with ease, conducting encounters and flirtations with the skill of someone who knew the game well. But she… she didn’t play. She didn’t try. She didn’t need to. In fact, she had seemed genuinely surprised when he appeared beside her that night. And that unsettled him deeply.

“Mattheo, are you listening?” Lorenzo’s voice broke his thoughts like thunder, followed by a light pinch on his arm.

Mattheo blinked, reality slowly coming back to him. “Of course I’m not,” he answered flatly.

Lorenzo rolled his eyes, used to his friend’s lack of patience. “You’ve been off since that ball. Everything alright? Or did that girl actually get to you and your cold heart?”

“Don’t start, Enzo,” Mattheo replied with a frustrated sigh, leaning forward and crushing the cigarette in the silver ashtray on the table.

“Oh, it got to you,” Lorenzo laughed, teasing. “I’ve never seen you dance before. Especially not a waltz. And with a girl.”

“I was bored,” Mattheo lied, but the excuse came out with so little conviction that even he could tell how pathetic it sounded. He leaned back on the couch, squeezing his eyes shut as if that could push away the persistent images that kept invading his mind.

But if it was just boredom, why did he keep checking every room he entered, looking for her out of the corner of his eye? Why did that damn floral perfume seem embedded in his memory, like an echo that wouldn’t leave him?

The irritation burned inside him, slow and insidious. The way she had infiltrated his thoughts, occupying a space he hadn’t offered her, made him furious. She was like a riddle—and Mattheo hated riddles. Still, he knew he wouldn’t be able to ignore her, even if he tried.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he suddenly got up. “I’m heading to the dorm,” he announced, his tone making it clear the conversation was over.

Lorenzo raised an eyebrow in surprise, but his teasing grin remained. “Good night, broken heart,” he joked, but Mattheo didn’t respond.

When Mattheo reached the dormitory, he threw himself onto the bed with a low grunt, closing his eyes in a near-desperate motion. But the darkness didn’t bring the relief he had expected. On the contrary.

The first thing his mind conjured was the image of her bidding him farewell at the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room. The soft smile she had given him as she closed the door, the light of the hall reflecting off her shiny shoes as she carefully descended the stairs, holding the hem of her dress. It was an annoyingly vivid memory.

He turned on the bed, restless. He tried to push the thoughts away, but deep down he knew it wouldn’t be that simple. She wouldn’t leave his mind so easily. Not at all.

Days passed, dragged out, as if the universe was mocking Mattheo, torturing him while repeatedly playing those thoughts about her like a broken record. He tried to distract himself, searching for anything that would take him away from the constant irritation of being at the mercy of his own mind, but everything seemed utterly ineffective. Quidditch, and even the classes—which he no longer took as seriously—failed to pull his attention away and keep her image from his thoughts. And he hated it.

One day, Mattheo decided he would focus on the Quidditch practice. The cold wind sliced through his face as he flew with absurd precision, throwing the balls against the hoops with a force that seemed to expel his frustration along with them. But even then, something still distracted him. A simple glance at the stands and he realised: he was hoping she would be there, watching him. And the anger came back with full force. “This is ridiculous,” he repeated to himself, trying to refocus on the practice, but the truth was, nothing would pull him away from her.

That evening, the Great Hall exuded a vibrant atmosphere. The enchanted ceiling reflected a starry night sky, while floating candelabras gently spread a golden light across the long House tables. The sound of conversations and laughter mixed with the clinking of cutlery against silver plates. Platters overflowed with delicacies: succulent roasts, steaming bread, and colourful desserts that emitted a comforting aroma, filling the room with warmth that contrasted with the chilly air outside.

And then, there she was.

Mattheo saw her for the first time since that ball, and she seemed, if possible, even more enchanting. She was wearing her yellow and black daily robes, sitting near the centre of the Hufflepuff table, her face softly illuminated by the light of the candelabras. Her smile stood out among the crowd, and her hair, lightly tied up, seemed to catch the light in a way that made it glow gently. She leaned forward, laughing at something someone beside her had said—a trivial scene, but to Mattheo, it felt like the entire Great Hall had bent around her, as if the very room conspired to draw his attention to her.

In that instant, the buzz of conversations around him seemed to disappear, muffled by the intensity of his focus. He quickly glanced away, blinking repeatedly as he looked at his plate, his fingers tightening around the fork he was holding, as if that could push away the growing sense of discomfort. But the scent he had already come to know—that sweet floral perfume—seemed to linger in the air, even though she was metres away, as if the universe had decided to torment him.

The Great Hall, to Mattheo, had never seemed so crowded and, at the same time, so empty.

ಇ

The cold wind cut through the air in Hogsmeade that Saturday afternoon. The clear sky allowed the sun to shine gently, while the breeze stirred the leaves and flowers, which responded with a soft, rhythmic rustling. The small village was more crowded than usual, filled with excited Hogwarts students strolling through the stone streets. Between laughter and voices, the windows of candy, clothing, and curiosity shops made for a cozy, vibrant scene.

Mattheo walked calmly, having separated from his friends only a few minutes earlier. His hands rested in his pockets, and his mind was as distant as the mountains in the background. The sounds around him were nothing but muffled noise, unable to distract him from the thoughts that haunted him incessantly: her. He tried, in every way, to find a distraction, but it seemed useless. As if the universe insisted on mocking him, his eyes found her.

She was standing in front of one of the candy shops, looking undecided about whether to go in or not. With her hands holding her coat to protect herself from the cold, her shoulders were slightly hunched against the icy breeze. Her hair shone under the soft light of the afternoon sun, moving gently with the wind. She seemed so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn’t even notice Mattheo approaching. He stopped a step ahead of her, hesitating for a moment, as if the simple act of approaching her required more effort than usual.

Then, she saw him. Her eyes widened slightly before a shy but genuine smile appeared on her face. That smile had been haunting Mattheo since the ball. She seemed surprised, as if meeting him here was the last thing she expected.

“Hi… Mattheo, right?” Her voice was soft, a little uncertain, but filled with sincere sweetness. There was a hesitation in her tone, as if she feared he might not remember her or, worse, might prefer not to speak with her.

Mattheo exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. For a brief moment, he was caught between the impact of that smile and her simple beauty. “Yeah, that’s right… What are you doing here alone… again?” he asked, a slight teasing tone slipping out unintentionally.

His eyes wandered over her face, as if trying to memorize every detail—the gentle curve of her lips, the faint blush coloring her cheeks, and the shy gleam in her eyes.

She laughed, a light and somewhat nervous sound, as her cheeks flushed a deeper pink, perhaps from the cold, perhaps from shyness. “I came to buy some chocolates. I don’t know how, but I ended up here. I think the smell of sugar drew me in.” She laughed at herself, as if finding her own distraction amusing.

Mattheo watched her closely. The calmness of that moment contrasted with the chaos that was unfolding inside him. This was the first time they were alone, without interruptions, and he realized that, although he had imagined this scene countless times in his mind, now he didn’t quite know what to say. He, who always had the right words, found himself momentarily lost. It was strange… and irritatingly fascinating.

“Actually, I was going to buy something next door…” he began, his voice coming out more casually than he had expected. “If you want company, maybe we could go together?”

She blinked, surprised, and then her eyes brightened with contained curiosity. “Sure, I’d love that. Maybe you can even help me choose something. I always get so indecisive in these candy shops.” She smiled lightly, her lips curving ever so slightly, but to Mattheo, it seemed like something monumental.

He managed a more genuine smile, feeling his own hesitation fade away. “Definitely. I’m practically an expert on chocolate, if you want to know.” He opened the door to the shop, inviting her in with a casual gesture.

Inside, the aroma of chocolate and sugar enveloped them. The conversation flowed easier than Mattheo had imagined, with her laughing softly at his ironic comments about the more eccentric sweets in the shop. He found that he enjoyed listening to her more than he had expected, and for the first time in days, his mind seemed less chaotic. It was as though being near her made everything a little clearer, a little simpler.

When they left the shop, both carrying bags full of candy, Mattheo felt a strange desire to prolong the moment. The cold wind didn’t seem so intense anymore, and the sound of her laughter echoed in his mind like music. He found himself looking at her again, noticing how the soft light of the late afternoon highlighted the delicate features of her face.

For a brief moment, he almost reached out to brush a strand of hair from her eyes, but he stopped. He didn’t want to be too forward. He didn’t know her well enough for such a casual gesture… at least, not yet.

When the sun began to set, they said their goodbyes. She smiled once more, a sweet and peaceful smile, before waving and heading toward the carriage with a friend. Mattheo stood there for a few moments, watching her walk away.

ಇ

The air around the lake was calm and serene, as still as the water that reflected the orange sky of the late afternoon. Only the subtle sound of the waves and the whisper of the wind through the trees filled the space. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a soft golden hue over everything, as if the world had paused in that moment. She sat by the lake, her legs crossed and her eyes fixed on the water’s surface, as if trying to uncover some invisible secret hidden there.

Mattheo saw her from a distance, and his breath faltered for a moment. How was it that she seemed to be everywhere lately? He knew he should simply move on, pretend he hadn’t seen her, but it felt like an impossible task. It was as though an invisible force was pulling him towards her, persistent and inevitable. Perhaps it was the way the sunlight seemed to dance in her hair, or the almost untouchable peace that seemed to surround her, in stark contrast to the chaos she always left in his mind.

He took a deep breath, pushing aside the strange shyness that only seemed to appear in her presence, and made his way over. The sound of his footsteps on the grass caught her attention, and she turned her face towards him, her eyes lighting up slightly. For a moment, she seemed surprised, but soon looked away again, returning her gaze to the lake in a calm posture, as if trying to hide any reaction.

“Do you always run off here alone?” he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stopped beside her.

She shrugged slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Sometimes. I like the peace here. No one comes around except in the summer.”

“I see,” he replied, sitting beside her without asking for permission, though he kept a respectful distance. “It’s the kind of place that makes you forget you’re surrounded by so many people all the time.”

“Exactly.” She nodded, turning her face towards him. Her eyes briefly examined his face, as if she was assessing his presence. “Here it feels… outside of reality.”

He nodded silently, relieved that she didn’t seem bothered by his approach. “A good place to think… or to escape,” he added lightly.

She chuckled softly, the sound delicate and almost musical. Mattheo noticed how her eyes would close slightly when she smiled, and had to look away to the water, afraid he was staring too intently.

For a few moments, silence stretched between them, but it was comfortable. The cool breeze from the lake brought a sense of calm, while the reflection of the sky on the water created an almost magical scene. Mattheo tried to think of something to say, but her natural ease made it harder than he’d like to admit.

“So, do you come here often?” he asked, his voice coming out quieter than he’d intended.

She turned her face towards him, her eyes soft and curious. “Yes, it’s one of my favourite places at the castle.”

He nodded, feeling a small satisfaction from learning something more about her. Any detail was valuable.

“I hope I’m not disturbing your peace,” he teased, a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips.

She shook her head quickly, sincerity in her response. “Of course not. It’s nice to have company sometimes.”

Her answer caught him off guard, and he felt a more genuine smile spread across his face. But realising how silly it must have looked, he cleared his throat and turned his gaze to the lake, picking up a stone from the shore. He tossed it expertly, and the small rock skipped across the water three times before sinking.

“You’re good at that,” she commented, sounding a bit impressed. “I didn’t know it was one of your talents.”

“There are many things about me you don’t know,” he replied, with a teasing tone, though not daring to look at her directly. He didn’t notice the faint blush that coloured her cheeks.

She laughed softly, but didn’t respond, and that left him restless. He didn’t want the conversation to end there.

“Do you want to try?” He offered her another stone.

She hesitated for a moment before taking the stone from his hand, her fingers brushing his briefly. It was a brief touch, but one that left a warm trace in his mind. She threw the stone with a little less force than necessary, and it sank almost immediately.

She laughed at herself, that sweet, light sound he wanted to hear forever. “Clearly, I’m not as talented as you.”

Mattheo chuckled at her failed attempt, but, to him, it was adorable. Everything about her was adorable—the way she spoke, how she smiled, how she moved. He was lost for her, and he knew it.

“It just takes practice,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual while holding back a smile.

The afternoon passed with laughter, casual conversation, and more attempts on her part to skip stones across the lake, all equally disastrous. But Mattheo didn’t mind. In fact, he preferred it this way. Any excuse to stay beside her, watching every little detail, was more than enough.

And as the sun began to hide behind the trees, casting the sky in deeper tones, Mattheo realised that his affection for her was growing at an almost alarming rate. But he didn’t want to stop.

ಇ

During Herbology class, the afternoon was warm. The students were scattered around the garden, working with the magical and exotic plants they were being taught to handle. Professor Sprout was observing closely, walking between the rows, supervising everyone’s efforts.

She was focused, struggling with a bold plant that had, without warning, begun to wind itself around her arm. With every movement she made, the plant tightened, as though it had a mind of its own and no friendly intentions.

“Oi! All right there?” Mattheo’s voice suddenly called, close enough to startle her. He approached with that playful smile on his lips, and she hadn’t realised he had been watching her since the beginning of the class.

She jumped slightly, turning to face him while still fighting against the stubborn plant. “I’m fine, yeah,” she replied with a slightly awkward smile, trying to cover up the disastrous situation. “It’s just… I haven’t quite figured out how to deal with this little plant.”

Mattheo laughed. He found it adorable how, even with the plant practically choking her arm, she still tried to maintain composure. But he could see right through the façade.

“Here, let me help,” he offered, stepping close enough for her to catch a faint whiff of his cologne, mixed with a trace of cigarette smoke on his robes. It wasn’t unpleasant, but unmistakable.

Now, with him so close, she noticed details she hadn’t before: the discreet scar on his cheek that she’d never noticed, and another that she liked to observe on the tip of his nose.

He wasn’t wearing the usual green and black Slytherin cloak, only the white shirt and loosely tied tie. His sleeves rolled up revealed strong forearms. With an absurd ease, he began untangling the plant from her arm.

“Is this all you can do? Let a little plant tear you to pieces?” he asked in a mocking tone, inspecting the marks the plant had left.

“Or do you like the pain?” He laughed, gently taking her hand to examine it more closely. His hands were cold and rough, but the touch, surprisingly, was gentle, as though he was trying not to hurt her more.

“Of course not, shut up!” She quickly replied, giving him a playful tap on the shoulder while letting out a light laugh. “It’s just that this plant, in particular, is a bit more… complex.”

“Complex?” A smile formed on his face. “It’s just another stupid plant,” he said, gently releasing her arm. His words made her give him a small frown.

“That’s what you think!” She shot back, pointing a finger directly at his chest. “This ‘stupid plant’ is worth the effort if you learn how to deal with it”

“Ah, right. And I suppose you know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?” He teased, with a mischievous smile. She squinted her eyes at him, clearly not finding it funny.

“I’ll learn, alright?” She replied firmly, though he doubted her conviction would last long.

Mattheo chuckled quietly, stepping back a bit and crossing his arms while watching her with an amused— and something more, something he kept carefully hidden— look. “Oh, I’m sure you will.”

Determined, she tried again. She touched the plant carefully, moving her other hand with a pair of scissors, but it didn’t work. As soon as she got too close, the plant grabbed her arm again, this time with more force, causing her to bite her cheek in an attempt to hold back the pain.

Mattheo rolled his eyes as he watched her make the same mistake, but when he noticed the discomfort in her expression and the visibly tight grip on her arm, his face shifted. He quickly approached.

“Wait, let me take care of this,” he said, taking her arm again, this time with more urgency. He was so close that she could feel the heat radiating from him. “Relax your arm,” he instructed, his voice low and firm.

She obeyed, relaxing her arm, and after a few seconds, the plant gave way. He released it, while she quickly pulled her arm back, massaging her sore wrist.

“I’m never going to finish this task,” she complained, still rubbing the spot.

“Stop whining,” Mattheo said with a cheeky smile, his voice firm but laid-back. “You’re just being too nice to the plant. That’s not how it works.”

His words made her glare at him with a challenging look, as though silently daring him to show her something better.

“Watch and learn,” he said confidently — perhaps a bit too confidently. He stepped closer to the plant, rolling up his sleeves to avoid getting his shirt dirty. He studied the position of the roots for a few seconds before grabbing the plant with far more force than she had dared. Then, with scissors in hand, he cut the necessary parts with precision, finishing the task effortlessly.

“How can you be kind to a plant like that? That’s not how it works,” he remarked, wiping his hands with a cloth.

She watched the scene with a strange feeling growing in her stomach. It was odd seeing him so forceful with something, as he always seemed so calm and carefree. His sleeves rolled up, his strong arms, the confident manner — something about it made her blush. He looked strangely handsome in that moment.

“Hm, you’re rather good at that. Another skill of yours I had no idea existed,” she said, regaining her composure as she bent down to gather the little fruits that had fallen to the ground.

“There are plenty of things you still don’t know I’m good at,” he said casually, with an enigmatic smile.

ಇ

The cold night wind blew gently across the castle courtyard, where she sat on one of the stone benches, reviewing her notes. Mattheo, who had a habit of seeking her out at night, was leaning against a nearby column, watching her in silence while pretending to be distracted.

“You know staring at me isn’t going to help me study, right?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the parchment in front of her, though a small smile played at her lips.

“I’m not staring, I’m just—” He began, but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching.

“Well, well, look who I find here.” Cedric Diggory’s unmistakably confident voice cut through the air, and Mattheo immediately straightened up, crossing his arms as he observed the new arrival.

She looked up, surprised, and forced a smile, a little nervous. “Hi, Cedric. Long time no see.”

Cedric stopped in front of her, his bright, warm smile — the one so many people found charming — still intact. “That’s true. I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

“Not at all,” she replied, looking away slightly, visibly uncomfortable. “But I’ve been busy with studies.”

Mattheo narrowed his eyes, observing the interaction with a neutral expression, but anyone who knew him well would notice the tension in his jaw. He stayed silent, but his gaze never left Cedric.

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re alright,” Cedric continued, completely ignoring Mattheo’s presence. He leaned in slightly, in a casual gesture, though it seemed a bit too intimate for those watching. “You know, I still feel bad about that night…”

She froze for a moment, a bit unsettled by the mention, before lowering her gaze. “Oh… Cedric, that’s in the past. No need to worry about it now.”

Mattheo frowned, curious and visibly suspicious, but he remained where he was, his hands now clenched into loose fists.

“Still, I want to apologise. You deserved someone who—”

“Cedric,” she interrupted, her voice soft but firm. Standing up from the bench, she looked away once more. “It’s really fine. I’ve gotten over it. We’re friends, right?”

Cedric’s smile faltered for a moment, but he nodded. “Of course. Friends.” He stepped back a little, seeming slightly uncomfortable. “Well, I hope to see you at the next match. It was good seeing you.”

“It was good to see you too,” she said, maintaining her calm posture, though still visibly shy.

Cedric waved one last time before walking away, finally noticing Mattheo’s presence, but not caring much about it. As soon as he disappeared down the corridor, silence hung between them.

“So…” Mattheo broke the silence, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Friends, is it?”

She rolled her eyes, sitting back down on the bench. “Yes, friends. You heard.”

“Because it seemed more like he was trying to… I don’t know… redeem himself or something,” Mattheo said, stepping closer, leaning against the bench beside her, his arms still crossed. “Is there something I should know?”

She sighed, closing the parchment. “It’s nothing important. Cedric was… just a disappointment, nothing more. And it’s in the past.”

He raised an eyebrow, the jealousy clear in his eyes. “A disappointment, huh?”

“Yes, Mattheo. A disappointment.” She looked at him seriously, though with a hint of amusement in her gaze. “And for your information, I feel absolutely nothing for him.”

“Really?” He leaned in a little, his face closer to hers. “Because it seemed like he still feels something for you.”

She shook her head, laughing lightly. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” He smiled, though there was something challenging in his expression. “If I’m ridiculous, then what is he?”

“Uninteresting.”

Her quick reply surprised both her and him. Mattheo blinked, looking a little less tense, and a genuine smile appeared on his lips. “Uninteresting, huh?”

She shrugged, feigning indifference. “Yes. And are you going to keep insisting on this, or will you let me finish studying?”

He watched her for a moment before grinning, leaning in even closer until their faces were dangerously near. “I think I can accept that… for now.”

Her eyes widened slightly, her heart racing at the proximity. He noticed, but instead of pulling back, he just gave her a small smile before pulling away again, giving her space — but not much.

“Good luck with your studies, then,” he said, his voice carrying a tone she couldn’t quite decipher, before leaning back against the column and staying there, as if he had no plans of leaving anytime soon.

The silence took over them both again, but after a few minutes, he stepped closer still and, in a low tone, almost as if testing his words, asked:

“Was it him who made you cry that night at the ball?”

She was momentarily speechless, her face flushing slightly as she looked at him, nervous. She couldn’t meet Mattheo’s eyes, but the memory of that night still affected her deeply. Her fingers began to play with the edges of the parchment, looking for something to focus on.

“Yes…” she answered, her voice soft and hesitant. “It was him.”

Mattheo felt a wave of protectiveness surge within him. His eyes darkened for a moment, as if the thought of Cedric causing her pain bothered him deeply. He moved a little closer, his voice now laden with concern.

“He doesn’t deserve a single ounce of your attention,” he said, the softness of his words contrasting with the intensity of his gaze.

She looked up at him, feeling a mix of relief and gratitude. Even without saying anything further, she knew Mattheo was there for her, with no reservations, ready to protect whatever was necessary.

“I know,” she replied, a shy smile beginning to form on her lips, comforting yet tinged with vulnerability.

He watched her for a moment, a protective expression on his face, and then gave a slight smile, softer this time, as though he was finally understanding what truly mattered.

“Don’t worry,” he said, in a tone that seemed to promise something. “I’m here.”

ಇ

Mattheo stood in the dark corridor, hands in his pockets, trying to control the whirlwind of thoughts still spinning in his head. Enzo was beside him, observing his friend patiently. But the silence between them was growing uncomfortable. The tension radiating off Mattheo was almost palpable.

“Mate, you’re freaking out over this?” Enzo finally spoke, his voice low and bored, breaking the silence.

Mattheo looked at him, his eyes slightly irritated. “I’m not freaking out. I just… didn’t expect to feel this way, you know? I didn’t think I’d be so… bothered.” He took a step forward, stopping in front of one of the cold castle walls. “But he can’t just show up like nothing’s happened. And she… she seems so… calm.”

Enzo sighed, arms crossed. “You’re talking about Cedric, right?”

“Who else?” Mattheo muttered, almost growling, his eyes fixed on an invisible point on the wall. “He shouldn’t be so comfortable around her. And what’s worse is, she doesn’t seem to care. It’s like just another conversation, just another interaction. But what am I, Enzo? A spectator? damnit.”

Enzo moved closer to him, not showing much surprise at Mattheo’s behaviour, but still visibly paying attention. “And you think she’ll start thinking about you if you keep doing this? If you keep torturing yourself, waiting for things to sort themselves out?”

Mattheo turned to face him, frustration clear on his face. “I know what you’re trying to say, but I’m not an idiot, Enzo. I already know what she feels, I’ve already seen it, she’s not the type to make things clear that easily. And if I try to do something, I’ll just make things worse. I’m not… like him.”

Enzo gave a tired smile, shaking his head. “Mate, you’re hiding behind this idea of ‘I’m not like him’. I know what you’ve got in your head, but… maybe you need to stop thinking there’s a manual on how to act here. Just go up to her. Don’t overthink it. You’ve got a chance, but if you keep going like this, you’ll lose it, and in the end, what will be left?”

Mattheo remained silent for a while, his gaze fixed on the floor. He knew Enzo was right, but the idea of approaching her still felt so distant, like he had lost control over the situation.

“She should be in the greenhouse,” Mattheo commented, his voice tinged with slight hesitation but also resignation.

“Yeah,” Enzo replied, already knowing where this was headed. “Now go on, or do you want to keep complaining for another hour?”

Mattheo looked at him, a little irritated, but also unsure of how to react. He knew what Enzo was suggesting wasn’t just about having a simple chat. He was telling Mattheo to open up in a way he didn’t allow himself to. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t let things continue like this.

Mattheo let out a heavy sigh and started walking towards the greenhouse. Enzo watched him for a moment, his expression serious but still offering silent support.

The cold wind cut through the empty greenhouses as she stayed there, alone, organising her materials and rereading notes from the day’s class. The light from the setting sun filtered through the windows, casting an orange glow across the room. She was so focused that she didn’t even hear the footsteps approaching.

“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” The familiar voice of Mattheo came from behind her, relaxed, with that trademark tone that made her roll her eyes — and, at the same time, smile.

She turned around, surprised, holding a quill in her hand. “You’re still here? I thought you’d have run off to the common room by now.”

“And leave you here alone, exhausted and lost in your thoughts?” He stepped closer with a teasing smile, stopping next to the counter where she worked. “Seems a bit irresponsible of me, don’t you think?”

She laughed lightly, shaking her head. “I’m fine. Just wanted to finish reviewing this before tomorrow.”

“Of course you did,” he replied, crossing his arms and casually leaning against the counter. “Always so diligent. But you know the plants aren’t going to run away if you leave them for tomorrow, right?”

She returned her focus to the notes, trying to ignore his closeness. “I’d rather be sure. Besides, if I head to the castle now, I’ll probably just get distracted.”

“So, you admit I’m a distraction.” He smiled, his gaze full of amusement.

She paused for a second, realising what she had said, and blushed slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Of course not,” he tilted his head, his eyes watching her every reaction. “But it’s not like it’s a lie.”

She huffed, trying to stifle a smile as she returned to her materials on the counter. “If you’ve only come here to tease me, you might as well head back to the castle.”

“Maybe I came for another reason.” He took a step forward, now standing even closer, enough that she could feel his warmth, despite the cold around them.

She lifted her eyes to meet his, trying to maintain composure. “And what might that be?”

He hesitated for a moment, the smile fading slightly, but the sparkle in his eyes remained. “Sometimes, I think you’re the only person who hasn’t realised.”

“Realised what?” The question escaped her lips before she could stop herself.

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned in a little more, his face close enough that she could smell the faint scent of tobacco mixed with something woody. His eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, the silence seemed louder than any words.

“This.” The word came out before he closed the gap between them, his lips meeting hers in a soft, but confident kiss.

She froze for a second, surprised, before relaxing slightly. The kiss was gentle, as if he was waiting for her to pull away. But she didn’t pull away.

When he broke the kiss, the smile returned to his face, now softer and almost challenging. “Maybe that clears things up.”

She was still processing what had just happened, her heart racing, words escaping her. “You kissed me.”

“And you liked it.” He took a step back, but his gaze remained fixed on hers, as if waiting for some sort of confirmation.

She sighed, a small, involuntary smile appearing on her lips. “I liked it.”

He laughed, shaking his head, and extended a hand to help her gather the scattered materials. “Come on, or Professor Sprout’s going to turn us into fertiliser for being late.”

Without realising it, she let him accompany her back to the castle, and this time, the silence between them felt comfortable — and full of new feelings.

#riddleriddles #harry potter #slytherin x hufflepuff #slytherpuff #mattheoxreader #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo x you #mattheo imagine #mattheo fluff

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amethystarachnid · 3 months ago

Note

HII

I just LOVE your work!!!

So can I please request trope number 9- with Wanda maximoff x Fem! Vampire reader...

So I was just thinking about like y/n and Wanda are really really close friends (both of them absolutely in love with each other)

That's all! THANK YOU!

LOVE LETTER

⤷ WANDA MAXIMOFF

ᯓ★ Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem!Vampire!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance

ᯓ★ From: MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ Word count: 5k

ᯓ★ Summary: you write a love letter to Wanda but forgot to sign it...

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think?

ᯓ★ First time working with a vampire!reader and I didnt really know what to do...hope you enjoy the story anyway!

ᯓ★MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The compound is quieter at night. Most of the team has gone to bed, leaving only the faint hum of security systems and the occasional creak of the building settling. You’re used to the quiet, to the dark, to the way the world slows when the sun goes down. It’s comforting in a way it probably shouldn’t be.

You sit on one of the couches in the common room, a book resting open on your lap. You haven’t turned a page in twenty minutes. Your mind is too busy, too restless, but it isn’t the usual hunger or boredom that keeps you distracted. It’s her. Wanda Maximoff.

She’s in the kitchen, moving around with an ease that you envy, humming softly to herself as she makes tea. The overhead light casts a glow around her, catching on the deep red of her sweater, the loose waves of her hair. She’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful, but in moments like this—unguarded, comfortable—she’s breathtaking.

You shouldn’t be watching her like this. You shouldn’t be thinking about her the way you do. She’s your best friend, the closest person you have in this strange, makeshift family of heroes and gods. She’s kind to you in a way most people aren’t. She doesn’t flinch when your fangs slip out, doesn’t shy away when your hunger is obvious in your eyes. She trusts you. That should be enough.

It isn’t.

You’re in love with her. Have been for longer than you’re willing to admit, but the fear of ruining everything keeps you silent. So you sit in the quiet, staring at the same page of your book, listening to her soft movements, pretending that this is enough.

Wanda turns from the kitchen with her mug in hand, catching you watching her before you can look away. Her lips twitch into a small smile, and she walks over, settling onto the couch beside you. The warmth of her body is immediate, sinking into you like the heat of the sun, even though you don’t feel it the way she does.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks, voice soft.

You shake your head. “Not really.”

She takes a sip of her tea, watching you over the rim of her mug. You force yourself to focus on her eyes and not the curve of her lips, not the way the steam curls around her face.

“What about you?” you ask.

She shrugs. “Too quiet.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Most people like the quiet at night.”

She nudges you lightly with her elbow. “You don’t.”

You glance at her, raising a brow. “I do.”

“No, you don’t,” she says with certainty. “You like the sound of people moving around. You like voices, music, anything that makes it feel less empty.”

She’s not wrong. You’ve spent enough years in silence to last a lifetime. You prefer the noise, the proof that you’re not alone, but she’s one of the few people who’s noticed.

“I guess you’re right,” you admit.

Her smile widens slightly, like she’s pleased with herself, and she leans back against the couch. You try not to focus on how close she is, how her knee brushes against yours.

“Are you reading, or just staring at the pages?” she teases, nodding toward your book.

You glance down at it, realizing you haven’t moved your hands in so long that it might as well be a prop. You sigh. “Staring, mostly.”

She hums thoughtfully and shifts, tucking her legs beneath her as she gets comfortable. “Maybe I should read to you.”

Your stomach flips, and you hope it doesn’t show on your face. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” she says simply, holding her hand out for the book.

You hesitate before giving it to her, watching as she flips to the beginning of the chapter. She clears her throat slightly before she starts, her voice slipping into the rhythm of the words with a natural ease. You listen, but not to the story. You listen to her, to the warmth in her voice, to the way certain words curl on her tongue.

You’re so in love with her it’s unbearable.

She reads for a while, the words washing over you in a way that feels almost hypnotic. You let yourself relax, leaning your head back against the couch, listening. She doesn’t stop until she reaches the end of the chapter, and when she does, she closes the book gently, looking over at you.

“Better?” she asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Her gaze lingers on you, something unreadable in her expression. You wonder, not for the first time, if she knows. If she notices the way you look at her, the way you freeze under her touch, the way your hunger for her has nothing to do with blood. If she does, she never says anything.

She sets the book aside and shifts slightly, resting her elbow on the back of the couch, her head propped up on her hand. “Can I ask you something?”

You swallow hard, hoping she doesn’t hear the way your breath catches. “Of course.”

She hesitates for a moment, like she’s choosing her words carefully. “Do you ever get lonely?”

The question catches you off guard. “What?”

She shrugs, her fingers tapping idly against her cheek. “I was just thinking. You’ve been around for a long time, right? Do you ever feel… alone?”

It’s a loaded question, and she knows it. You glance away, focusing on a small crack in the ceiling. “Sometimes.”

She’s quiet for a moment before she says, “I do too.”

You look back at her, surprised. “You’re never alone.”

She gives you a small, sad smile. “It’s not the same thing.”

You know what she means. You’ve felt it too, that strange kind of loneliness that lingers even when you’re surrounded by people. The kind that makes you ache for something you can’t name.

“I get it,” you say softly.

She studies you for a long moment before shifting again, stretching her legs out until her feet press against yours. She does it so casually, so effortlessly, like she belongs in your space, like she knows you won’t push her away.

You don’t. You never do.

She lets out a quiet sigh, her eyes fluttering shut. “I like being here with you.”

Your heart clenches painfully. You want to tell her that you love her, that you would spend a thousand lifetimes by her side if she asked, but the words lodge in your throat, suffocating.

Instead, you say, “Me too.”

And for now, that has to be enough.

The idea comes to you late at night, long after Wanda has gone to bed and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

You can’t keep doing this—watching her from the sidelines, letting your feelings fester in silence, pretending that being just her friend is enough when it never has been. She deserves to know. And if you can’t bring yourself to say it out loud, maybe you can write it down instead.

You don’t think. You just move. You grab a piece of paper, sit at your desk, and start writing.

At first, the words come slow, hesitant, as if you’re afraid the ink itself will betray you. But then, the truth spills out in a rush—how much she means to you, how she lights up your world in a way nothing else ever has, how her laugh is your favorite sound, how her touch lingers longer than it should, making your undead heart ache for something you fear you’ll never have.

You write it all. The love you’ve kept buried deep inside, the yearning, the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, she might feel the same.

When you finish, your hands shake. You stare at the letter, rereading the words until they blur together, and for a second, you consider tearing it up. But no, you can’t keep running from this. If you don’t do something now, you never will.

You fold the letter carefully, clutching it tight as you step into the hallway. The compound is eerily silent at this hour, everyone fast asleep, and the only sound is the faint hum of the ventilation system.

Wanda’s room isn’t far. You know the way by heart.

When you reach her door, your pulse races, an old habit that never quite faded despite what you are. You take a shaky breath and crouch down, carefully sliding the letter underneath her door, pushing it through the small gap at the bottom.

And then—just as the paper disappears into the darkness—you realize.

You didn’t sign it.

Panic grips you. Your name isn’t on the letter, not even initials, nothing to tell her who wrote it. You reach out instinctively, fingertips barely brushing the edge of the paper, but it’s too late. It’s already on the other side.

Shit.

For a long moment, you just kneel there, frozen, staring at the door like it might open and hand you back your mistake. But it doesn’t.

You can’t knock now. You can’t barge in and say, “Hey, by the way, that love letter? It’s from me.” No, that would be humiliating.

Maybe—maybe it’ll be fine. Maybe she’ll just come to you. She’ll read the letter, recognize the way you write, the things only you would say, and she’ll know. She has to know.

Right?

—

The next morning, you barely get any sleep, too busy thinking about what might happen when Wanda reads the letter. But when you finally drag yourself to the common room, stomach twisting with nerves, she’s already there.

And she’s smiling.

Not just any smile, but that soft, private one, the kind you’ve only seen when she talks about something—someone—she loves.

And she’s talking to Vision.

You stop in your tracks, confusion gripping you as you watch them. Wanda is holding a piece of paper—your letter. And Vision is standing in front of her, hands clasped behind his back, looking… pleased.

Oh.

No.

You listen, dread sinking into your bones as she speaks. “I just—I never expected something like this from you,” she says, her voice warm, touched. “It’s beautiful.”

Vision inclines his head, a small, knowing smile on his face. “I only wrote what was in my heart.”

Your stomach drops.

No. No, no, no.

This isn’t happening.

He didn’t—he couldn’t—

But then Wanda is reaching for him, touching his hand, and the way she’s looking at him—it’s the way you’ve always wanted her to look at you.

Your whole world tilts.

It’s a mistake. A terrible, awful mistake. But you can’t speak. You can’t move. All you can do is stand there, frozen, as Wanda tucks your letter to her chest, like it’s something precious, something she’s going to hold onto.

She thinks it’s from him.

And he’s letting her believe it.

You feel sick.

The realization crashes over you like a wave, drowning you, knocking the air from your lungs. Wanda is smiling. Vision is standing there, silent but accepting. Your love letter—the words you bled onto the page, the confessions you were too scared to say out loud—none of it belongs to you anymore.

It belongs to him.

You can’t be here.

You turn on your heel, leaving before either of them can notice you. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you need to get out, to get away from the sight of them together, from the sound of Wanda’s voice filled with warmth that was meant for you.

It was supposed to be you.

—

The days pass in a blur. You avoid Wanda as much as possible, which isn’t easy when you live in the same compound, but you try. It’s not like she notices. She’s too busy with him.

Every time you see them together, it feels like a knife twisting in your chest. You wonder if Vision knows what he’s done to you, if he realizes that by taking credit for your words, he’s stolen more than just a letter—he’s stolen your chance.

Or maybe he does know. Maybe he doesn’t care.

And Wanda—God, Wanda. She’s so happy. She looks at him like he hung the stars, like she finally has something good in her life, and you hate yourself for wanting to take that away from her.

You tell yourself it’s better this way. If she’s happy, if she never has to know the truth, then maybe it’s for the best.

But that doesn’t stop it from hurting.

—

A week later, you find yourself on the rooftop, staring out at the city. It’s late, and you should be inside, but you can’t bring yourself to be around the others, to watch Wanda and Vision fall into something that was never meant to be theirs.

You hear footsteps behind you. Soft, familiar.

You don’t turn around.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Wanda says, stepping beside you.

You force yourself to stay still, to keep your voice even. “Why?”

She leans against the railing, tilting her head as she studies you. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Your grip tightens on the metal. “No, I haven’t.”

She gives you a look. “Don’t lie to me.”

You sigh, staring out at the city lights. “I just… needed some space.”

“Did I do something wrong?” she asks, voice quiet.

You want to laugh. She has no idea.

“No,” you say, because it’s the truth. She didn’t do anything. You did this to yourself.

Wanda watches you for a long moment before looking down, a small, almost shy smile tugging at her lips. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

You don’t answer, but she continues anyway.

“I think I might be in love with him.”

The words hit you harder than you expect. You knew this was coming, knew it the moment she read your letter and thought it was from him, but hearing it out loud is something else entirely.

It breaks you.

You swallow the pain, bury it deep, and force yourself to nod. “That’s… great.”

She nudges you lightly. “You don’t sound happy.”

You force a smile, even as your heart shatters. “I am. If you’re happy, then I’m happy.”

She beams at you, and it’s cruel, how beautiful she looks when she’s talking about someone else.

You think about telling her the truth. You imagine what would happen if you said, It wasn’t him. It was me. Would she look at you differently? Would she hate you for lying, for waiting too long?

You’ll never know. Because you’ll never say it.

So you let her believe. You let her love someone else with the words you wrote.

And you break, silently, as she thanks you for being a good friend.

You stop going to the common areas.

At first, it’s easy to make excuses. Training sessions you don’t feel like attending, team movie nights that suddenly seem unbearable, morning coffee runs that you conveniently sleep through. The others don’t question it right away—after all, everyone has their off days—but as the week drags on, you hear them talking outside your door.

“She’s barely come out.” That’s Steve, ever the concerned leader.

“Maybe she just needs space.” Sam, rational as always.

Then Wanda’s voice—soft, worried. “I’ll check on her.”

Panic grips you. You don’t want to see her. You don’t want to look into her eyes and pretend you’re fine, pretend it doesn’t kill you every time she touches Vision like he’s something precious, something worthy of her love.

You hear footsteps approaching, and you move fast, slipping into bed and pulling the covers over your head just as there’s a knock on your door.

“Y/N?” Wanda’s voice is hesitant. “Are you okay?”

You don’t answer. You hold your breath, hoping she’ll leave.

Another knock. “I… I miss you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. The words are worse than silence. She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to you.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hear her sigh, and her footsteps retreat.

You exhale shakily, your chest tight with unshed tears.

You can’t do this.

��

The next day, Natasha comes knocking.

You consider ignoring her like you did Wanda, but it’s Natasha. She won’t leave just because you pretend you’re not here.

“Y/N,” she calls, voice firm. “I know you’re in there.”

You say nothing.

She sighs. “Okay. If you want me to kick the door down, just keep ignoring me.”

You groan, rolling onto your back. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

You hesitate. You wouldn’t put it past her.

With a sigh, you force yourself out of bed and open the door just enough to see her standing there, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.

“You look like hell,” she comments.

“Thanks,” you mutter.

“Can I come in?”

You don’t really want company, but you also don’t want her breaking your door, so you step aside, letting her in.

She surveys the room—dimly lit, curtains drawn, unmade bed, the faint scent of old coffee lingering in the air. You know what she sees.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” she asks, turning to you.

You shake your head, avoiding her gaze. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

She snorts. “Yeah, and I’m the queen of England.”

You try to keep your expression neutral, but the weight in your chest is suffocating.

Nat watches you carefully, her voice softening. “Y/N… whatever it is, you don’t have to deal with it alone.”

That’s what breaks you.

The lump in your throat grows unbearable, your vision blurring as your breath shudders. “I—” Your voice cracks, and suddenly, you’re crying, the dam bursting before you can stop it.

Nat’s arms are around you in seconds, strong and steady. You cling to her like she’s the only thing keeping you together, sobbing into her shoulder.

Between ragged breaths, the words spill out—how you love Wanda, how you wrote the letter, how Vision took the credit, how it’s killing you to watch them together.

Nat is quiet as you talk, holding you, letting you cry. When you finally stop, exhausted and drained, she pulls back slightly, her hands firm on your shoulders.

“Well,” she says, “that’s a pile of absolute bullshit.”

You blink up at her, sniffling. “What?”

She raises a brow. “Vision took credit for your letter? And Wanda just believed him?”

You nod miserably.

Nat shakes her head, muttering something in Russian that you’re pretty sure is a curse. “Unbelievable.”

You wipe your eyes, exhausted. “I just… I don’t know what to do.”

Nat squeezes your shoulders. “First, we’re getting you out of this room before you turn into a full-blown vampire stereotype.”

You give her a weak glare. “That’s offensive.”

“Then come prove me wrong.” She smirks. “C’mon, I promise not to throw you into the sun.”

Despite yourself, you let out a watery laugh.

—

True to her word, Nat doesn’t let you isolate yourself again. She drags you to training, to breakfast, to the common room—even to team briefings you could technically skip. And every time Wanda and Vision walk in, Nat finds a way to make a comment.

The first time, it’s subtle.

“Wow, Vision,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

He tilts his head. “Pardon?”

She gestures vaguely at Wanda. “The love letter. Smooth move.”

Wanda smiles. “I know, right? I was so surprised.”

Nat hums. “Yeah, I bet.” She flicks a glance at you, and you stare at the table, willing the floor to swallow you whole.

The second time, she’s bolder.

It’s during a mission debrief, and Vision is explaining strategy. Nat, sitting beside you, mutters under her breath, “Funny how he’s got such a way with words when he’s taking them from someone else.”

You elbow her. She just smirks.

But the third time—

It happens at lunch, when Wanda and Vision sit across from you and Nat. You barely look up from your food, but Wanda smiles at you. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

You nod mutely.

Vision clears his throat. “Yes, it is good to see you socializing again.”

Nat scoffs. “Oh yeah, wouldn’t want her locking herself away again over some misunderstanding.”

Wanda tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

Nat shrugs, sipping her drink. “Nothing. Just thinking about how some people take credit for things they didn’t actually do.”

Vision stiffens slightly, but says nothing.

You shoot Nat a look. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

She smirks, but follows you out of the room.

“Nat,” you hiss when you’re alone, “what are you doing?”

She crosses her arms. “Getting under his skin.”

“Why?”

“Because he deserves it.”

You run a hand through your hair, frustrated. “This isn’t helping.”

She softens. “Y/N… you can’t just let this go. He lied. And Wanda—she’s smart, but she’s blind to this. Someone needs to open her eyes.”

You swallow hard. “And what if she still chooses him?”

Nat hesitates, then sighs. “Then she’s an idiot.”

Your chest aches.

She places a hand on your shoulder. “But at least you’ll know the truth is out there.”

You nod slowly, but deep down, you’re terrified.

Because the truth won’t just change Wanda’s perception of Vision.

It might change how she sees you.

It happens so suddenly that you don’t even have time to stop it.

One second, everyone is gathered in the common room, chatting after dinner, and the next, the truth spills out in a way no one could have predicted.

Vision is the one who causes it.

He’s recounting something—a tactical observation, some philosophical discussion—and Wanda, sitting beside him, casually nudges his arm. “You always have a way with words,” she teases, smiling. “Like that letter.”

Your stomach tightens.

Natasha, who’s lounging on the couch across from you, raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, that letter,” she says smoothly, sipping her drink. “Still can’t believe you came up with that all on your own.”

Vision pauses, glancing at Wanda, then at Nat. “It was simply a reflection of my sentiments.”

“Oh?” Nat tilts her head. “So if I asked you to write another one, just like it, right now, you could?”

The room stills.

Wanda frowns slightly. “Nat, what are you—?”

“Come on, Vis,” Nat continues, setting her drink down. “You’re a poet, right? Should be easy.”

Vision hesitates.

Too long.

The silence stretches, and the air shifts. The ease in Wanda’s expression fades as she studies him. “Vision?”

He clears his throat. “I—”

And that’s all it takes.

You see the exact moment realization dawns on Wanda’s face. Her brow furrows, her lips part, and she turns—not to Nat, not to Vision, but to you.

Your blood turns cold.

You don’t wait for her to say anything. You can’t.

You’re on your feet before you realize it, moving fast, retreating from the room, from their gazes, from the truth unraveling all around you.

You don’t stop until you’re in your room, the door slamming shut behind you.

Your heart pounds, your breath comes fast, and the weight of what just happened crashes over you like a tidal wave.

It’s over.

Wanda knows.

She knows it wasn’t Vision.

She knows it was you.

And she must be furious.

You pace, running your hands through your hair, panic clawing at your insides. You were never supposed to tell her. She was never supposed to find out.

What if she hates you?

What if she thinks you tricked her?

What if this ruins everything?

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the thoughts away, but they won’t stop.

Then—

A knock.

You freeze.

You don’t answer. Maybe if you stay quiet, she’ll leave—

“Y/N.” Wanda’s voice is soft, just outside your door.

You swallow hard. Say nothing.

Another knock. “Please.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to see the anger in her eyes, the disappointment, the pity.

“Okay,” she says after a long pause. “Then I’ll talk, and you can listen.”

You don’t stop her.

She takes a deep breath. “I should have known.” A humorless chuckle. “No—I did know. I think, deep down, some part of me always suspected.”

You frown slightly, your hands clenching at your sides.

“I wanted it to be real,” she continues, voice quiet. “I wanted to believe it was from him because… because I thought maybe if I gave him a chance, I could feel something. Maybe I’d finally get the normal love everyone always talks about.”

Your breath catches.

“But the truth is… I never really loved him.” A pause. “I cared about him. But it was never… it was never what I wanted it to be.”

You can’t move.

“Do you know who I do feel something for?”

Silence.

Your hands shake.

“I think you do,” Wanda whispers.

You inhale sharply.

She’s waiting for you.

And suddenly, you realize—she’s not angry. She’s not here to scream at you, to tell you that you ruined everything.

She’s here because she wants to be.

Slowly, with a deep breath, you step forward and open the door.

Wanda stands there, looking up at you with wide, uncertain eyes.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admits. “I’ve never felt this way before. And I was scared. I am scared.”

You swallow, voice hoarse. “Scared of what?”

She smiles faintly. “Of what you make me feel.”

Your breath stutters.

She reaches out, hesitant, fingers brushing yours. “But… if you’re willing to be patient with me… maybe we can figure it out together.”

Your eyes search hers, and for the first time in weeks, you see the truth.

She wants this.

She wants you.

Your hand tightens around hers, and for the first time in what feels like forever—

You breathe.

The first time you wake up with Wanda curled against you, you almost forget to breathe.

Not that you need to—but still.

It’s been a few weeks since that night outside your door, since she held your hand and told you she wanted to figure this out. Since you both agreed to take things slow.

And you have.

There are no labels, no grand declarations—just stolen moments, quiet touches, and a slow unraveling of something you’ve both been afraid to name.

You don’t kiss yet. You don’t rush anything.

And yet, waking up like this, with her warmth pressed against you, her steady heartbeat thrumming so close, you feel like you might fall apart.

She stirs slightly, shifting closer, her hand resting lightly over your stomach.

You exhale shakily, staring up at the ceiling.

You don’t know how long you can do this without breaking.

Wanda makes a soft noise, then buries her face against your shoulder. “You’re thinking too loud.”

You tense. “Sorry.”

She hums, voice thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate. You don’t want to ruin this moment.

But Wanda has a way of pulling the truth from you.

“…Nothing.”

She tilts her head, her cheek pressing into your arm. “Liar.”

You let out a breathy laugh, but it’s hollow.

Wanda shifts, propping herself up on one elbow to look at you properly. Her hair is tousled, her eyes soft with sleep, and for a second, you let yourself pretend that this is normal. That this is something you can have.

Her fingers skim over your wrist, tracing absent patterns. “Tell me.”

You hesitate, staring at the ceiling.

Then, finally— “I can’t give you everything.”

She stills.

You swallow hard, forcing the words out. “I can’t—I can’t take you out to dinner in the sunlight. I can’t—I can’t grow old with you. I can’t give you—” Your voice catches. “I can’t give you a normal life, Wanda.”

The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy.

Then, after a long pause, Wanda shifts, leaning over you slightly. “Do you want to know a secret?”

You blink up at her. “What?”

Her lips quirk up slightly. “I’ve never had a normal life.”

You huff out a laugh, but it’s strained. “That’s not the point—”

“Yes, it is,” she interrupts gently. “I don’t want normal, Y/N.” She pauses, then continues, softer, “I just want you.”

Your breath catches.

She watches you carefully, her fingers brushing lightly over your cheek. “I don’t care if we have to go on late-night dates or if you can’t drink wine with me at dinner or if you never age another day. None of that changes how I feel.”

You want to believe her. God, you want to.

But—

“What if you change your mind?” The words come out small. “What if one day, you wake up and realize you want something more? Something I can’t give you?”

Wanda frowns slightly, searching your eyes. Then, slowly, she leans in, resting her forehead against yours.

“If that happens,” she murmurs, “then we talk about it.”

You inhale sharply.

She pulls back slightly, studying you. “I can’t promise you forever. I don’t think anyone can.” She pauses. “But I can promise that right now, there’s no one else I’d rather be with.”

Something tightens in your chest.

You swallow hard, your hands curling into the sheets. “…Okay.”

Her smile is small, but real. “Okay.”

And just like that, you let yourself breathe again.

—

It takes time.

Wanda is patient.

You are cautious.

You learn each other in small ways—fingers brushing when you sit together, sleepy conversations at 3 AM, the way her powers spark softly when she gets flustered.

She learns that you don’t like mirrors, that your hands are always cold, that your favorite way to fall asleep is listening to the sound of her heart.

You learn that she dreams in color, that she talks to plants when she thinks no one’s listening, that her magic feels like warm honey when she lets it touch your skin.

One night, she holds your hand under the stars and asks, “Can I kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your throat feels tight. “Are you sure?”

She squeezes your hand. ��I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

So you let her.

And it’s slow, and warm, and careful.

And for the first time in forever, you don’t feel like a monster.

You just feel hers.

#amethyst arachnid #marvel #marvel fanfiction #comics #marvel x reader #gaming #movies #x reader #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #the scarlet witch #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff fanfiction #elizabeth olsen #scarlet witch x you #scarlet witch x reader

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devosin · 6 months ago

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— LATE NIGHTS & FLASHING LIGHTS !! prologue : a series of unfortunate events . .

♡. Spotify playlist | Updates, every Friday !! — Vil Schoenheit x reader | Vil pov . .

Vil sighs, scrunching his eyes shut, which proved to be more difficult than it appeared with the mud mask that he applied over half an hour ago still on his face, currently drier than the gluten free bread he bought last week. He melted into his couch, feeling an overwhelming sense of boredom settle into his otherwise restless body.

Before he knew it, he found himself mindlessly scrolling through Magicam, looking through the self proclaimed critique’s 30 to 60 second reviews on his new movie or the finale of some show he was in, for a hit of dopamine. Which clearly wasn’t working, as each video was the same thing washed over and over again repeated with new synonyms bundled together to sound authentic (Which it rarely was) and of course, there was those few criticisms here and there, nothing uncommon.

Vil lays his head back, scrolling some more, “Influencer Tartaglia joins the new soon to debut boyband, D!CKZ—”, he shuts his phone and tosses it to the side carelessly . . Did he ever mention his distaste for influencers moving into the entertainment industry? . . It makes his blood boil, just a tiny bit, since most of the influencers tend to ruin it for a lot of genuinely talented and lesser known actors out there, not to mention they’re so-called talent is usually mediocre at best.

And he could go on and list all the reasons why influencers do not deserve a spot in the spotlight with the elite, and they may all seem reasonable at first, but it’s a cover-up for the real reason.

He feels some weird sort of envy, towards those individuals who put in zero effort and somehow make it, and get all these big protagonist roles right away, and how they aren’t criticized for their faults or terrible acting skills, just because they have a huge built fanbase of delusional fangirls ready to defend them from the get-go.

Or how they aren’t criticized when they look less than perfect on screen, although he appreciates that current age viewers can acknowledge that it’s only human to get acne or maybe a pimple here and there, he didn’t meet the same fate when he was younger . . It just makes him feel bitter . . and he’d never speak those feelings into existence, but deep down he does feel a bit hurt by the shift, it sometimes makes him feel like all those previous breakdowns were for naught.

Vil snaps out of his pity party for one, getting up and stretching, going into the bathroom to wash off the mask before it dries out his skin (It probably already has), burn-out has hit him hard, and as much as his love for acting runs-deep, he’d rather take a break before his audience starts noticing his shift in acting.

Which is why he agreed to hosting the show in the first place, he wanted to switch up his career, for awhile at least, he’s taking a break from acting but doesn’t want to directly leave the industry, because it’s difficult to fit right back in place once you leave, as there's always someone who could come and steal your position, and maybe even do better . . that’s why this industry is so hard to survive in, and as pitiful as it sounds, he’s practically married to his work, he can’t exactly risk it, in peace.

Vil dries his face with a towel and then moves to grab his moisturizer, when his work phone rings.

“Hello, this is Amanda from Descendants. Inc. We talked before reguardinging ‘Late nights & Flashing lights’ . ” . . . “So, due to a multitude of reasons, we’re kind of in a time crunch to get the premiere launched, by the end of this month actually . . . but, we’ve received confirmation on who’ll be co-hosting with you, Y/n L/n!”

“ . . . excuse me?”

“This must be such a shock, but Y/n has actually been our top pick for this role, and the internet seems to really want to see the two of you on-screen together, considering your screen presence, I honestly think you two will be a perfect match for the show.”

“I—”, Vil’s voice was hoarse as he tried to mentally wrap around all the information that was just dropped, “Ah—That’s time, we’re so excited to see you on set next week.” . . . “If you’d like, I could send you y/n’s number beforehand, so the two of you could talk things through?”, that seems to snap him back to reality, as the professionalism seeps right back into him, “That would be lovely, thank you.”

The doorbell rings, informing Vil that his takeout that he ordered about two hours ago had finally arrived, but he didn’t feel like eating anymore.

Drinking is completely legal at 18-19 in my country, so I'm just putting that over here before someone tries fighting with me about it (This has happened before), also Vil is currently in his late 20's.

Don't expect everything to play off of Vil in-game, since this is placed like a decade into the future, so things will be changes and messed around with to fit the current age and setting more. <3

Profiles | Masterlist | Next chapter . .

— LATE NIGHTS & FLASHING LIGHTS !! ♡. Synopsis : VIL SCHOENHEIT recently signed a contract under Descendant. Inc for his very own late night show, only to find out his co-star and fellow co-host is none other than Y/n L/n, someone he hates despite knowing very little about them and never having met them, previously. Y/N L/N, an actor who made their debut 3 years ago and hasn’t been able to catch a break since, recently decided to sign a deal with Descendants. Inc to host their new late night show “late nights & flashing lights”, as a break from acting . . Only to find out their favorite long-time actor will be co-hosting with them. Tune in every Friday, for a new episode of “late nights & flashing lights” to see if these two hosts can find a peaceful work-bond amidst their judgements . . and quite possibly even love? . .

♡. Want spoilers ?! . . Join my server . . !! (or for updates)

— taglist ♡ ; @well-look-at-this , @honkai-freak , @kingnem10 , @merviolet-asks , @katzline , @pebble-bb , @meigalaxy , @lordbugs , @crowbird , @yuus3n , @azriel-sama , @reivelmin , @the-ghost-0f-t0m0 , @eliza-be-t-h , @feverish-dove , @yejiswifex , @l0v3r666 , @cece-cherries , @frootloopscos , @abell2029cluster , @ephemii , @alienlatteinspace

♡ . Ask to be tagged... (If you don't see yourself up here, I cant tag you)

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moonlitsmile · 2 months ago

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Just ride

dbf Joel Miller x f!reader

“Been tryin' hard not to get into trouble, but I, I've got a war in my mind. So, I just ride”

꣑୧ — summary | When boredom strikes, your dad casually suggests you learn how to ride a horse, and of course, who better to teach you than his oldest friend, Joel Miller? His “lessons” start off innocent enough, until things take a turn neither of you can ignore. Turns out, riding a horse isn’t the only thing he’s good at teaching.

🝮 oral sex, RAW, reader on birth control apparently, dom joel sub reader, riding, learning how to ride Joel, age gap (readers 19, he’s early 40s), making out, teasing, talking and guiding you thru it, he has horses in here, no apocalypse, Sarah’s alive, long hair Joel, lmk if I missed anything!!

The morning was still, the kind of still that almost made you feel like the world had hit pause. No cars passing by the window. No birds chirping. Even the trees outside looked half-asleep, their branches barely stirring in the breeze.

You’d woken up early, not on purpose, just one of those mornings where your body decided it was done resting long before your mind was ready. For a while, you tried to fight it. Pulled the covers up to your chin, shifted onto your side, flipped the pillow to the cold side, all in hopes of drifting back off. But it didn’t take

So now you were here. Lying in bed with your head hanging off the side, your eyes on the ceiling, watching the slow movement of shadows as the sun inched higher.

You’d already done a handful of aimless things. Brushed your teeth. Made your bed, then immediately laid on top of it. Spent ten minutes scrolling through your phone only to toss it aside when you realized you’d absorbed none of it.

Eventually, you’d ended up back in your room with an old coloring book and a cheap pack of colored pencils, something you found buried in the back of your closet. The kind of thing you kept around for “calm days” but never actually used. Now it was splayed out across your bed, pencils rolling every time you shifted, and you couldn’t even remember which page you started with.

You weren’t coloring because you enjoyed it. You were coloring because… well, there was nothing else to do.

Your room was warm with sunlight, just the right amount of cozy that made you want to nap, even if you couldn’t fall asleep again. The window was cracked open just a little, letting in the crisp scent of early spring, damp earth, blooming trees, something green.

Time felt syrupy. Slow. You weren’t sure how long you’d been laying there, staring at a page half-filled with soft blues and muted greens, your fingers smudged from rubbing mistakes away.

The house was quiet aside from the occasional groan of the floorboards or the tick of the clock in the hallway. Your dad was probably still in the kitchen, drinking his second or third cup of coffee and reading the paper like he did every morning. That kind of predictability felt comforting and claustrophobic at the same time.

You sat up with a groan and rubbed your hands over your face.

You weren’t tired. You weren’t stressed. You weren’t even sad. You were just… bored

The kind of bored that made your chest feel tight. Like you needed to do something with your hands, or your legs, or your life, or you were going to crawl out of your skin.

With a deep sigh, you pushed the coloring book off your lap and let it flop closed beside you. You stretched, arms high above your head, back arching until you heard a soft pop in your spine. It felt good, but didn’t help.

You stood slowly, the soles of your feet cold against the hardwood as you padded out of your room, aimless and restless all at once.

The day stretched out ahead of you, bright, quiet, and endlessly uneventful.

You had no idea it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

You found your dad exactly where you expected him: hunched slightly at the kitchen table, coffee mug in one hand, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he scrolled through something on his phone. The same gray t-shirt he wore every weekend was wrinkled at the collar, and there was a faint smear of toothpaste on his sleeve.

“Morning,” he said without looking up, thumb flicking the screen.

You opened the fridge. “It’s not even morning anymore.”

“It is until I finish my coffee.”

You pulled out a container of sliced melon, popped the lid off, and leaned against the counter while you ate a piece. “You have any plans today?”

He shrugged. “Was thinking about running to the feed store, maybe swinging by the lumber yard. Why?”

You hesitated. “Just wondering. I feel like I’ve already done everything I can do around here.”

He chuckled lowly. “Did you clean out the gutters like you said you were gonna?”

You narrowed your eyes at him and popped another piece of melon in your mouth. “I meant fun things.”

“Well, ‘round here, errands are about as fun as it gets.”

He glanced up at you then, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re welcome to come along. Could use a second set of hands if I end up grabbing plywood.”

You gave it a moment, then shrugged. “Sure. Better than sitting here doing nothing.”

The feed store smelled like hay and sawdust and something slightly sour that clung to your shirt long after you left. You trailed behind your dad as he chatted with the cashier, someone he clearly knew, judging by the way they laughed like old friends, and loaded a few bags of pellets onto a cart.

After that came the lumber yard. You helped him load wood into the bed of his truck, your arms straining a little more than you wanted to admit as you wrestled with one awkward sheet of plywood. Your dad watched, amused, but didn’t say anything. He just handed you his gloves once it was all stacked and secure, and told you to hop in.

It was the kind of day that moved slowly in pieces. One errand blending into the next. You stopped for gas, then grabbed sandwiches from a drive-thru you hadn’t been to in years. Sat in the parking lot and ate in silence, the radio playing quietly between bites.

“You really that bored?” he asked suddenly, wiping his hands on a napkin.

You nodded, slumped back in your seat. “I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“Should’ve brought a book.”

“I did. I finished it yesterday.”

He chuckled and shook his head, staring out the windshield. “You need a hobby.”

“I have hobbies. I’m just… sick of them all.”

He gave a thoughtful hum, like he was filing that away for later. “Well,” he said after a minute, “You could always try something new,” he said again, more pointedly this time, tapping his fingers lightly against the steering wheel.

You turned your head toward him, eyebrow raised. “Like what? Don’t say gardening, I swear to God.”

He smirked. “Wasn’t gonna say gardening.”

You gave him a look, waiting.

He glanced over at you, then back at the road. “You ever think about learnin’ how to ride a horse?”

You blinked. “A horse?”

“Yeah.”

You laughed softly, unsure if he was joking. “Uh… no. Never really crossed my mind.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno,” you said with a shrug. “It’s just not something I’ve ever needed to do. Seems like it’d be cool, I guess, but… not exactly on my bucket list.”

“Well, you got nothin’ but time right now,” he said, tone casual. “Doesn’t hurt to try somethin’ different. Gives you a reason to be outside, too.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, thinking about it. You could picture it vaguely, dusty trails, big eyes and warm skin, the sway of movement you’d have to learn to balance with. It was definitely more interesting than laying around coloring flowers.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” you muttered, tossing your empty sandwich wrapper into the paper bag on the floor.

Your dad nodded like he’d been waiting for that. “Well, Joel’s got a few horses out on his land. Knows ‘em inside out. Keeps ‘em trained and calm.”

You froze, just for a second. Not dramatically, barely enough to notice, but your breath caught in a way it hadn’t all day. Joel.

“Joel?” you repeated, keeping your voice even.

“Yeah. He’s always been good with animals. Has the patience for it,” your dad said. “I could give him a call, see if he’s around this week. Wouldn’t mind takin’ a few hours to show you the ropes.”

You nodded slowly, picking at a loose thread on your shirt. “Hm. I mean, yeah. That could be cool.”

Your dad glanced over again, one brow raised. “You sure? Thought you said it never crossed your mind.”

“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t try it,” you said, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “I said I was bored, not dead inside.”

He huffed a short laugh, shifting the truck into drive. “Alright, I’ll check in with him. Might do you some good to get outta the house for a bit.”

You leaned your head against the window as the engine rumbled back to life, eyes half-lidded, watching the trees blur past as you pulled back onto the road. You weren’t sure what you expected from the rest of the day, but a slow horseback ride under a quiet sky suddenly didn’t sound so bad. And for some reason, neither did Joel.

You kept it casual at first.

Later that afternoon, while helping unload the wood from the back of the truck, you asked once.

“Did you text Joel yet?”

Your dad, arms full of tools, grunted. “I will. Gimme a minute.”

Then again that evening, when he was washing up after dinner.

“Hey, just wondering… did you ever ask Joel about the horse thing?”

He gave you a half-smile in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. “You’re in a real hurry to hop on a saddle, huh?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it.

By the next morning, you were pacing. Not like a lunatic, just enough that your dad noticed.

“I texted him,” he said, sipping from his mug. “He’s busy today, but said maybe sometime this week. He’ll let me know.”

You tried not to sound too eager. “Cool. That’s cool.”

But the truth was… you wanted to see him.

Joel Miller had been part of your life for as long as you could remember. He and your dad had known each other since before you were born, grew up a few towns over, played ball together in high school, stuck close even when life pulled them in different directions. Joel had always been around in the way family friends are: birthdays, barbecues, lazy Sundays where he’d drop by with a six-pack and end up fixing something that had been broken for months

He was reliable. Good with his hands. Knew how to make things work, cars, fences, busted porch steps, even people. There was something about him that felt grounded, unshakable. And maybe that’s what made you nervous around him.

He wasn’t loud or flashy. He didn’t try to be funny or charming. But he was, in that quiet, steady kind of way that crept up on you.

Even when you were younger, you’d get this weird flutter in your stomach when he was near. It didn’t matter if he was just helping your dad fix the sink or lighting the grill out back, he had this easy confidence, this worn-in kind of handsomeness that felt… different from the boys you knew. You used to brush it off as nothing, just nerves around an older guy. A harmless little thing.

But the older you got, the harder it became to ignore.

Especially now, when you were old enough to recognize it for what it really was.

You didn’t want to just learn how to ride a horse.

You wanted to see him. Talk to him. Be near him without feeling like some awkward kid anymore.

You tried not to think too much about it. You told yourself it was about the horses, about getting out of the house, about trying something new.

But when you asked your dad again that evening “Did he say specifically when yet?”you knew that wasn’t really the reason.

The week dragged.

You tried to keep yourself busy, picked up a new book, reorganized your closet, even offered to help your dad with some chores you usually avoided like the plague. You swept out the garage, folded laundry, went on a walk around the block just to stretch your legs. Anything to kill time

But no matter what you did, you kept catching yourself drifting, your thoughts slipping toward him.

You didn’t tell anyone. Not your friends. Not your dad. It was just something quiet and personal, tucked away where no one could poke at it.

Still, every time your phone buzzed, your heart kicked up a little, hoping maybe your dad had forwarded something, “Joel said tomorrow” or “He’s got time this afternoon” but nothing ever came.

Monday passed. Then Tuesday. Wednesday. And by Friday, you were starting to think it wasn’t going to happen at all. Maybe Joel got too busy. Maybe your dad forgot. Or maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.

You let it go, sort of. Told yourself to stop thinking about it. Stopped asking. Stopped hoping.

And then came Saturday.

You were still in bed when your door creaked open. The light from the hallway spilled across your floor, and you groaned, flipping onto your stomach and burying your face in the pillow.

“Hey,” your dad said casually, leaning on the doorframe. “You awake?”

“No,” you mumbled into the blanket.

“Well, you better be. Go get dressed. You’re headin’ over to Joel’s.”

You sat up so fast the blood rushed to your head. “Wait—what?”

“He’s free today. Said he’s got a couple hours and doesn’t mind showin’ you the basics.” He looked amused, like he was already expecting your reaction.

Your heart thudded against your ribs as you blinked at him, wide-eyed. “Now?”

“Yep. You’ve got, like, twenty minutes. I’ll drive you over.”

And just like that, the lazy haze of the morning snapped away. You were fully awake now, nerves suddenly alive under your skin.

You nodded quickly and scrambled out of bed the second he shut the door, already rifling through your dresser, trying to figure out what the hell to wear that looked like you weren’t trying too hard but also didn’t just roll out of bed.

And underneath all the butterflies and nervous energy, there was one steady thought in your chest, You were finally going to see him.

You moved fast, faster than you had all week.

The second your dad’s footsteps disappeared down the hall, you threw open your closet and started grabbing clothes. Everything suddenly felt too tight or too baggy or too much. You held up two different shirts, frowned, tossed them both on the bed, then settled on something simple, a simple white tshirt that gently hugged your figure, and loose blue jeans. the ones that hugged you just right and made you feel comfortable but not sloppy.

You hesitated at the mirror, pulling your hair out of its sleep-tangled mess with your fingers. Then you grabbed a brush and ran it through a little too fast, wincing as you hit a knot.

“Shit—ow.”

You could already feel the heat creeping up your neck, not even out of the house yet and your pulse was picking up speed. You kept brushing anyway, smoothing everything down, watching yourself carefully like maybe you’d see some version of confidence reflected back.

When you were done, you stared for a second too long.

You looked fine. Natural. Like someone who was just going to learn how to ride a horse and not like someone totally overthinking what it meant to be around Joel Miller.

Still… you ran a touch of gloss over your lips. Just a little.

Just in case.

By the time you walked out of your room and into the kitchen, your dad was already standing by the front door, keys in hand.

“Bout time,” he said, amused. “You were gettin’ ready like you had a date.”

You froze for a split second, heartbeat jumping, but he was already chuckling, heading toward the car

You followed quickly, trying not to think about how your stomach flipped at the idea.

Because no, it wasn’t a date.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t something.

You climbed into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut behind you, your palms already warm with anticipation. Your dad started the engine, shifted into reverse, and pulled out onto the road like it was any other day.

But it didn’t feel like any other day.

Because you were finally going to see him. Joel.

And you didn’t know what was waiting for you on the other side of that drive, but you were already a little breathless thinking about it.

The drive to Joel’s wasn’t long, but every minute felt stretched and slow, like the quiet tension of waiting backstage before stepping into a spotlight.

Your dad kept the windows cracked, the warm morning air drifting in and tousling your hair. The radio played low, some old 80s song you didn’t know the words to, and he tapped the steering wheel to the beat, completely relaxed. Like this was just another Saturday, no different than the last.

“You ever ride before?” he asked, glancing over at you.

What kinda question was that? He’s been with you your whole life

You shook your head. “Nope.”

“Joel’s good at teaching. Patient as hell.”

You nodded again, watching the trees blur past your window. His voice faded after that, becoming more like background noise as your mind drifted elsewhere.

You thought about Joel’s voice, the gravel in it. The way his hands always looked a little roughed up, but steady. You remembered the way he smelled once, brushing past you at a barbecue, like cedarwood and sun. How close he’d stood when he reached for the cooler you couldn’t open. How your breath caught when he’d given you that quiet little nod and half-smile, not even realizing the mess it made in your chest.

And now you were going to be with him.

Your cheeks warmed, and you blinked quickly, grounding yourself in the present. Your dad was still talking about something, ranch maintenance or horse breeds or feed types, maybe, but you weren’t following.

You cleared your throat softly. “Has he always lived out there?”

Your dad looked over, then nodded. “Yeah, pretty much. Bought the place years back. Likes the space. Said the quiet helps him think.”

You hummed, eyes flicking to the road. “He’s got a nice setup?”

“Real nice. Built a lot of it himself. Fixed up the barn last spring, I think. Said it was falling apart at the corners.”

You hesitated a second, then asked, casual as you could manage, “Does he live alone?”

Your dad glanced over again, brow raised, just slightly. But he didn’t read into it.

“Yeah. Ever since Sarah moved out. Joel’s always been kinda… private like that. Likes his space. Doesn’t bring people around much unless he trusts ‘em.”

Sarah was a couple years older than you, maybe 2 or 3. She already got a place of her own?. That answer sat in your chest a little heavier than you expected. Alone. Private. A place no one really visited unless he wanted them there.

So why had he said yes?

You turned back to the window, trying not to smile too obviously.

He didn’t have to say yes.

And yet here you were, less than ten minutes away.

The truck rumbled to a stop at the edge of Joel’s property, gravel crunching beneath the tires as your dad shifted into park. You looked out the window, taking it all in.

The house was modest, low and wide with a wraparound porch that looked exactly the way you remembered, wood slightly weathered but solid, well-cared for. The barn sat off to the left, nestled between a couple of trees, and you could already make out the fence line where the horses wandered in the distance.

Everything smelled like dry earth and fresh air.

Your dad opened the door with a groan and stepped out, stretching his back like he’d just driven across the state. You followed, sliding out a bit more slowly, your heart suddenly heavier in your chest.

You smoothed your hands down your jeans.

And then, you heard it.

The front screen door creaked open, followed by the low thump of boots on wood. Joel stepped out casually, wiping his hands on a rag as he made his way down the steps. His shirt was already a little dusted from the day, sleeves pushed up, tanned arms flexing with every movement. He looked just like you remembered, and somehow, even better.

“Bout time,” he called, voice rough with that slow drawl that always sounded like gravel and sun. “Thought you were gonna sleep through the whole day.”

Your dad laughed, already walking up to meet him. “Told you she’d take forever gettin’ ready.”

Joel chuckled and pulled him into a quick hug, clapping him on the back like always.

You stood a few feet back, suddenly feeling… young. Small. Unsure of what to do with your hands.

Joel’s eyes finally slid toward you, and your breath hitched just a little when they met yours. There was that look, easy, warm, unreadable.

“Well, hey there,” he said, voice softening as he stepped toward you. “Ain’t seen you in a while.”

You offered a shy smile, tucking some hair behind your ear, about to say something when he pulled you into a brief hug.

It wasn’t too long. Just enough.

Just long enough for you to feel the heat of him, the firmness of his chest, the way his hand rested at the small of your back like he didn’t even have to think about it.

Then he pulled back and looked you over, a low whistle under his breath. “Damn. You’ve gotten older.”

You laughed lightly, trying to play it off, but your heart was in your chest.

“Yeah, well. That’s kind of how time works.”

Joel smirked. “Fair enough.”

Your dad was already wandering toward the fence, probably to look at the horses, and for a moment, it was just you and Joel, standing there in the quiet hum of the late morning.

And even though the sun was warm on your skin, you swore it was his eyes that made you feel flushed.

Joel gave your shoulder a light pat before stepping back, nodding toward the pasture.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice easy. “Let’s go say hi to the horses before they get bored.”

You followed behind as he fell into step just a few paces after your dad, hands resting in his back pockets, boots crunching softly against the dirt path. You tried not to stare, tried to focus on the fence line and not the way his broad shoulders moved under that old worn flannel.

The closer you got, the more you could see the horses grazing near the far side, sleek, strong creatures, tails flicking lazily in the warm breeze.

“They all yours?” you asked, breaking the silence just enough.

Joel glanced over his shoulder, gave a short nod. “Yeah. Few of ‘em were rescues. Couple I trained from the start.”

You could hear the pride in his voice even though he kept it casual, like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was. You could tell.

Your dad climbed up on the lowest wooden rail of the fence, resting his arms over the top like he’d done it a thousand times before. He turned to look at you and Joel.

“Well,” he said, pushing off the rail. “I’m gonna run into town for a bit. Store’s got a sale on supplies and I forgot a couple things.”

You blinked. “Wait—you’re leaving?”

He looked at you, confused. “Yeah, You’re in good hands. Joel’s gonna take you home round’ 6:00”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d hang around, at least for the first hour or two. Not just leave you here, alone. With Joel.

Joel didn’t seem phased. He just gave your dad a nod like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Take your time,” he said.

Your dad pointed a finger at Joel playfully. “Don’t let her fall off anything, alright?”

Joel smirked. “Only if she starts trouble.”

You laughed, a little too quickly. “I don’t plan on it.”

Your dad turned to head back toward the truck, waving over his shoulder. “Have fun, kid.”

You watched him drive off, dust kicking up from the wheels. The silence that followed felt a little thicker, still calm, still easy, but different now.

Just you and Joel.

He glanced over at you, eyes squinting slightly in the sun, and tipped his head toward the gate.

“Wanna meet ‘em?”

You nodded, heart doing an anxious little flip in your chest. “Yeah… yeah, I do.”

And with that, you followed him into the pasture, feeling like you were stepping into something you didn’t fully understand just yet, but couldn’t wait to find out.

The gate creaked as Joel swung it open and held it for you. You stepped through carefully, boots pressing into the sun-warmed dirt, the soft scent of hay and dust hanging in the air. Joel followed behind, closing the latch with a practiced click before catching up to you with easy strides.

“They’re real gentle,” he said, nodding toward the cluster of horses grazing nearby. “Especially this one.” He motioned toward a chestnut mare with a white blaze down her nose. “That’s May. She’s calm as they come, sweet, but stubborn if she knows you’re nervous.”

You watched the horse lift her head lazily, ears twitching as Joel approached and held out a flat palm. She nuzzled his hand without hesitation, and you felt something flutter in your chest watching the way he moved, slow, assured, like he belonged there.

“She’s beautiful,” you said softly, taking a small step closer.

“She is,” he agreed, but he wasn’t looking at the horse when he said it.

You felt the glance, warm and heavy on the side of your face, and tried not to show it, just reached out cautiously, fingers brushing along May’s neck.

Joel watched you for a moment, then turned toward the other horses, whistling low under his breath. A few of them perked up and began to drift closer.

“Each one’s got their own personality,” he said, walking with you as the herd shuffled near. “That big browns callus. He looks intimidating, but he’s all bark. Then there’s Shimmer, she’s skittish around new folks, but once she trusts you, she’ll follow you around like a damn puppy.”

You listened as he went down the line, introducing them like old friends. He knew them all by name, by mood, by history. There was something soft in the way he spoke about them, like even though he’d been around this world for years, it never really lost its magic for him.

He led you along the fence line slowly, letting you take your time, answering your quiet questions without rushing.

After a few minutes, he tilted his head toward a small path leading around the pasture. “C’mon. I’ll show you the barn and the stables.”

You followed close behind, heart still beating a little fast, but steadier now. The sun filtered through the trees, casting long shadows over the worn dirt trail. Joel walked with his hands tucked into his back pockets again, shoulders relaxed, head tilted slightly toward you when you spoke.

The barn wasn’t far, tall and rustic, with wide doors that creaked when he pulled them open. Inside, it smelled like cedar, hay, and something faintly sweet. Rays of sunlight spilled in from high slats in the wood, making everything feel golden and calm.

“This is where I keep their feed, tack, and supplies,” he said, pointing toward the stacked bins and hanging saddles. “Got a couple stalls for overnight care, but mostly they roam free.”

You ran your hand over the smooth wood of the stall door, feeling the warmth of it soaked in from the sun.

“It’s peaceful out here,” you said, not realizing you’d meant it until it came out of your mouth.

Joel looked at you then, really looked. His gaze lingered, brows slightly drawn like he was studying you a little more than necessary.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “It is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was thick, quiet, full of something that hovered just beneath the surface. You could hear the soft huff of one of the horses just outside the barn, the creak of old wood settling, the slow beat of your own heart.

Joel turned away first, giving you space to breathe again, and nodded toward a corner of the barn where a saddle rested on a stand.

“You ever been on one before?” he asked. “A horse, I mean.”

You shook your head, watching the way his hands moved, precise, patient, as he checked the straps and stirrups.

“Nope. First time for everything, though, right?”

He gave a low chuckle, one side of his mouth curving just slightly.

“Right.”

Joel then dusted his palms on his jeans, then looked over at you with a small nod. “Let’s get started then, yeah?”

You blinked. “Now?”

His lips curved slightly, like he was amused by the hesitation in your voice. “No better time than now.”

Before you could respond, he moved with quiet efficiency, heading toward one of the open stalls. He gave a soft click of his tongue and called May forward, guiding her out into the sunlight with a lead rope already in hand.

“She’s the calmest,” he explained. “Good for your first time. Doesn’t spook easy.”

You nodded, nerves tangling in your stomach, but you followed him without question as he led May toward the field again. The sound of the leather saddle creaking as he threw it over her back sent a jolt through your chest, this was real. You were really doing this.

Joel cinched everything in place, tightening the straps with practiced ease, fingers quick and confident. The horse stood patiently the entire time, flicking her tail, completely unfazed.

“She’s ready,” he said, giving May a final pat on the neck before turning to you. “You nervous?”

You gave a small laugh, brushing your hands down your thighs. “A little. I mean… what if I fall?”

“Then I’ll catch you,” he said simply, with zero hesitation.

You swallowed hard.

He held the reins and stepped to the side, motioning toward the stirrup. “Go ahead. Left foot in first.”

You walked closer, heart pounding as you placed your foot where he pointed, hands gripping the saddle. You gave it a try, pushed up with all your strength, but it was a clumsy effort, and your foot slipped before you could swing your leg over.

“Shit—sorry,” you muttered under your breath, cheeks burning.

Joel stepped forward calmly, his voice low and unbothered. “Don’t worry. Happens all the time.”

Before you could protest, his hands were at your waist.

“Here,” he murmured. “I got you.”

Your breath caught.

His grip was firm but careful, fingers splayed just enough to make you aware of every inch of contact. You barely had time to react before he was lifting you, just enough for you to get your footing and swing your leg over the saddle. You landed in the seat a little stiff, back straight, hands gripping the horn like a lifeline.

“Good,” Joel said, stepping back to look up at you, one hand still holding the reins. “Not so bad, huh?”

You managed a breathless smile. “Not yet.”

“You’ll get the hang of it. Just sit easy. Let yourself move with her, not against her.”

You nodded, trying to do exactly that, even though all you could focus on was the feel of his hands still ghosting along your sides and the way he looked up at you, steady, calm, and somehow way too close all at once.

Joel kept a loose grip on May’s reins, walking alongside her with practiced ease as the horse began to move at a slow, steady pace. You gripped the saddle horn a little tighter than necessary at first, body stiff, unsure of what to expect with every step.

“Relax your legs,” Joel said gently, glancing up at you. “Let her movement carry you. Don’t fight it.”

You let out a shaky breath and tried to do what he said, loosening your posture just slightly. It helped. The sway of the horse became a little more natural, less jarring. Still weird, but not as scary.

“Good,” he murmured, giving May a soft pat on the neck as they moved. “See? You’re doin’ fine.”

You smiled, still a bit uncertain but grateful for his calm. “She’s so tall. Feels way higher up than I it’d be.”

Joel chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, you’re not used to it. But she’s steady. Ain’t gonna throw you.”

“I hope not,” you mumbled, glancing down at him. “Though I guess you promised to catch me.”

He looked up at you, one brow raised and something flickering just behind his eyes. “Still do.”

That made your stomach flutter in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.

He looked away after a beat, focusing back on May as he led her around the edge of the pasture. The sun was climbing higher now, casting a warm glow over the field, and you could hear the low chirp of crickets in the grass, the soft thump of hooves against dry earth.

Joel stole a glance up at you again.

You looked good up there. Better than he expected. Sure, you were awkward, tense, unsure, but you were trying. And there was something about the way you held yourself now, the little flash of pride in your eyes when you got the rhythm right, that made something stir in his chest.

He cleared his throat and forced himself to look away.

Focus. This wasn’t that.

Still… he was only human.

And there was just something about seeing you ride his horse, his horse, that made his mind wander places it shouldn’t. Not when your thighs gripped the saddle like that. Not when your voice had gone all soft and breathy with nerves. Not when your shirt shifted just enough with each movement to give him glimpses of the skin at your waist.

Joel’s mind wandering more, about what you’d look like on him, not that horse, riding him. He quickly snapped out of it.

Christ, pull it together, Miller.

He gave the reins a small tug to bring May to a slower walk, close enough for him to keep talking low without you having to strain to hear him.

“You alright up there?”

You nodded, letting out a breath. “I think I’m getting used to it.”

“Good,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You’re a natural. Just needed a little help.”

That earned a soft laugh from you, and Joel felt it in his chest a little more than he wanted to admit.

He turned his gaze toward the open field, jaw working slowly as he guided you both forward, trying not to think about the way your legs shifted in the saddle, or the way your hands tightened when you got nervous, or how long it had been since he let anyone this close to this part of his life.

Trying not to think too much at all.

You rode for a while longer, practicing slow turns and simple commands, listening to Joel’s voice guide you through every little movement. His patience surprised you, steady and quiet, never once making you feel stupid when you messed up or hesitated. Just that calm voice, low and even, like he had all the time in the world for you.

But the sun was getting higher now, and your thighs were sore from gripping the saddle, your shoulders tight from trying to sit just right. Sweat clung to the back of your neck and hairline, and finally, you let out a soft sigh.

“I think I’m tapping out,” you said, shading your eyes with one hand. “It’s too warm for all this.”

Joel looked up at you with a small nod, lips twitching with a knowing sort of smile. “Yeah, heat’ll wear you down faster than the horse does.”

You offered a lazy smile in return, grateful that he didn’t push or tease.

He reached for the reins again. “C’mon, let’s cool off. We’ll head back.”

The walk back to the barn was slower this time. The field buzzed gently with insects, the tall grass swaying in the warm breeze. May moved at an easy pace, and Joel stayed beside you, one hand on the leather strap, glancing up every now and then to make sure you were still comfortable.

You were. In more ways than one.

Once you reached the barn, Joel brought May to a gentle stop just inside the shadowed doorway. The change in temperature was immediate, cooler and shaded, with the faint scent of hay and earth clinging to the wooden beams.

“Alright,” he said, glancing up at you. “Let’s get you down.”

You hesitated, shifting in the saddle and looking around for something to climb down on. “I don’t think I can do it alone.”

“That’s alright. I got you.”

He stepped in closer, hands reaching up toward you with no hesitation. You tensed slightly, more from nerves than fear, as his palms found your waist again. There was something familiar about it now, but that didn’t make it any easier to breathe through.

“Swing your leg over slow,” he murmured, eyes on yours. “I’ll guide you down.”

You did as he said, shifting your weight carefully, and the second your foot cleared the saddle, he steadied you. His hands were firm, warm through the fabric of your shirt, guiding your body down from the horse like it was nothing.

Your shoes hit the ground with a soft thud, but he didn’t let go right away. For a moment, you were just standing there, chest nearly brushing his, the heat from the ride still lingering on your skin.

“See?” he said, voice low. “Told you I’d catch you.”

Your breath hitched.

You nodded slowly, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Guess I should trust you more often.”

His hands slipped away then, slow and easy, and he turned to lead May toward one of the empty stalls like it hadn’t just felt like something passed between you. Like that look hadn’t settled in your chest and made a home there.

You stood there for a beat longer, heart still thudding like you were on the horse, watching his broad shoulders move through the barn light.

You were definitely going to need a break, and maybe a glass of water. Or two.

The house was cool when you stepped inside, the door clicking softly shut behind you. The shade felt like heaven after the thick warmth of the sun. You leaned against the kitchen doorway for a second, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand as Joel moved around without missing a beat.

“Sit,” he said, motioning toward the small table near the window. “You earned it.”

You did as told, still catching your breath a little, the ache settling into your thighs in a way that told you tomorrow would be worse. But for now, it was quiet. Peaceful. The room smelled faintly like coffee grounds and dust, a little bit like wood smoke too, clinging to the walls and windowsills.

Joel pulled two glasses down from the cabinet, filled them both from the tap, then walked one over to you. His hand brushed yours for the briefest second as you took it.

“Thanks,” you murmured, lifting the glass to your lips.

He took the seat across from you, one hand resting on the table, the other curled around his own glass. The silence settled, not awkward, just easy.

“You did good out there,” he said after a minute, nodding toward the field beyond the window. “Didn’t think you’d stick with it that long.”

You smiled a little. “Wasn’t as scary as I thought it’d be. Once I got used to her.”

“She liked you. Horses can tell.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Tell what?”

“If someone’s got a soft touch. Or a steady hand.” His voice was quiet, almost thoughtful. “They know when someone’s tense. Or unsure.”

You nodded slowly, tracing a fingertip along the rim of your glass. “What do they think when someone’s just pretending they’re not nervous?”

Joel looked at you, mouth quirking like he almost smiled. “They know. But if they like you enough, they’ll go easy on you anyway.”

The way he said it, low and just slightly knowing, sent a warm little shiver down your spine.

He looked away a beat later, out the window, and you followed his gaze. The field shimmered faintly in the heat, the grass bending in slow waves. It was a perfect kind of quiet, but Joel wasn’t really hearing it.

His mind was drifting.

It hadn’t left him since you got on that horse.

He hadn’t expected it to hit him the way it did, watching your body shift with the movement, uncertain at first, then slowly finding that rhythm. Your thighs hugging the saddle, back straight, hair catching the sun. The way you’d tense when he touched your waist… the way you’d looked at him when he did.

Christ.

He shifted in his seat slightly, jaw working as he looked anywhere but at you. He’d seen you grow up, sure. Knew your face like it belonged to some distant memory of summers past, back when you were just the kid tagging along behind your dad. You were soft-spoken, always a little shy around him.

But that wasn’t the girl who’d been on his horse today.

And maybe he shouldn’t have been looking the way he was. Thinking the way he was. But the image was burned into his mind now, your smaller frame moving gentle with each step May took, your body rising and falling with the rhythm like you’d been made for it.

He cleared his throat suddenly, taking a slow sip of water to ground himself.

“You sore?” he asked.

You blinked out of your own thoughts. “A little.”

“It’ll hit harder tomorrow. First ride always does.”

You smiled, eyes glinting a little. “Will you still catch me if I can’t walk?”

Joel huffed a quiet breath, one corner of his mouth twitching again, but he didn’t answer right away. His fingers tapped gently against the side of his glass, like he was considering something he couldn’t quite say.

Finally, he murmured, “Yeah. I would.”

And it hung there, soft and loaded between you, like the air had thickened just a little, just enough to make you forget about the sore ache in your legs.

Just enough to make you wonder what he wasn’t saying.

Joel leaned back in his chair just slightly, letting the cold glass sit against his palm while he watched you over the rim. Your cheeks were still flushed from the sun, a few strands of hair stuck to the side of your neck. He kept his gaze neutral, or at least tried to, but it was getting harder the longer you sat across from him like that, sipping water, kicking your boot against the leg of the chair like you didn’t have a clue what you were doing to him.

You smiled without thinking, and something in his chest pulled tight.

His jaw flexed slightly.

Don’t go there.

But he was already going.

His mind played back the way your body had looked earlier, shifting with the saddle, small hands gripping the horn for balance, legs squeezing instinctively when the horse moved beneath you. You weren’t even aware of what it looked like, how you rocked gently in that seat, mouth parted with concentration, back arching just a little when you adjusted.

It’d taken everything in him not to look too long.

But now that he had the memory?

He couldn’t unsee it.

Couldn’t stop picturing that same motion in a different rhythm, in a different context, with his hands at your hips instead of the reins, your thighs spread over something else entirely. His name falling out of that same mouth in those same breathy little gasps—

Joel swallowed hard and leaned forward, elbows on the table. Pushed the thought down deep.

“You ever think about leavin’ town?” he asked, tone casual, voice steady.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Leaving?”

He gave a slow shrug. “Just wonderin’. When you finish school, college. You’re young. World’s bigger than this place.”

You smiled faintly, fingers trailing along your now half-empty glass. “Sometimes. But it’s hard to think about going when everything feels so… still. Safe.”

Joel nodded, his gaze softening just a touch.

“Safe’s good,” he murmured. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wanting that.”

You looked at him for a second, head tilted, like you were trying to read something in the way he said it. Like maybe you could feel the weight behind his words, the way his eyes lingered a little longer than before.

“I didn’t think you’d be the type to settle,” you said after a moment. “You always seemed like the kind of guy who’d just… pack up and go when he wanted.”

That earned a quiet huff from him, almost a smile. “Maybe once. Not so much anymore.”

“Why?”

Joel looked at you. Really looked at you.

But all he said was, “Different things matter now.”

He watched the way your lashes dipped when you looked away, the curve of your cheek, the skin at your throat. She had no idea, he thought. No idea how fast things had shifted for him. How something so innocent could wind him so tight inside he could barely breathe.

He cleared his throat. “You see anyone these days?”

You blinked again. “Like… date anyone?”

Joel shrugged, feigning nonchalance as he took another slow sip of water. “Just askin’. Pretty girl like you, figured there’d be someone.”

You glanced down, suddenly a little warmer than you’d been before. “Not really. Nobody worth sticking around for.”

He hummed low in his chest, like he understood that more than he let on.

The words sat between you for a second too long. The kitchen clock ticked softly from the other room. Somewhere outside, a wind chime stirred.

You looked up at him again, eyes meeting, and the way you held his gaze this time felt like something had shifted. Like you noticed something in him, or maybe just in the way he looked at you.

Joel leaned back, ran a hand along his beard like he needed something to do with it.

“You still got a little dirt on your leg,” he said, nodding toward your jeans. “From earlier.”

“Oh.” You glanced down, brushing at it halfheartedly. “Guess I really did ride a horse, huh?”

He chuckled, deep and warm, but there was something just a little darker curling at the edges now.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “You did.”

And in his head, he was already imagining how you’d look next time.

But for now, he’d let the moment stretch.

Let it breathe.

Because you weren’t ready to know what he was thinking.

Not yet.

After a little while, Joel stood, collecting both empty glasses and setting them by the sink.

You watched him for a second, how he moved, how comfortable he was in the quiet. It was different than being around people your age. There wasn’t a need to fill the silence or check his phone or rush anything. It made everything feel slower, more real.

“You need help with anything?” you asked, pushing your chair back.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Think I’ve still got a drawer full of tools that needs sorting out. Been meanin’ to fix a couple loose hinges around here, just never get around to it.”

You shrugged, standing. “I don’t mind. Could use something to do while my legs stop shaking.”

He smirked. “Yeah? Alright then, c’mon.”

He led you down the short hall to the room that used to be a guest bedroom, but now looked more like a storage space, an old workbench pushed under the window, dusty shelves lined with nails, screws, and all kinds of half-empty containers. A small desk fan whirred lazily in the corner, barely cutting through the warmth that still clung to the air.

Joel crouched near a cabinet, tugging out a metal toolbox and placing it on the bench with a soft clatter. “Just needs organizin’. You don’t gotta do much.”

You moved to his side, eyeing the mess of tangled wrenches, screwdrivers, and nails. “You call this a ‘little’ mess?”

He chuckled low, close enough now that you could smell the faint scent of soap and cigarette smoke and leather. “Alright, smartass.”

You reached for a handful of loose screws, carefully separating them by size, fingers brushing along the rusted edges of a divider tray. Joel stood next to you, his hand reaching just above yours to grab a roll of tape, and your shoulder accidentally nudged his chest.

You froze.

It was barely a touch, your body shifting slightly to one side, your arm brushing against his chest, but it felt like it echoed. His body was solid, warm, and close, and suddenly the room felt way smaller than it had before.

“Sorry,” you said quietly, not looking at him.

“S’all good,” he murmured, voice lower now.

You felt him linger there, not stepping away. And maybe that was what made your breath catch a little.

He shifted again, this time reaching for a small container on the shelf above your head. His arm stretched across you, the side of it grazing your shoulder as he did, and you felt the heat bloom under your skin like a slow burn.

You stayed still, heart knocking in your chest, pretending to still organize while he moved behind you. Close enough to feel. Not close enough to touch. Not directly.

“You ever fix stuff before?” he asked, casually, still sorting with one hand behind you.

“Not really,” you said, your voice a little more breathy than before. “Usually just call someone when dad’s not home to help.”

He gave a quiet, amused hum. “That what you’d do if somethin’ broke in your place?”

“Probably. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

He was still behind you, too close now. His arm brushed yours again as he reached forward, showing you how to separate a set of washers into a little plastic bin.

You watched his hands. Big, steady. Scarred in places.

“Guess I’ll have to teach you that next,” he said, tone casual but his breath close to your ear now.

You swallowed.

That quiet hum between you, of the fan, of summer heat pressing against the windows, felt thick with something else now. Every time he moved, even slightly, you felt it. Every brush, every sound.

You didn’t dare look up at him yet.

But you wanted to.

God, you wanted to.

You were nearly finished sorting the last few tools into place when your eyes caught on a small, weathered tin sitting just out of reach on the top shelf. You stood on your toes slightly, stretching a little, fingertips barely brushing the edge of it.

“Need a hand?” Joel’s voice came from behind you, close.

“I got it—” you said, but your balance wobbled, the edge of your foot slipping just enough to make your stomach flip.

Before you could catch yourself, his hand was already there, firm, steady, pressing gently to the small of your back.

Your breath hitched.

He was right behind you now. You could feel the heat of him, the strength in his grip as he kept you steady. His other hand reached easily past you, plucking the tin from the shelf like it weighed nothing. But he didn’t step back right away.

And that was when you felt it.

The faintest pressure, low and subtle, through the worn denim of his jeans as it brushed softly— barely—against your backside.

Your whole body went still.

It wasn’t obvious. Wasn’t intentional. Not the way he kept his hand gentle at your back, or the way he cleared his throat after a second like maybe he noticed it too.

But it was there.

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs, and your hands felt weirdly numb, still half-stretched out even though the tin was now resting in his grip.

Joel’s voice came low, rougher this time.

“Didn’t mean to crowd you.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“It’s okay,” you breathed, not even sure if he heard it.

He stayed just a moment longer. Long enough for the warmth of his chest to press softly against your back. Long enough for your body to register every inch of where he was. The space between you felt non-existent now, filled with nothing but tension and heat and all the things neither of you were saying.

Then, finally, he stepped back.

Slowly.

You let out a quiet breath, blinking like you were waking from something.

Joel set the tin down gently on the workbench. “Didn’t want you fallin’ over,” he said, voice casual but a little too low.

“Right,” you said, your voice barely audible as you ran your hand over your arm, suddenly too aware of yourself.

The space between you had returned. Physically, at least.

But your skin still tingled where he’d touched you.

And you were almost sure, almost, that his eyes lingered on you a moment too long when you turned to sit back down.

Joel didn’t say much after that.

He busied himself for a while, stacking a few boxes, tightening a hinge on the window that didn’t even need fixing, and you pretended to still be sorting through old nails even though your hands weren’t doing much. The air between you had shifted. It was thicker now, charged in a way that made it hard to focus, hard to breathe without thinking about how close he’d been. How firm his hand felt on your back. How it felt when he pressed against you like that, subtle, but not forgettable.

Every time you caught him glancing at you, he looked away just a second too late.

And every time you looked away, your pulse only climbed higher.

It wasn’t until the sun began to dip, painting the windows gold, that Joel finally broke the silence.

“Guess I should drive you back soon,” he said, voice rougher than earlier, but still steady.

“Yeah,” you said, too quickly, and then, “…right. Sure.”

But neither of you moved.

Instead, you lingered in the doorway of the spare room while he leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes on you in that way that made your chest tighten.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded, but it was hesitant. “I just… I dunno.”

Joel tilted his head slightly. “What?”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

And the way his gaze met yours, it was like he already knew. Like he’d been feeling the exact same thing and just waiting for the crack to show.

“I keep thinking about earlier,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. Growing bold, testing him.

His brow twitched, his arms dropping to his sides. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “When you were behind me…”

He pushed off the doorframe slowly, a step closer now.

“You thinkin’ about it,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, “you think that’s half as bad as what I’ve been doin’ since you got here?”

Your breath stopped.

He moved closer, slow, careful, but purposeful. And you didn’t move back. Couldn’t.

“I shouldn’t be thinkin’ about you like that,” he said, his eyes locked on yours, voice hoarse now. “I know that. But when I saw you out there on that horse, when you looked at me with those big eyes, all sweet and unsure…”

His hand came up, fingers brushing lightly along your jaw, like he was asking permission without saying the words.

You didn’t stop him.

You didn’t want to.

“And then inside,” he whispered, inching closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours, “you look at me like that and expect me to stay in control.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Your heart thundered in your ears.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

Joel surged forward, one hand cupping your jaw, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you against him as his mouth found yours in a kiss that was nothing like gentle. It was desperate. Hot. Starved. Like he’d been holding back for too long and now that he had you, he couldn’t be bothered to pretend anymore.

You gasped into him, fingers clutching the front of his shirt as he walked you back blindly until your spine met the wall. He didn’t stop kissing you, not even when his hand gripped your waist tight, not even when his hips pressed flush against yours, his body crowding yours like he needed to feel all of you.

His mouth was warm, tasting of mint and heat and something entirely Joel. When he pulled away for a second, breath ragged, his eyes searched yours like he was checking, really checking, that this was okay.

You nodded, breathless. “Please don’t stop.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower, and you felt it all: the weeks of tension, the years of knowing him, the electricity that had been building all afternoon. And now it was here. Unavoidable. Real.

Joel’s hand trailed up your side, his thumb brushing just beneath the hem of your shirt, and you shivered.

“You’re killin’ me,” he murmured against your lips.

But he didn’t pull away.

He only kissed you harder.

Joel didn’t pull away right away.

He lingered, foreheads pressed together, his breath hot against your lips. One of his hands stayed on your waist, the other curled just behind your neck like he was afraid if he let go, the moment would disappear.

You could feel his heart pounding beneath your palm where it rested on his chest, steady, hard, like he was barely holding himself together.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, eyes still closed.

Your voice came out soft, barely there. “You regret it?”

His eyes flicked open, meeting yours fast. “No,” he said, low and sure. “Not for a second.”

You exhaled, something tight in your chest finally loosening.

“But I shouldn’t have done it,” he added, almost like he was talking to himself more than you.

You didn’t say anything. Just watched the way he looked at you, like he wanted to apologize and do it again all at once.

“I ain’t exactly the kinda guy you should be messin’ with,” Joel said after a moment, his thumb brushing slowly against your side. “I’m older. Your dad—”

You cut him off gently, your fingers tightening in his shirt. “I don’t care.”

His mouth twitched, almost like he wanted to smile, but couldn’t quite let himself. “You’re too young to know what you want.”

“No, I’m not,” you said quietly. “Not about this.”

Joel let out a breath, his forehead resting against yours again. You stayed like that for a beat, both of you suspended in the stillness, in the weight of everything unspoken.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about you,” he admitted, voice raw. “Way too much. Tryin’ not to. But I see you in that damn sun, wearin’ that shirt, smilin’ at me like that—like you don’t even know what it does to me.”

You did know.

You’d just hoped.

“Then today,” he went on, his voice rasping, “you sittin’ on that horse, body movin’ like that—hell, sweetheart, I’m a man, not a fuckin’ saint.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you didn’t look away.

“I wanted to kiss you,” you whispered. “Since you opened that barn door.”

Joel groaned quietly, then kissed you again, less desperate this time, but deeper. More sure. Like now that he had you, he didn’t need to rush it.

This wasn’t just a slip.

It was a decision.

When he finally pulled back again, his fingers slid through your hair, and he looked at you like he was memorizing every detail.

He continued to stared at you for a moment longer, his eyes dark, jaw tense like he was trying to talk himself out of what he was about to do. But then you leaned in, brushing your lips against his one more time, and that was all it took.

He made a sound low in his throat, half groan, half growl, and before you could even catch your breath, his hands slid to your thighs, gripping you firmly as he lifted you with ease.

You gasped, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, arms around his neck as he held you close. Your bodies pressed together so tightly, you could feel the heat radiating from him, the hardness in his jeans pressing between your legs. Your fingers tightened in his shirt, and your heart pounded as he turned and carried you down the hall like you weighed nothing.

The soft creak of the old floorboards beneath his boots, the distant hum of the ceiling fan in the hallway, the house around you faded away. It was just him. His warmth. His scent. The weight of his hands gripping your thighs, thumbs brushing your skin with every step.

He nudged the bedroom door open with his boot and walked you inside, kicking it closed behind him with a quiet thud.

It was darker in here, the heavy curtains drawn halfway, the late sun leaking through in golden slivers. He stopped at the edge of the bed, breathing hard as he looked at you, really looked.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough, fingers twitching where they held you.

You nodded, your lips brushing his again. “I want this.”

That was all he needed.

Joel laid you down gently, following you to the mattress without breaking contact, his body hovering above yours. One of his hands slid down your side, finding the hem of your shirt. His lips trailed across your jaw, down to the curve of your neck

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging lightly, and he groaned, low and deep, before his mouth found yours again.

This time, the kiss was hungry.

Teeth, tongue, hands gripping at fabric, at skin, both of you desperate to feel more, to erase every second you hadn’t touched like this. Joel’s hand slid under your shirt, fingers spreading across your stomach, warm and calloused. You arched into him, breath hitching as his thumb stroked the underside of your breast, slow and careful.

“Still okay?” he whispered, his lips brushing your cheek, your ear.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah.”

Joel kissed you again, slower this time. His touch turning more tender, more reverent. Like now that he had you, he wanted to take his time, memorize every reaction, every breathless sound you made just for him.

“Gonna take care of you,” he murmured, his voice a promise.

And you knew he would.

Joel hovered above you, his body firm, warm, caging you in, but never making you feel trapped. Just wanted. Desired.

His hands slipped under your shirt, this time fully pulling it off and tossing it somewhere behind him. His eyes roamed over your bare skin, jaw clenching tight like he was forcing himself not to lose control.

“Look at you,” he rasped, running his rough palms slowly over your sides, down your waist. “Didn’t think you could get any prettier. And now…”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, then another just above your chest, lips brushing your skin like he needed to taste you inch by inch. You arched under him, needing more, needing him.

Your hands fumbled at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head. He let you, helping it off, and then you were skin to skin. Heat to heat. Every breath between you thick, heavy, full of everything unspoken.

His hand cupped your cheek as he kissed you again, deeper, while his other hand slid down your thigh. hooking it around his hip and grinding against you slowly. The friction sent a whimper from your lips straight into his mouth.

He pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, voice heavy and thick.

“You know,” he said, tone teasing but dark, “you did alright ridin’ that horse earlier…”

You blinked up at him, breath caught in your throat.

“But I was thinkin’…” Joel’s hand slid between your legs, rubbing you ever so gently over your jeans as he unbuttoned then, making you squirm. “Maybe you’d look even better ridin’ me.”

Your entire body flushed, a shiver ripping through you at the filthy way he said it, slow, deliberate, full of want.

“C’mere,” he muttered, rolling over onto his back, pulling you with him until you were straddling his hips. His hands stayed on your thighs, sliding up toward your waist, his gaze locked on yours.

“You wanna?” he asked, his voice hoarse, but his eyes soft. “You take what you want, sweetheart.”

Your hands trembled slightly as you leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep, before nodding.

“I want to.”

And with that, his hands guided you. Gently slipping down the fabric of your pants and underwear. Hands going to his own jeans as he tugged them down, revealing the buldge in beneath the black fabric of his boxers. Then, slowly he pulled those down too. Revealing his large erection. Tip leaking with precum and rock hard. You already on top of him, he slowly, carefully, set you down not in yet.

You stayed there for a moment, knees braced on either side of his hips, your hands resting on his chest, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it. Joel didn’t rush you. He just looked up, his hands slow and steady on your waist, thumbs tracing soft, grounding circles.

“You alright?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Just… nervous.”

He reached up, brushing your hair back from your face, his touch gentle. “That’s okay. We’ll take it slow. Nothin’ happens that you don’t want. You understand?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, feeling the weight of his words wrap around you like something safe. Solid.

“You ready?” he asked again, voice hoarse, jaw tight.

“Yeah,” you breathed, leaning into his chest.

“Just take it slow,” he murmured, beginning to guide your hips down with the barest pressure. “I’ve got you.”

You felt him start to push into you, stretching you slowly, deeply, and your breath caught, eyes fluttering shut at the newness of it. It was unfamiliar, a little overwhelming, but he held you steady, murmuring soft encouragements the whole time.

“Easy, baby. You’re doin’ so good. That’s it…”

You clutched at his shoulders, your body trembling with the sensation, the pressure, the fullness of him. Joel’s voice never left you, just quiet, low, grounding words as he helped your hips rock slowly, inch by inch

“Don’t rush it,” he whispered.

You nodded against his neck, finally settling fully onto him. You let out a soft sound at the stretch, and he stilled beneath you, fighting every instinct to thrust up into you

“Fuck,” he groaned, “you feel so good. Just breathe. You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I want to move.”

He helped guide your hips, slow and steady, every movement sending shivers down your spine. Your hands gripped at his chest, nails digging slightly into his skin as the sensations built, new and overwhelming and good.

Joel groaned again, his head tilting back against the pillow, his eyes dark and full of need as he watched you move above him.

“That’s it,” he praised, voice thick. “Just like that. You’re takin’ me so well.”

Your face flushed at the praise, hips rolling a little more naturally now as you got used to the rhythm, to him. And the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that mattered in the world, made it all the more intense.

His hands slid up your back, pulling you down again to kiss you hard, messy, hungry, full of everything he couldn’t put into words.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just about need.

It was about you

All of you.

You moved together like that for what felt like forever, your body slowly adjusting, molding to him as he guided you with soft hands and low murmurs of praise. The way he spoke to you, the way he looked at you, like every inch of you was something he’d never stop learning, it made your chest ache in the best way.

Joel’s hands roamed your back, your thighs, his thumbs brushing over the dip of your hips every time they rocked into his. His touch was strong but steady, like he knew exactly how to hold you without ever pushing too far. And when your breath caught, when your body trembled above his, he knew, slowing his movements, helping you through it.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Feelin’ good, yeah? You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

Your forehead rested against his as you nodded, lips parting with a quiet gasp as pleasure built like a slow wave, deep and warm and consuming. You moved instinctively now, chasing the sensation, the connection, and Joel met you with every breathless grind of your hips.

His voice faltered, breath stuttering as he struggled to keep his control, teeth gritting with restraint.

“Jesus, baby… can’t take much more of this,” he groaned. “You’re—fuck—squeezin’ me so tight…”

You whimpered softly, your body starting to tighten, the warmth curling deep in your stomach. Joel felt it. He knew.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he whispered, one hand sliding between you to help guide you there. “Let go. I’ve got you. Let me feel you…”

It was his voice, the way he said it, that pushed you over.

Your body tensed, pleasure crashing over you in waves. You gasped, mouth falling open as your hips faltered, shaking slightly as the high rolled through you, slow, aching, overwhelming.

Joel groaned, his hand gripping your waist as he finally let go, thrusting up into you with a strained curse, his own release hitting hard and deep. He held you there, buried inside, chest heaving beneath yours, his breath ragged as he came undone.

Neither of you moved for a moment, just tangled limbs, sweat-slick skin, and the soft hum of the fan overhead.

Your cheek rested against his shoulder, your body spent but buzzing, every nerve alive.

Joel’s hand smoothed over your back slowly, his voice quiet in your ear. “You okay?”

You nodded, still catching your breath. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay.”

“Didn’t hurt too much?” he asked gently, brushing your damp hair back.

You shook your head, fingers lightly tracing the edge of his jaw. “It was… good. Really good.”

He smiled at that, something warm and tired, and leaned up just enough to press a kiss to your temple. “Was good for me too. You were perfect.”

You stayed there like that for a while, curled against his chest, letting the quiet settle between you. There wasn’t a rush to move, no words that needed to be said yet. Just comfort. Warmth. That unfamiliar but welcome feeling that something had changed, and neither of you wanted to take it back.

Eventually, Joel’s voice broke the silence, low and soft.

“Let me get you cleaned up,” he murmured. “Then maybe we’ll get somethin’ to eat. Unless you wanna just stay here a little longer.”

You smiled sleepily against him. “Here’s good.”

Joel moved slowly.

Carefully

His hands brushed down your arms, his lips pressing one last kiss to your cheek before he shifted you gently off his chest and stood, beginning to get dressed and putting his clothes back on. You watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, still sunk deep into his sheets, skin warm and flushed.

“Be right back,” he murmured, grabbing a towel and disappearing into the hallway.

You laid there, the ceiling fan spinning above you, your pulse finally steadying. The quiet between you was peaceful, comforting in a way that made your chest ache. No pressure. No awkwardness. Just… stillness. You then began to slowly move, slipping your clothes back on aswell.

When Joel returned, he had a warm, damp towel in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He knelt by the bed, starting with your thighs, moving gentle and slow like he was scared to hurt you.

“You don’t have to,” you murmured, a little shy under his focus.

“I want to,” he said, voice low and sincere. “Want to take care of you, alright?”

You nodded, biting your lip. His touch was tender, more so than you ever thought a man like him could be. Once he was done, he helped you sit up, placing the water bottle in your hands.

“Drink, baby.”

You sipped, glancing over at him as he sat beside you on the edge of the bed. Joel looked over, his eyes softer now, calmer. His hand found your knee, rubbing small circles there, grounding you.

“You did real good today,” he said quietly. “Not just the riding. Everything.”

You smiled faintly. “You were really patient.”

Joel gave a short chuckle. “You made that a challenge.”

You laughed a little, leaning your head against his shoulder. He didn’t move for a second, then turned to press a kiss to the top of your hair.

You both stayed like that for a while, basking in the warmth of each other, your fingers absentmindedly tracing lines along his thigh.

“Gotta take you home soon. Your dad said he wanted you home by 6. It’s almost 5:30, honey.”

That single sentence hung heavy in the air. You didn’t want to get up. You didn’t want this to be over.

He must’ve felt it too.

“Hey,” Joel said, nudging your chin so you’d look up at him. “This doesn’t have to be the last time. If you want it to be more than just… today.”

You stared at him, surprised by the tenderness in his tone, the quiet promise in his gaze.

“I want it,” you whispered, almost afraid to admit it out loud.

Joel nodded slowly, his thumb brushing your jaw. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

#the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us part 2 #pedro pascal joel miller #joel miller dbf #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal #tlou fanfiction #tlou

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astrolook · 1 month ago

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Mercury ☿️🧩 and Mercury Retrograde 🔁💭 as Darakaraka - Mercury’s Speed, Rx’s Pause. (Long Post)

Note: These are just my personal observations and recurring patterns I've noticed over the years from married clients, relatives and friends. Take what resonates with you and leave the rest. Feel free to share in the comments if any of this hits home. This post is based on Vedic astrology.

Read Moon as DK!

DK: The planet with the lowest degree in your birth chart that holds your deepest desires for a partner like your soul's "Wanted Ad" scribbled in cosmic ink. It shows the kind of spouse you attract and what your heart secretly craves in relationships.

Mercury as DK - The eternal youth you can't quite catch

If Mercury is your Darakaraka, you're drawn to someone vibrant, playful, and full of life, a partner who feels forever young, whether they’re actually younger in age or just young at heart. Friendship plays a central role in your relationship; without it, there’s no real bond.

In some cases, your spouse might be from your neighborhood or hometown, depending on Mercury’s sign and house placement. This is someone who thrives on conversation. They’ll talk about everything under the sun, from the mundane to the metaphysical and they’ll expect you to keep up. They're curious, eager, and mentally restless. Pinning them down may feel impossible at times, and commitment doesn't come easily. But once they do commit, they stay loyal as long as you continue to stimulate their mind. Boredom is their exit cue.

If Mercury is afflicted, this energy can turn slippery. There may be issues with flirtation, inappropriate messaging, or a tendency to connect with others behind your back more out of curiosity than emotional betrayal. They’ll have a large circle of friends and acquaintances, though many of these connections are fleeting. Still, wherever they go, they somehow know someone.

They’re socially versatile, a true dual-natured person. They won’t act the same way with everyone and often shift between extroverted charm and introverted retreat. Your spouse may be ambiverted, multifaceted, and never dull but sometimes exhausting, especially if Mercury sits in a house or sign prone to nervous or scattered energy. Their chatter can drain you if you’re not grounded.

This is someone who can end relationships quickly, change their mind in under a minute, and won’t hesitate to walk away from anything that no longer serves them. They're adaptive, not cold though others might mistake this for being two-faced or inconsistent. The truth? They’re just wired to evolve, and fast.

They may be incredibly close to an elder sibling or their father (if present), and it's also possible they’re the youngest in their family and perhaps the favorite in their family. Their ever-changing nature often leads others to call them a chameleon.

But beneath all this is a pure soul, someone who truly wants a partner who’s both a best friend and a lifelong companion. If you have two kids, count your Mercury DK spouse as the third as they’ll bring a childlike wonder to life that never really goes away.

And in conversation? One moment they’re speaking like a 5-year-old, the next like a 90-year-old philosopher. It all depends on who’s in the room.

Mercury Rx as Darakaraka - The quite mind that thinks too loud

When Mercury Rx is your Darakaraka, your spouse may be noticeably younger than you often by seven years or more. This age gap isn’t subtle; it marks a difference not just in years, but in how the two of you move through the world. They often come across as the black sheep in their family or the one who doesn’t quite fit in with their relatives.

They might keep a journal, or at the very least, an overflowing notes app. Private, observant, and introspective, this is someone who seems mature beyond their years yet clings to the wonder of youth. They cancel plans last minute, usually with an excuse, but they’re not flaky by nature, just protective of their time, space, and energy. They care deeply about the people close to them but rarely say everything on their mind. They’d rather hold their opinions than risk sounding harsh.

Well-read and quietly brilliant, your spouse may be deeply into literature, comics, cartoons even in their 30s. Childhood nostalgia isn’t a phase; it’s a lifestyle. Whether it’s collecting Pokémon shirts, holding onto childhood toys, or gaming deep into the night, their inner child is alive and well. They live online more than offline, and when they talk, their eyes often wander like they’re reading invisible text as they speak.

When it comes to expressing themselves, it’s not a lack of words, it’s an overflow. Their brain fires off 500 words at once, but only 20 words make it out. Their speech is calculated, cautious, and deliberate. Often late bloomers, they tend to realize life’s biggest lessons slowly, over time usually after 25. You may also notice they hold on to baby fat or have that eternal baby-faced look that follows them into adulthood.

Your connection with them will be either deeply intuitive or wildly misaligned, there’s rarely an in-between. They’re the kind of person who dissects movies and breaks down comic arcs on Reddit or in YouTube comment threads like it’s their side job. Whether rich or not, they’ll dress modest, lowkey, and never flashy. You can’t impress them with money, and they don’t try to impress anyone either.

Love usually comes late for them, often after 25 and so do their best decisions. They mature quietly, gradually. Emotionally, they may be distant from at least one parent, often due to a strict or overly demanding upbringing. They may be an only child or the “golden child,” especially if close to a parent. If they have a younger sibling, the bond is profound, their younger sibling might even be their true best friend or emotional anchor.

They prefer texting over calling and are far more present online than in real life. Their social life might be limited not from disinterest, but because their anxiety level is basically 999.

Mercury + Saturn: Your spouse has that HR manager energy like commanding, composed, and maybe just a little too fond of talking over others to make sure they're heard. Listening? That comes second. If Mercury is retrograde with Saturn, expect someone who’s emotionally reserved, detached in family matters, and fiercely private about work, salary, and social ties. They won’t open up until they’re convinced you’re not going anywhere. Otherwise, they’ll ghost you just to beat you to the punch. Night-shift worker energy. Career above chaos.

Mercury + North Node (Rahu): This spouse has a voice that stands out that's unique, magnetic, and powerful. They know how to talk their way to the top and won't hesitate to cut ties with people who block their path. They move on fast, without drama. If retrograde, you’re looking at a sharp-tongued writer or communicator with a razor wit. They can eviscerate someone in less than ten words, all while keeping a deadpan expression. They know which nerve to hit and they’ll hit it with surgical precision.

Mercury + Sun: This is the loud-talker type. You’ll hear them across the room, on the phone, or possibly across state lines LOL. They laugh loudly, speak louder, and blast music like it’s a personality trait. Their phone contact list? Endless and their phone hangs a lot. If retrograde, the same energy simmers beneath a quieter surface. Calm, composed but their stare feels like a courtroom judge who knows your browser history. Their words are thunderbolts: they either expose truths or strike with sharp clarity.

Mercury + Moon: Your spouse is a charming smooth-talker like the prince or princess of flirtation. They know how to woo and will 100% brag about it to their friends the next day. They’re likely to get along well with your mother too. If retrograde, they’ll still be respectful, but distant. They might feel excluded from your family dynamic and quietly expect you to just know how they feel even if they never say it. They tend to stay away from your friend circle, preferring emotional distance to forced socializing.

Mercury + Venus: This is refined charm. Your spouse speaks with elegance and grace, sounding polished and high-standard. They're desirable and well aware of it, which can make them slow to commit. But if Saturn aspects this, they'll become family-oriented when committed. If North Node aspects or conjoins, watch for potential flirtations outside the relationship or affairs. If retrograde, your spouse is likely of higher status, reserved, and quietly powerful. They won’t flaunt their wealth or background, and if Saturn is also involved, expect some intense loyalty tests. With North Node, secrets about their past may surface or stay buried, avoided for the sake of peace.

Mercury + Mars: You’ve got a firecracker here. Your spouse uses strong language, smirks, winks, and defends you like it’s a sport. One day they’re generous, the next day they’re calculating all depending on your last argument. If retrograde, they hold grudges long-term and can go full dormant volcano like quiet for years, then suddenly erupting. They're a sweet angel until provoked… then it's nightmare mode unlocked.

Mercury + Jupiter: Here, your spouse might be a foreigner, multilingual, or both. They’re philosophical and open-minded. If Jupiter is retrograde, they may still be foreign but the joke is, you speak their language, and they don’t fully understand yours. A poetic mismatch, but it somehow works.

Mercury as Darakaraka by House Placement: When the Mind Marries the Message

1st House: Your spouse has a distinct voice maybe not just in tone, but in how they speak and present themselves. Think public speakers, HR heads, high-level managers, even police officers roles where communication, connections, and mental agility matter. If Mercury is retrograde, they may earn well but keep finances private or appear modest. Silent achiever energy.

2nd House: This is the money magnet. Charming and clever, your spouse has the uncanny skill of turning ideas into income. They attract investors and partnerships naturally. If retrograde, the money still flows but they keep it under wraps. Private about business, skeptical with trust, and never one to flaunt what they own. Where direct Mercury shows it, Rx Mercury whispers it.

3rd House: A wide social circle, opinionated, and deeply rooted in hometown or sibling bonds, your spouse lives through communication and community. If retrograde, they flip the script: don’t care what anyone thinks, won’t seek validation, and will love you even if no one else does. Private-social balance = mastered. Rx or not, can sing decent.

4th House: They’ll either remind you of a parent, comforting or slightly annoying or literally take on that nurturing role. They might murmur complaints or offer support in equal measure. If retrograde, the home is their nervous system. Small disruptions irritate them. They dislike crowds, quiet is sacred, and they’re mentally everywhere at once.

5th House: Your spouse is flexible and playful like one moment 10 years old, the next 80. They can be your best friend, your child, your muse. Count them as your first kid, emotionally. If retrograde, expect social anxiety. You’re the designated speaker at restaurants, cafés, or anywhere involving strangers. You're not just the partner, you're the unofficial spokesperson.

6th House: Approachable, kind, and relatable and classic boy/ girl-next-door charm. Easy to connect with and emotionally grounded. If retrograde, there’s still relatability, but expect sync issues. Either you're perfect puzzle pieces… or totally mismatched socks.

7th House: Your spouse is either younger than you or just permanently 16 at heart. Fun, flirty, and fresh. If retrograde, they’ll still be significantly younger but they’ll be the adult in the relationship. The voice of reason. The one who reminds you to grow up.

8th House: Mysterious, magnetic, and serpent-like with their words and your spouse can charm and disarm. Their words may feel like honey… or a trap. If Mercury's with Rahu, they might use people for personal gain. If retrograde, they keep opinions hidden but are deeply curious, into the occult, conspiracy theories, UFOs, and anything off-grid. Rx or not, this one loves the unknown.

9th House: Speaks more than one language, watches world cinema, and could be from a different culture. Long-distance relationships, summer romances, or online connections are big themes. If retrograde, an online connection or appears out of the blue into your life becomes even more likely, think “DM to lifelong partner” energy.

10th House: Career-focused and multi-talented, your spouse gives advice freely sometimes even when no one asked. They're the type to tell others how to do things better. If retrograde, their multitasking is subtle genius. Dry humor, no need for recognition. Recognition finds them anyway or doesn’t, they’re fine either way.

11th House: Unusual voice, speaks more than one language, possibly met at a tourist spot, event, or social function. If retrograde, online meeting or at an airport is likely. They might struggle to “fit in” but with you, they find their people. Private, digital, nerdy, deeply connected.

12th House: Big foreign energy here. Your spouse may be from another country or lives far away from you, and you might even settle in their state/ country. They could propose fast like 3-6 months fast. Soul ties override timelines. If retrograde, the speed still applies. You’ll speak their language more than they speak yours but the emotional fluency? Unmatched. Different on the outside, same deep-down.

Next post will be about having Venus as Darakaraka!

Wanna go deeper into the layers of your placements? DM me for a complete astrology reading or a 5 year/8 year marriage report or synastry reading🌙💬 and check out my pinned post for pricing + details 💫💸

Let’s decode your cosmic chaos together ⭐

151 notes · View notes

yanyandam · 3 months ago

Note

Heyy!! 🩷 can i ask for a Tenjiku!Rindou in a secret relationship with Reader? she has connections with Toman (idk she’s related or close friend of someone like Mikey or Mitsuya). like a fluff or angst scenario, as you see this scenario better.

THANKS FOR REQUESTING!! Okay. This was supposed to be some angsty hcs and then BAM! It ended up as a longass oneshot. Stay with me now. I chose MITSUYAAA as the close friend

UNSERIOUS. - Tenjiku!Rindou x fem!Reader

Midnight had already passed, and yet, here you were, sitting on the cold, uncomfortable seat of the last tram of the night. The flickering fluorescent lights above cast a dim light, while the city blurred past the window, a mosaic of neon signs slipping through the alleys. Tokyo never truly slept, but at this hour, it belonged to the restless souls.

And you? What the hell were you doing here?

Oh I see, a guy huh? A strange kind of delinquent, someone caught between respect and fear. That one name whispered in the darker corners of the city, known for both his sadistic streak and his undeniable talent as a DJ. A dangerous game.

You had met him barely two months ago. A simple encounter, at least on the surface. A warm summer night, a park in the middle of the city, you and your friends laughing under the streetlights. And him, leaning against a railing, watching the crowd with a lazy gaze, like a predator feigning boredom. He had noticed you. Said you were the prettiest one there. You had felt his stare before he even approached. He had charmed you effortlessly, not with sweet words, but with something else. Something unpredictable.

And just like that, everything had happened too fast. Too damn fast. Two months of stolen moments, of diving headfirst into something you no longer had control over. He had a way of pulling you into his world without warning, making you lose all reason without even trying. Proof? He had sent you a single message.

"Wanna meet up?"

And without thinking, without hesitating, you had grabbed your phone, your bag, and hopped onto this goddamn tram past midnight.

—

He was waiting for you.

Standing in front of the train station, leaning casually against a sleek black motorcycle, Rindou Haitani exuded effortless cool. His arms were crossed over his chest, his posture relaxed, but his sharp, intelligent eyes flickered with something unreadable as he watched the arriving passengers step off the platform. He spotted you. You dashed towards him, your steps quick and eager, your heart hammering against your ribs with excitement. The moment your eyes locked onto his, a bright smile stretched across your lips. “Rindou!”

Without hesitation, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapping him in a warm, enthusiastic hug. His body stiffened slightly at the sudden affection. He wasn’t the type to openly reciprocate such gestures, not out of cruelty, but simply because it wasn’t in his nature. Still, he let you hold him, his hands staying at his sides, his only response being a small, amused exhale through his nose.

After a second, he pulled back slightly, tilting his head down to look at you, his lips curling into a tiny but sincere smile.

“So, my pretty girl,” he murmured, his voice smooth, teasing.

Your eyes immediately drifted to the motorcycle parked beside him, its polished chrome gleaming under the soft glow of the setting sun. Your excitement bubbled over as you pointed at it. “Ohh, you have a motorcycle?! You never told me that!” Rindou let out a small chuckle, reaching up to adjust the round sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. His fingers slid through his blonde-and-blue hair, pushing back a few strands that had fallen into his face.

“Tell me,” he said with a smirk, “what’s the first word in ‘BIKEr’?”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Pfft, don’t act all intellectual with me.” Your gaze drifted downward, finally noticing the outfit he was wearing. The long coat, the crisp black fabric, the embroidered kanji on the sleeves, it screamed gang affiliation. Your brow furrowed slightly as you eyed it. “What’s with this weird uniform you’re wearing?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Rindou followed your gaze, glancing down at his attire as if he’d momentarily forgotten what he had on. Then, he shrugged. “What, you don’t like it?”

“No, no…” you hesitated, then offered him a small, genuine smile. “You actually look really good in it…”

Before you could finish your sentence, he cut in, a habit of his. Not out of rudeness, but because he had a way of controlling conversations, steering them in the direction he wanted. “It’s Tenjiku.” His tone was casual, but there was weight behind the words. “My gang. Make sure you remember that name, alright? If anyone ever gives you trouble–”

You didn’t even let him finish before jumping in excitedly. “I just tell them my boyfriend is in Tenjiku!” you said with a triumphant grin.

Rindou blinked, the amusement in his eyes growing as his smirk widened. “Your boyfriend, huh? So we’re already at that stage?” A playful laugh bubbled from your lips, and you tilted your head at him.

“Haha… I mean, not seriously. Not yet, anyway.” Before he could throw another teasing remark your way, you stood on your tiptoes, pressing a quick, feather-light kiss to his cheek. It was soft, barely there, but it was enough to make his breath hitch just for a second. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if debating whether to react, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he exhaled, shaking his head with an amused chuckle. “Hop on,” he said, patting the seat of his motorcycle.

Without a moment’s hesitation, you swung your leg over, settling behind him. The leather seat was firm but comfortable, and the feeling of the powerful machine beneath you sent a small thrill through your veins. You wrapped your arms around his waist instinctively, pressing your body against his back. He stiffened slightly at first, still getting used to the physical closeness, but then he relaxed. With a low rumble, the engine came to life beneath you. The vibrations hummed against your legs as Rindou revved the throttle, his fingers expertly twisting the handle. The headlights cut through the early evening haze, illuminating the road ahead.

He glanced back over his shoulder, his voice carrying over the soft growl of the engine. “Hold on tight.” And with that, the motorcycle lurched forward, carrying the both of you into the fading light of the city.

The wind whipped past your face, tangling your hair and sending an exhilarating rush through your veins. The world around you blurred into streaks of neon signs, car headlights, and distant city sounds. You could feel the steady rise and fall of Rindou’s breathing beneath your hands as you clung to him, your fingers gripping the fabric of his Tenjiku coat. There was something intoxicating about this.

Rindou was silent for most of the ride, focused on the road, but every now and then, he would glance at you through the side mirror, his lips twitching in amusement at how wide your eyes were, how your excitement was practically radiating off you.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of weaving through streets and alleys, he pulled into an empty parking lot overlooking the city skyline. The motorcycle came to a smooth stop, and he let out a breath before cutting the engine. The sudden silence was almost deafening.

You hesitated for a moment before loosening your grip around his waist, your hands sliding away as he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows against the handlebars. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared out at the horizon. You swung your leg over the bike, standing beside him as you took in the view.

“Wow…” you breathed, “this is amazing.” He hummed in agreement but didn’t turn to face you.After a moment, Rindou finally broke the quiet.

“You really meant it, huh?” he asked, his voice lower than before.

You turned to him, confused. “Meant what?”

He exhaled again, tapping the ash from his cigarette. “What you said earlier. About me being your boyfriend.”

Your cheeks warmed slightly, but you held his gaze, a small smile playing on your lips. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just stared at you, as if trying to decipher something. Then, with a soft chuckle, he shook his head. “You’re something else, you know that?”

You grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He smirked, flicking the cigarette away before turning fully to face you. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice softer this time. “I guess it was.”

The night air was cool, wrapping around you in a soft breeze as you and Rindou sat together by his motorcycle. The city lights twinkled in the distance, casting a warm glow over the horizon. It was quiet, until your phone buzzed in your pocket, breaking the stillness. You pulled it out without thinking, unlocking the screen to check the message.

Taka: "Hey, can you babysit the girls tomorrow? I’ll owe you one."

A small smile tugged at your lips. Rindou, who had been leaning back against his motorcycle with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow at the way your expression softened. “Who’s that?” he asked, his voice casual but laced with curiosity. You glanced up at him briefly before replying.

“Oh, just a friend. A really close one, actually. He asks me to babysit his little sisters sometimes.” Rindou’s gaze flickered with something unreadable. He exhaled sharply through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “Babysit?” he echoed, narrowing his eyes.

You nodded, thumbs flying over your screen as you typed back a quick response to confirm that you were available. “Yeah. He’s got two little sisters, and he’s always busy, so I help out whenever I can.”

Rindou’s expression remained neutral, but his posture shifted ever so slightly, tense. Something about this didn’t sit right with him. “What’s his name?” he asked, keeping his voice steady.

You didn’t hesitate. “Mitsuya. Mitsuya Takashi.”

Everything stopped. For a moment, you thought even the wind had died down. Rindou’s entire body went rigid, his relaxed stance disappearing in an instant. His fingers curled against his arms, his jaw tightening. Mitsuya. A division captain of Toman, the Tokyo Manji Gang. Tenjiku’s rival. One of the people Rindou was fully prepared to kill if it came down to it. And you were close to him? Babysat his sisters? Cared about him? There was no way. No way in hell he could be seen dating someone with those kinds of ties. If anyone in Tenjiku found out, it wouldn’t just be trouble, it would be a full-blown disaster. His position in the gang would be questioned, his loyalty doubted. Worse than that… if it ever came to a real fight between Tenjiku and Toman, and he was the one who had to take Mitsuya down, where would that leave you?

He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to stay calm. He needed an excuse. Something to put distance between the two of you before this got messy. But he had to be careful. If he made it too obvious, you’d start asking questions. So, he kept his voice light, tilting his head at you with an exaggerated look of boredom.

“That’s annoying.”

You blinked at him, confused. “Huh? What is?”

He rolled his shoulders, looking away like he didn’t care much. “You hanging around some other guy all the time.”

You snorted. “Oh, please. It’s not like that. Mitsuya’s basically like a brother to me.” Wrong answer. That made it even worse. Rindou hummed, pretending to think it over. He needed to come up with something believable. “Still…” He frowned slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t really like it.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “What, are you jealous?” you teased.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Not jealous. Just don’t like it.”

You tilted your head at him, sensing something deeper in his tone. “Why, though? You don’t even know him.” Yeah. That was the problem. He did know him. And if he ever had to, he wouldn’t hesitate to put Mitsuya in the ground. This wasn’t about jealousy, it was about danger. Rindou took a slow breath, schooling his expression into something unreadable before glancing back at you. “I dunno. Just feels off, y’know?” He shrugged, playing it cool. “Doesn’t sit right with me. You babysitting some dude’s sisters all the time.”

You frowned slightly, crossing your arms. “Well, tough. I’ve been helping Mitsuya for years, and I’m not about to stop just because you think it ‘feels off.’” A sharp flicker of irritation passed through Rindou’s eyes, but he didn’t let it show on his face. He needed to get you to back off from Mitsuya, without making it obvious why.

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Whatever. Do what you want.” But his tone had changed. It was subtle but there was something different about the way he said it. Cold. Distant. Like he was already pulling away.

That was intentional.

Rindou knew exactly how to play this. He wasn’t going to tell you the real reason he suddenly had a problem with this. No, he was going to make you think you were the one ruining things. He started turning away slightly, like he was already losing interest. “Just don’t come crying to me when this guy starts getting in the way.” His voice was flat, dismissive. “I don’t do second place.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “Wait—what?”

He shrugged. “You heard me.”

You stared at him, trying to read him, trying to understand what just shifted between you two. A few minutes ago, he had been teasing you, smirking, flirting. But now? Now, it was like he was withdrawing. It wasn’t outright rejection, but it felt like one. Your chest tightened slightly. “Rindou, are you seriously upset about this?”

He sighed, tilting his head like you were just so much trouble. “Not upset. Just done talking about it.” And with that, he swung a leg over his motorcycle, gripping the handlebars like he was ready to leave. You knew what this was. This was him pushing you away. Making you feel like you had done something wrong. And the worst part? It was working. You clenched your fists. “I don’t get you.” He smirked at that, just a little, just enough to let you know he had won this round. “Yeah,” he said, revving the engine. “You wouldn’t.” And with that, he left you standing there in the dim glow of the city lights, the sound of his motorcycle fading into the distance.

You didn’t know the real reason for his sudden coldness. But he did. And it had everything to do with the fact that you were close to someone he was willing to kill.

The silence was unbearable. For two full days, you hadn’t heard a word from Rindou. Not a single call. No teasing texts. Nothing. At first, you told yourself it didn’t bother you. You weren’t going to be one of those people who stared at their phone, waiting for someone to reach out. But, as the hours stretched into a full day, and then another, you couldn’t ignore the small, nagging ache in your chest. Had you really messed things up?

You replayed the conversation over and over in your head, trying to pinpoint the exact moment things went south. Was it when you told him about Mitsuya? It made no sense. Rindou was the one acting weird, like he had a problem with something that shouldn’t even concern him. And yet, somehow, you were the one feeling guilty. Then, on the second night, just as you were about to give up and fall asleep, your phone screen lit up.

Rindou: "Hey. Sorry about the other day."

You stared at the message for a long moment, biting your lip. Then, another text popped up.

"I was being an asshole. Let me make it up to you."

And another.

"Tomorrow. Just you and me."

A part of you wanted to be stubborn, to make him wait, to punish him for pushing you away without an explanation. But another part of you, the bigger part, just missed him. And so, without overthinking it, you typed back:

"Fine. You owe me."

His reply came almost instantly.

"Yeah, yeah. I know."

You couldn’t see him, but you just knew he was smirking.

The next evening, Rindou showed up outside your place, leaning against his motorcycle like nothing had ever happened. The golden glow of the setting sun caught in his hair, giving him an almost ethereal look. He was wearing his usual casual-but-effortlessly-cool outfit. But his expression was different this time. Softer. When you stepped outside, he looked up at you and exhaled a small breath, almost like he had been holding it in.

“Hey.”

You crossed your arms. “Took you long enough.”

He let out a small chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah. I deserved that.”

A pause. Then, “You still mad?”

You wanted to be. You really did. But seeing him again, seeing that tiny flicker of something in his eyes made it impossible to stay angry. So instead, you sighed dramatically. “I’ll think about forgiving you.”

Rindou grinned. “Fair enough. Get on.” And just like that, it was as if nothing had changed. You wrapped your arms around him as he took off, the familiar hum of the motorcycle vibrating beneath you. The wind tangled in your hair, and for the first time in two days, you felt something light again.

He took you to a quiet place on the outskirts of the city, a hidden little spot near a river, where the streetlights reflected off the water in long, golden streaks. You sat on a bench together, sharing a bag of snacks, AND BEER, from a nearby convenience store. It was simple. Comfortable. And then, out of nowhere, Rindou spoke.

“We gotta keep this quiet.”

You turned to him, frowning. “What?”

He exhaled, stretching his arms over the back of the bench. “Us.” He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “No one can know.”

Something in your chest tightened. “Why?” Rindou was silent for a moment, drumming his fingers against his knee. Then, he shrugged. “It’s just easier that way.” Easier? You stared at him, something cold creeping into your veins. “So what, you don’t want people knowing you’re with me?”

He groaned, tilting his head back. “It’s not like that.” You narrowed your eyes. “Then what is it like?” Rindou turned to you then, and for the first time since you’d known him, he looked… conflicted. Like there were a hundred things he wanted to say but couldn’t. Finally, he exhaled sharply. “Just trust me on this, alright?”

You frowned, searching his face for answers. But he wasn’t giving you any. “Fine,” you muttered. “Whatever.” For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, Rindou nudged your knee with his. “Hey.” You glanced at him, still sulking.

He smirked. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. “Shut up.” And just like that, the tension melted away. For now.

The night had been perfect. But the moment you arrived back home, that perfect feeling vanished. Because Mitsuya was there.

Waiting. He stood in front of your house, arms crossed over his chest, a dark look shadowing his usually calm features. Your stomach dropped. Oh, no. Thank God I’m not you. Rindou pulled up on his bike, but the second he spotted Mitsuya, his body tensed. His fingers gripped the handlebars a little tighter. “Who the hell…” he muttered, trailing off.

You swallowed hard, quickly swinging off the motorcycle before things could get worse. “Mitsuya?” you called hesitantly. His gaze snapped to you, and his expression darkened.

“Inside. Now.”

Rindou scoffed behind you. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”

Mitsuya ignored him completely. His sharp violet eyes stayed locked on you. “We need to talk.” Your heart pounded. You hesitated, glancing back at Rindou, but he was already slipping into that unreadable, cold version of himself, the one that masked every emotion. The tension in the air was suffocating. You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Fine.” Rindou watched as you followed Mitsuya inside, but he didn’t leave. No, he stayed right where he was, sitting on his bike, jaw clenched, watching like a predator.

–

The second the door closed, Mitsuya turned to you, his fists clenched at his sides. “Tell me it’s not true.”

Your stomach twisted. “Tell you what’s not true?”

His jaw tightened. “That you’re messing around with Haitani.” You inhaled sharply. So, he knew. “Who told you?” you asked carefully. Mitsuya let out a bitter laugh. “Does it matter?” You opened your mouth, but he didn’t let you speak.

“Do you even know what kind of guy he is?” His voice was rising now, his usual composure slipping. “Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”

Your heart pounded. “Mitsuya—”

“He’s a killer.”

The words hit you like a slap.

You froze. “What?”

Mitsuya’s eyes burned with something between fury and desperation. “You heard me. He’s not just some gang member, [Name]. He’s already killed someone. He went to juvie for it.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Mitsuya took a step closer, his expression fierce. “And you think it’s a good idea to be involved with someone like that?” Anger surged through you.

“That’s none of your damn business, Mitsuya.”

His eyes widened slightly. “None of my—? [Name], I’m trying to protect you!”

“I don’t need protection!” you shot back. “And you don’t get to decide who I see!” Mitsuya stared at you, disbelief flashing across his face. You took a shaky breath. “I’m not a kid, Mitsuya. Stay out of it.”

The silence between you was deafening. Then, finally, Mitsuya exhaled, shaking his head. “You’re making a mistake.”

Maybe. But it was your mistake to make.

At first, it was just murmurs. A few stolen glances in the hallways, whispers barely loud enough to catch. People had started talking. You noticed it at school, on the streets, even in places where no one should have known. It spread like wildfire, the rumors about you and Rindou Haitani. And then, the whispers became glares. At first, it was just from the usual people, Toman members, friends of Mitsuya. People who cared about who you were seen with.

But then it got worse. It wasn't just judgment anymore. It was resentment. Hushed voices turned into loud warnings. Friends started avoiding you. Even strangers would throw you dirty looks if you so much as walked past them. It became impossible to ignore. You and Rindou had tried to keep things quiet, but nothing stayed a secret forever. And in a world like this, your relationship was a problem. And it was only a matter of time before things exploded.

You should have seen it coming. The tension between Toman and Tenjiku had been bubbling beneath the surface for months, but now? Now, it had boiled over. Gang fights weren’t unusual, it was just part of the world they lived in. But this? This was different. Because this time, it wasn’t just some random fight in an alleyway. This was planned. One by one, Toman’s division captains were attacked. Different locations. Different times. All in one night.

And one of them was Mitsuya.

The moment you got the call, your blood turned to ice. Mitsuya was in the hospital.

You didn’t hear the rest. You barely even remembered grabbing your phone, barely remembered breathing as you started calling Rindou over and over again.

Ring. No answer. Ring. Still nothing.

Rindou, pick up! Pick up. Ring. Oh?

The call connected. “What the fuck do you want?” His voice was sharp, annoyed. Like he already knew why you were calling. Your hands were shaking.

“Rindou,” you breathed. “Tell me it wasn’t you.” Silence. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

“...So what if it was?” It felt like the floor had vanished beneath you. You nearly dropped your phone.

“You—” Your voice caught in your throat. “You attacked him?”

“You really exploded my phone for this?”

Rage ignited in your chest. “Because it’s Mitsuya!”

“So?” Rindou snapped. “What do you want me to say, huh? That I feel bad?”

“You—” Your voice cracked. “You put him in the hospital!!”

“He’s not dead.”

“That’s not the fucking point, Rindou!”

“Then what is the point?” he snapped. “What do you want me to say? You’re acting like I had a choice, like I woke up and thought, ‘Oh, yeah, let’s go beat the shit out of Mitsuya for fun.’” Although that alternative scenario wasn’t impossible.

Something inside you shattered. “Was it because of me?” A heavy silence.

Then, Rindou let out a laugh. “Are you serious?”

Your stomach twisted. “Just—just tell me.”

“You really think the whole world fucking revolves around you?”

His voice was sharp. Angry. Your breath hitched. He never spoke to you like that.

“You think I did this because of you?” he continued, voice laced with irritation. “News flash, princess, this has nothing to do with you.” He wasn’t finished. “You think you’re that important? That I’d risk my gang, my life, over some girl? Get over yourself.”

Your heart clenched. “Then why was it you?” Your voice was smaller now. Weaker. Rindou sighed, annoyed. “I got assigned. That’s it. A fucking coincidence.”

A coincidence. Mitsuya’s blood, on his hands. Instead, your voice broke. “You’re a monster.” The line was quiet. He had hung up.

Rindou hadn’t stopped thinking about her. No matter how much he tried to shove it down, drown it in the chaos of gang wars and grudges, her voice still echoed in his head. The way she had sounded over the phone: hurt, betrayed, disgusted. And yet, the thing that stung the most? She had called. She had cared. Even after everything, after all the whispers and warnings, after knowing what he was, she had still called him first. But she had also called him a monster. And he couldn’t even fucking blame her. Because wasn’t he?

He had hurt someone she loved. He had stained his hands with blood, not thinking about the consequences, not thinking about her. And now, she hated him for it. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe that was what needed to happen. Because if she hated him, then she wouldn’t be thinking about him anymore. She wouldn’t be looking for him. And she wouldn’t get caught in the middle of something that would end with him in a cell or a coffin. But still.

He missed her.

She should hate him. She wanted to.

After everything, after hearing him admit it so carelessly, after the way he had spoken to her, like she was nothing, like her feelings were nothing, she should have wanted nothing to do with him. But she didn’t. Instead, she found herself replaying that conversation, searching for something, anything, that would make it make sense. Rindou had never been cruel to her. Not like that. Sure, he could be an asshole. He was blunt, cocky, and sometimes reckless. But he had never spoken to her like he wanted to hurt her before.

And that’s what didn’t make sense. Because if he truly didn’t care, if she truly wasn’t important, then why had he even picked up her call in the first place? Why did his voice sound so hollow when he laughed? Why did it feel like he was lying? She wanted to believe there was an explanation. But maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Because no matter what she told herself, no matter how much she tried to justify it, Mitsuya was still in the hospital.

And Rindou was the reason why.

Two days before the war, Rindou finally reached out. A voicemail.

“Meet me. Now.”

It wasn’t a request. It was an order. She hesitated, thumb hovering over her screen. A part of her told her to ignore him, to cut him off the same way he had cut her down the other night. But she knew herself better than that. She needed closure. So, against her better judgment, she went.

He was waiting for her in an alleyway, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved into his pockets, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. His jaw was tense, his usual lazy smirk replaced with something sharper. Harsher. He barely looked at her when she approached.

“Wow,” she muttered. “No hello?”

He scoffed. “The fuck do you expect?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re the one who told me to come.” Silence.

“I’m ending this.”

Her stomach twisted. “What?” Rindou exhaled, like this was exhausting for him. Like she was exhausting. “You and me. It’s done.” Her heart clenched. She had known it was coming. But hearing it still hurt.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because I don’t fucking want you anymore.”

She took a step back, like he had just hit her. Rindou saw it, the way her face crumbled for just a split second before she forced herself to glare at him. And it killed him. But it had to be this way. If she stayed, she’d get dragged down with him. He had already done enough damage to her life, to her heart. She deserved better. Someone who wouldn’t pull her into a bloodstained world. So he clenched his fists, forced himself to look her in the eye, and went for the final kill.

“You were just something to pass the time.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re lying.”

He smirked coldly. “Am I?”

For a moment, she just stared at him. Then, she turned around and walked away. She didn’t yell. She didn’t cry. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her break. And as soon as she disappeared down the street, Rindou finally let himself breathe. Finally let himself feel the ache in his chest, the way his hands shook, the way his vision blurred for a moment.

And he told himself again and again, It had to be this way.

–

Two days later, the war erupted between the two gangs. 10:00PM. It was bloody. Brutal. Young deaths. The morning after, she turned on the news.

And there it was.

BREAKING NEWS: TENJIKU MEMBERS ARRESTED AFTER VIOLENT GANG CONFLICT.

Her breath caught in her throat.

There he was.

Rindou Haitani. Handcuffed, being dragged into the back of a police car with his brother, his head slightly lowered, his blonde-and-blue hair a mess. But what shattered her wasn’t the sight of him arrested. It was the look in his eyes. Because for the first time, he looked tired. And for the first time, he didn’t look like a monster. He just looked like a boy. A boy who had made too many mistakes.

A boy who had lost.

#rindou haitani #tokyo revengers #ran haitani #haitani brothers #haitani rindou x reader #rindou x reader #rindou x you #rindou haitani x reader #rindou fluff #Rindou angst #mitsuya takashi

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grey-coyote · 1 month ago

Text

No Promises - Simon Riley x f!Reader (Part 1)

Summary: Simon is finally back home. Out of boredom, he decides to do something new and learn to care for some flowers. Luckily, at the store, Simon meets you—a young woman who is very knowledgeable on flowers and very pretty kind.

Warnings: fluff, angst (in future parts), happy ending, awkwardness, meet-cute, reader is awkward but bold, lots and lots of cringe, age gap (reader is 24 and Simon is 34), authors very first fanfic, information on flowers written by an author who got all of their information from the internet, flower and plant inaccuracies

Word Count: 2,935

—————

It was midnight when Simon stepped into his apartment. He tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter and rolled his shoulders as he walked down the hallway and to his bedroom.

It had been months since he last saw the place, everything looked exactly how he had left it, and he didn't miss it. Simon preferred to be working. Staying busy at work meant not being at home. Not being at home meant not being alone with his thoughts, which is something he never liked to do.

The idea of a working dog had been recommended to Simon before but he wasn't very fond of it. Captain Price brought it up one day, telling him that it could be good for him. A working dog could help him out with lots of things, the mental health aspect being one of the most important benefits. Simon brushed it off, claiming that he enjoyed not having to worry about anything other than himself and the current team, and he wanted to leave it at that. Price didn't push it much after that conversation, he understood where Simon was coming from.

Simon had no family and no friends outside of work. But he preferred it that way. He preferred being alone because it meant he had a little bit less to worry about. No worries with having to take care of a pet, no added stress of a significant other, and no anxiety when balancing time spent with family and friends. He liked it that way so he kept it that way.

Sighing, Simon began preparing for a shower, eager to let the warm water beat on his sore muscles. He sat in the hot shower for a little while longer than he initially planned but it was very needed.

Eventually, the water was cut off and Simon climbed out of the small shower. He grabbed a towel and ran it over his head before turning to look at himself in the fogged mirror. He stood and looked, his body barely visible in front of him. His hand came up to wipe through the moisture on the mirror and his brown eyes suddenly became clear as he stared back at himself. His short blond hair was messy and damp, and the ends started to curl a bit. He moved to run a large hand through his hair and noticed a sizable new scar stretched along his bicep. Every time he came back home he had new scars on his body. Simon didn't really like or dislike them. They were just part of him. He continued looking at his reflection for a moment more before leaning forward and proceeding to finish his routine. He combed his hair, brushed his teeth, put on some clothes, and finally plopped into bed.

Simon groaned as he attempted to get comfortable and, at last, closed his eyes.

————

Running was a good way to keep busy, Simon figured. He enjoyed staying active while home, it made him feel a little better. Out of habit, he was awake at five and outside running by six. He didn't mind it though, he enjoyed being out when most people weren't. Seven o clock hit and he was already back at his place. After a quick shower, he ate his usual breakfast, which consisted of a slice of toast, a cup of black coffee, and a cigarette.

Just after breakfast, Simon was already itching to get busy again. But he had nothing to do. It was a quarter past eight when he decided he'd find something to fix up in the apartment. The restless man hummed softly as he looked out at the small patio through the back glass door. Maybe he'd get some flowers.

No, he shook his head at his thoughts, he'd just end up killing them.

But he really could benefit from some other life around the apartment. Maybe he should get some flowers.

Simon grabbed the keys off of the counter before running out of the door and to the nearest hardware store.

Arriving at the store, he walked in to browse. Simon looked around and wondered what he should look for first. Maybe tools to hang the flowers along the roof of the patio.

He walked over to the aisle of tools that would be used to hang the flowers and saw a young woman standing there.

You stood confused as you eyed the different hooks and screws on the shelf. You suddenly looked up at him and smiled shyly before backing up to give him enough space for his own browsing. Simon quickly and timidly smiled back at you before moving in to look at the tools next to you.

Mumbling to yourself, you leaned forward and grasped a small box of hooks before letting them go. As you leaned back again with a frustrated sigh, Simon glanced over at you.

He was silent for a moment before he ultimately spoke up, "You having trouble finding somethin'?"

You looked up at him and nodded.

Your voice was soft compared to his, "Oh, yes, I'm needing some hooks for my back patio. I'm getting some pretty big flowers and I just don't know which set would be strong enough to hold them."

Simon stepped forward, turning his head slightly in hopes that you wouldn't see the slight smirk on his face, and clutched the set he had been eyeing for himself, "These should do the job." He handed them over as he looked down at you, his eyes meeting your own.

Your fingers grazed his slightly when you reached for the box, "Oh, thank you."

Simon nodded, his cheeks turning a bright pink. "I'm actually doin' the same thing." He cleared his throat, "Gettin' some things to put flowers out." He gestured to the array of boxes on the shelf in front of them.

You watched as he stepped forward once again and grabbed a box of the same set for himself.

"Oh, cool!" You grinned, "I love having flowers around, it just makes me feel better, you know?" His eyes met yours when you looked up at him with a very, as much as he didn't want to admit it, pretty smile.

Simon mentally shook that thought from his head, he just needed to get the box and leave.

"What kind of flowers are you getting?" You asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Oh, I'm not sure. Never had any before, I jus' need somethin' I hopefully won't kill the second I get home." He answered, his cheeks flushing out of embarrassment.

You giggled at that and Simon felt his heart pound in his chest.

You nodded understandingly, "I get it, it can be hard keeping plants alive sometimes. I killed lots of flowers when I first started keeping 'em, don't worry." Your face heated again, "I've just never used... hooks before..." You veered off sheepishly.

"It's alright." He smiled as he looked at you. Your eyes were on the floor between your feet and an awkward silence fell over the two of you until you spoke up once more. "I, um, I've never seen you around here before." You stated, the sentence coming out more like a question than an observation.

"I'm not in the area much." Simon answered, "Usually gone for work." He moved nervously, readjusting his stance.

"Oh, okay." You acknowledged, "Thankfully, I work here in the area so I'm not really gone much." Your eyes were back on his when you spoke, your confidence seemingly coming back.

"You don't get bored of it?" He questioned. "No, not at all. Work keeps me busy, my flowers do too." You replied with another sweet smile on your face.

"Well, thank you for the help..." You hesitated, realizing you hadn't asked for his name.

"Simon."

You repeated his name quietly and Simon felt his knees buckle a little bit.

"I'm Y/N." You smiled and Simon repeated your name, not missing the way you grinned at the sound of his voice saying your name.

"I-I hope this isn't too forward of me, Simon," Simon gulped hearing his name roll off of your tongue again.

"But are you," you paused to swallow anxiously, "Single?"

Simons eyes grew large, he certainly did not expect to be asked that. He nodded his head a moment later, "Yes."

Your own eyes widened, as though you were shocked at hearing that. "Oh, okay. Are you, um, looking for anything r-romantic at the moment?"

Simons stomach clenched from the awkwardness and he was sure you felt it too. Even so, he responded softly, "No. Work keeps me too busy to worry about anythin' like that."

Your smile faded a little but you nodded in understanding. "I get it." Your eyes looked into his own, it was clear you were very nervous but still tried very hard to appear confident. "Would it be inappropriate for me to offer you my number? Just in case you, for some reason, change your mind? I-I could also help you out with your new flowers if you need." You stammered.

"Love, I'm sorry but you're probably too young for me anyway." He replied, his deep voice now much softer. Your face heated at his words and your brows furrowed. "I'm twenty four."

Simon breathed out, "I'm ten years older than you."

"That's not bad at all."

"It's ten years, love."

You both sighed at the same time and your eyes drifted to the floor. Shaking your head, your looked back up at him. "Can you just take my number? Just in case you change your mind?"

Simon just looked down at you, his big brown eyes scanning your pretty face. How could he simply brush you off? He hadn't experienced something like that in a long time and as much as he wanted to abandon the situation, Simon wasn't stupid.

"Okay. But I'm not promisin' anythin'."

You grinned proudly, announcing your phone number while Simon typed it into his phone.

"It was very nice to meet you, Simon."

"It was very nice to meet you, Y/N."

Even after you parted ways, Simon still felt like his stomach was in a knot and his heart was going to burst out of his chest.

He tried his best to ignore the feeling as he bought the needed tools and then left to go buy the last items needed; the flowers.

————

Simon sat on his couch as he admired his new flowers. It didn't take him long to set them up, he had only bought four of them. He decided to hang two of the pots on the hooks coming from the roof of the patio and decided to sit the remaining two on the ground. It had been a few days and the flowers were doing great but he was concerned about accidentally killing them. He wanted to do everything he could to make sure that they flourished. Simons mind then drifted to you.

It could be a good idea to speak with you about any concerns he might have about the flowers. You were clearly knowledgeable.

Plus, you offered to help.

Simon grumbled to himself as he leaned back on the couch. Attempting to ignore his thoughts, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and began searching the internet for some more tips on how to help his flowers thrive.

The internet browsing did nothing but make him wonder more. Would it really be so bad for him to contact you for some advice on the plants? Simon knew deep down that he didn't want to speak with you about advice. You were gorgeous, sweet, and intelligent. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he mostly wanted to reach out to you because he was interested in you. He hadn't been with a woman in years because he didn't feel the need to be. He was busy with work and he left it at that, he didn't want any added stress.

Yet, Simon still found himself swiping his large thumbs over the phone screen and quickly pressing his contacts. He searched for your name and tapped it, coming to a halt when he wondered if he should text or call you.

His first instinct would be to call, just to speak and get it over with. He huffed out a breath, wondering if he should just text you instead.

That's what kids your age do, right?

Ultimately, Simon pressed the button to text you. He sat on the keyboard for a moment, deciding how to word his greeting. His thumbs moved over the keyboard and typed out his first, very rough draft.

—

Simon: Hey, it's Simon from the other day. The flowers are doing good so far but I had a few questions and was wondering if you could help me out. Thanks.

—

Simons face turned in disgust. He was not writing an email. It was a casual text. He had texted people before, why did it seem so hard all of a sudden? He deleted the message and tried again.

—

Simon: Hey, it's Simon. Do you have any tips for the flowers?

—

He read the short text and immediately pressed the delete button on the keyboard.

With a very audible groan, he began typing once again.

—

Simon: Hey, Y/N. It's Simon from the other day. The flowers are doing good so far. Wanted to see if I could ask you for some tips on their care.

—

Simon reread the text multiple times and finally decided to send it. His thumb tapped the send button and he quickly swiped out and closed his phone, sitting it on the couch beside him.

His heart pounded in his chest and he felt like he could throw up any second. Why? Why did he let himself get so worked up over you? He hated it but he hated the idea of your number sitting useless in his phone even more.

Simon sat on the couch for the remainder of the evening, waiting for your response. After a while of watching some random show on the television in front of him, he received a notification on his phone. He immediately picked up the phone and opened your text.

—

Y/N: Hi, Simon! Of course, I'd be more than happy to share some tips with you :)

Y/N: Do you need help with anything in specific?

—

His heart rate picked up and his thumbs quickly began typing.

—

Simon: No, I just need some general tips. I got some flower food and I did some research on the right time to water them, I'm just worried they won't last long.

—

He expected to have to wait for your response again but your chat bubble popped up immediately. Simon had no shame in replying quickly and keeping the conversation going.

—

Y/N: Oh ok. I'm sure they'll be fine, there's no need to stress over them too much. They maybe be fragile but flowers are much more resilient than many people realize :)

Y/N: Some flowers more than others, is all

Y/N: What kind did you end up getting?

Simon: Snapdragons. They were supposed to be somewhat low maintenance so I figured they'd be a good choice.

Simon: Photo

—

Simon figured it'd be a good idea to send you a photo of the flowers. He assumed that you would appreciate them and he also thought that it would be good for you to see them, just in case they looked off in any way.

—

Y/N: Heart reacted a photo

Y/N: They're very pretty, Simon! Those pots are perfect for Snapdragons of that size. They look great. You mentioned that you had done research on feeding and watering them properly, so just keep doing that and I'm sure they'll continue to thrive.

Y/N: I like the way you have them set up too, it's very nice :)

Simon: Thank you. Did you get yours set up?

Y/N: Photo

—

Simon pressed on the photo of your back patio. Multiple types of flowers were hanging along the top and some were sat on the ground. There were two chairs positioned neatly by the flowers with a small table between them. It looked very nice.

—

Simon: Heart reacted a photo

Simon: Looks good, Y/N. I hope I can get my flowers to look as good as yours do.

Simon: The chairs are a nice touch.

Y/N: Thank you :) I am very proud of my work.

Simon: You should be.

—

Simon watched as your chat bubble appeared and then disappeared a few times. He wondered if he said something wrong. Or maybe you just didn't know what else to say.

With the lack of conversation, Simon gained a sudden wave of courage. He quickly typed out a message and before he knew it, he pressed send.

—

Simon: Y/N, would you like to meet for dinner tomorrow night?

—

He watched as your chat bubble, once again, appeared and disappeared multiple times.

—

Y/N: Yes.

—

That was it. You didn't say anything else. Simon didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing but like the brave man he knew he was, he continued on.

—

Simon: We could meet up at the Italian restaurant by that little bookstore on the corner, if you'd like. At 7

Simon: ?

Y/N: That sounds great, Simon :)

Simon: Thumbs up reacted

—

Simon then put his phone down and let out a deep sigh. The sigh was one he had never released before, a sigh mixed with both relief and stress. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake.

—————

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #call of duty x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty x you #fanfic #fanfiction #fluff #light angst #angst with a happy ending #ghost x reader

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amkyor · 5 months ago

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K. BAKUGO SHORT STORY ᡣ𐭩

Walking on His Hands:

It was a quiet evening in the U.A. dorms, the kind of night where everyone seemed preoccupied with their own activities.

Deku was buried in his notebooks, Todoroki was reading in the common area, and Mina and Denki were playing a video game loudly on the couch. Katsuki Bakugo, however, was bored out of his mind.

He had already finished his workout for the day, his assignments were complete, and there was nothing interesting on TV.

Restless energy buzzed beneath his skin, and sitting still felt like torture. With an irritated huff, he pushed himself off the couch and stood in the middle of the room.

Then, the idea struck.

Without a word, Bakugo dropped his hands to the floor and kicked his legs up into the air, balancing perfectly in a handstand.

Mina paused her game to glance at him. “Uh, Bakugo? What are you—”

“Shut it, Pinky,” he barked, already starting to walk forward on his hands.

He made his way across the common area, his movements fluid and deliberate.

His focus was intense, his arms flexing with each step.

The others barely spared him a glance—this wasn’t the first time Bakugo had decided to do something ridiculous out of boredom.

As he rounded the corner toward the kitchen, he muttered to himself, “Tch, too easy.” He sped up, his pace quickening as he maneuvered around the furniture.

By the time he made it back to the common area, his arms were burning, but he refused to stop.

He passed Todoroki, who merely raised an eyebrow before returning to his book. Kirishima walked in just as Bakugo was making his third lap.

“Dude, you’re still doing this?!” Kirishima exclaimed, impressed.

“Shut up. Don’t distract me,” Bakugo snapped, sweat dripping from his brow.

Eventually, his arms began to shake, but his stubbornness kept him going.

It wasn’t until he reached the hallway that his strength finally gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor with a grunt. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath, before sitting up and brushing himself off like nothing had happened.

Mina peeked around the corner, smirking. “Feeling better now?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Bakugo muttered, standing up and stretching his shoulders.

He wasn’t about to admit that the ridiculous handwalking marathon had actually helped burn off some of his excess energy.

As he walked back to his room, the others exchanged amused glances.

Only Bakugo could turn sheer boredom into a display of raw determination—and somehow make it look cool in the process.

FANFIC RECOMMENDATION ᡣ𐭩

Adult Bakugo x Female Reader Fanfic

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nemo-writes · 7 months ago

Text

𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖿 141 + 𝗏𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗌 ; 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗈 ── .✦

masterlist

── .✦ 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗉 ; "𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇."

It’s day three of bed rest, and Soap’s already climbed up the walls of his room and back down again. Injured or not, he’s never been one to sit still, and being restricted to the base with “no hard jobs, no missions”—as the medic had stressed—has left him itching for something to do. Restless, he decides to wander, eventually finding himself at the library-slash-records room, a quiet corner of base he’s never thought to visit before.

He thumbs through a book on the nearest shelf, flipping pages more out of boredom than actual interest, when a voice behind him makes him nearly jump out of his skin.

“Good choice,” you say casually, glancing over his shoulder at the book in his hands. “I read that one when I was a teenager.”

Soap whips around, wide-eyed and ready to defend himself before he registers you standing there, a bemused smile on your face. It’s not often anyone manages to sneak up on him, especially after working alongside Ghost—but here you are, quiet as a shadow.

“Christ, you gave me a fright!” He laughs, trying to shake off his surprise. “You a ghost yourself, or just a natural sneak?”

“Neither,” you reply with a shrug. “I just work here. Records department.”

He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head with a hint of scepticism. “Records, aye? Right, sure. So… what squad d’you belong to, then?”

You laugh, not seeming to mind his incredulity. “No squad. No task force, either. Just a regular base staff member. I make sure all your physical files stay organised, is all.”

“Well, I didn't expect to find a hidden gem like you in here,” he says, putting on his usual flirty grin, expecting some kind of blush or maybe even a shy look.

But you just give another amused smile. “I’m not a gem, just the records keeper. I also stock the books,” you add, gesturing around. “Figured a small library might be good for those interested. We don’t have much, but it’s a nice change of pace for some people.”

The flirting sails right over your head, and Soap’s grin falters ever so slightly before he recovers. “Ah, so you're the one to thank for this wee slice of quiet paradise on base, huh?”

You nod, a touch of pride slipping through as you straighten a few already-tidy books. “It’s simple, but I like to keep things in order here for whoever wants to pick up something to read.”

Soap tries another grin, leaning against a shelf, his tone softening just a bit. “Well, reckon I’ll be a regular if it means more chats like this. Seems like a fair deal, yeah?”

But you only hum thoughtfully, eyes scanning the shelf beside him, clearly cataloguing if anything’s out of place. Soap finds himself smirking, both amused and oddly challenged by how thoroughly you’ve ignored his attempts to charm you. He realises with a quiet laugh that this just might be the break he needed.

. . .

In the quiet of his quarters, Soap lounges on his bunk with the phone pressed to his ear, listening to his mum and sister talk about his childhood. It had started with the usual check-in—hearing how he was healing, how things were on base—and soon drifted into familiar family banter.

His sister, Cait, laughs as she recalls his ‘miraculous’ ability to get hurt every other day growing up. “Remember when you broke both your arms jumping off that shed roof, John?” she teases, barely stifling her laughter. “Mum had to practically wrap you in bubble wrap.”

“Aye, aye, laugh it up,” Soap mutters, though he’s grinning. “Was tryin’ to perfect my landing, is all.”

His mum’s voice chimes in with a fond chuckle, “Perfect it you did, son. Broke both arms and had us all in stitches—not just ‘cause of the casts, but because you couldn’t stop fidgeting.”

“Oh, I remember,” he groans, recalling the itch of the casts and the boredom of sitting still for weeks. “I was goin’ mad with nothing to do!”

“That’s why I read to you,” his mum adds, the warmth in her voice audible even over the line. “You were always restless, even with two arms in casts.”

Soap’s grin turns a bit softer. “I remember that… just not the book itself. Somethin’ about a fox and a forest?”

His mum hums thoughtfully. “It was a sweet story, but I can’t recall the title. Do you, Cait?”

Cait only chuckles, clearly drawing a blank. “Oh, I remember the fuss he made, but the book? Not a chance.”

Soap shakes his head, feeling a little pang of nostalgia. “Wouldn’t mind findin’ it again someday. Reminds me of home.”

A few days later, Soap strides through the hallway, his arm still snug in a sling but his energy undeterred. He greets everyone he passes, effortlessly drawing smiles and laughter from a few soldiers standing by the vending machines. A corporal waves, and Soap flashes him a quick grin, offering a joking salute with his free hand.

But today, he’s not here to soak up the attention. His steps have purpose, carrying him straight back to the quiet sanctuary of the records room. When he steps inside, the calm hits him like a breath of fresh air. His eyes land on you instantly, tucked in the back of the room, your head bent over something on the desk.

You’re focused, scribbling notes or reading from a thick stack of papers, and for a moment, Soap just watches. There’s something about the way the light catches on your face, the peaceful concentration you exude. He doesn’t even realise he’s smiling until his cheeks ache slightly. He adjusts his posture and clears his throat, strolling over casually, pretending not to notice the way his pulse picks up just a bit.

“Hey, there,” he says, his voice breaking the quiet like a soft ripple on a still pond. You glance up, blinking at the interruption, and he swears there’s a flicker of recognition in your gaze that makes his chest tighten.

“Back again?” you tease lightly, setting your pen down. “Getting into trouble already?”

“Nah, just takin’ it easy,” he says, his tone breezy. “Needed a break from bein’ so popular, y’know? The fans are relentless.” He winks, and you roll your eyes, though there’s a smile tugging at your lips.

He shifts slightly, leaning his good arm against the edge of the desk. “Actually, I was hopin’ you might be able to help me with somethin’. Feels a bit daft, but here goes.” He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly feeling the weight of how silly this might sound. “There’s this book. From when I was a kid. My Ma read it to me when I broke both arms once—don’t ask,” he adds quickly, grinning sheepishly. “But I can’t remember the title. Just bits of it.”

That piques your interest. You sit up a little straighter, curiosity lighting up your features. “What do you remember about it?” you ask, your tone genuinely warm.

Soap exhales, relieved you haven’t laughed him off, and starts piecing it together. “Right, so it was about this fox. A scrappy wee thing, always gettin’ into trouble. Lived in a forest, sneakin’ around like it owned the place. There was… a badger, I think? Big, grumpy fella, always tellin’ the fox to stop bein’ reckless. But the fox didn’t listen—bit of a troublemaker, that one.”

You nod, your attention fixed on him, and it spurs him on. “One part I remember clear as day—there was a trap. The fox got its paw caught, and I thought it was done for. Had my heart in my throat. My Ma kept tellin’ me it’d be fine, but I was sweatin’ over it.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck as if to brush off the emotion. “Then there was somethin’ about the forest gettin’ destroyed, so the fox had to leave. Find a new home, y’know?”

You lean forward slightly, completely drawn in, and it makes his pulse quicken. “That sounds… really sweet, actually. And a little sad.”

“Aye, it was,” he says, his voice softer now. “Hit me like a brick back then. Think I might’ve cried—don’t tell anyone that,” he adds quickly, wagging a finger with mock severity.

Your smile widens. “I wouldn’t dream of it. But… you’re describing it so vividly. I might know it. Hang on.” You tap your chin thoughtfully, sorting through your mental catalog of titles. Soap watches you closely, his expression softening as you mentally sift through the possibilities. After a moment, you shake your head, regret flashing in your eyes. “I think I know the book, but I don’t have it here. Sorry.”

Soap raises his brows, clearly impressed. “You’ve got a memory like a steel trap, lass. How d’you even keep track of all that?”

You wave him off modestly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “It’s nothing, really. I just like books. Spend enough time with them, and you start remembering the little details.”

“Still,” you say, your tone tinged with determination. “I’ll keep an eye out. If it crosses my path, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know.”

Soap’s grin widens, his eyes crinkling in that way that makes it hard to look away. “Aye, I’ll hold you to that.” His voice softens, and for a moment, there’s a quiet warmth between you that neither of you rush to fill.

“Thanks,” he says finally, the sincerity in his tone catching you slightly off guard. “You’re good company, y’know that?”

Before you can reply, he pushes off the desk with his good arm, the playful edge returning to his expression as he gives you a wink. “Don’t let me distract you too much, aye? I’ll see myself out.”

You manage a small laugh, watching as he makes his way toward the door, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in his wake. But just as he steps into the hallway, he pauses, glancing back through the open door.

For a brief second, his gaze softens, the memory of the fox, his Ma’s soothing voice, and the quiet comfort of your little nook weaving together to warm a part of him he hadn’t realised needed it. With a nod to himself, he turns away, the thought of returning already forming in the back of his mind.

. . .

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual hum of conversation and clatter of trays. Soap, now out of his sling and feeling like himself again, sat among Gaz, Ghost, and a few others from the base, his laughter loud and infectious as they swapped stories and teased one another. His attention was fully on Gaz’s exaggerated recounting of a drill mishap when Ghost’s gravelly voice cut through the din.

“Oi, Johnny. Little mouse headed this way.”

Soap blinked, confused, until Ghost gave a subtle nod toward the figure approaching from behind. Soap twisted around, and his breath hitched the moment he spotted you.

Springing to his feet far too quickly, Soap’s knee hit the table with a loud clang, trays rattling dangerously. The others shouted half-hearted complaints, but Soap didn’t care. All his attention was on you, standing there with a paper bag in hand, a shy smile gracing your lips.

“I—uh—hi,” Soap stammered, suddenly unsure of himself as you held the bag out toward him.

“I found it,” you said simply, your tone giddy. “Thought you might like to have it.”

He stared at the bag, then at you, before carefully taking it from your hands. His fingers brushed yours briefly, and he swore he felt a spark. Peeking inside, his jaw dropped. There it was—the book. The cover was pristine, like it had just been pulled from a bookstore shelf.

“You didn’t…” he began, but words failed him. His gaze flicked between the book and your face, awe written plainly across his features.

You chuckled softly, patting the hand that held the book. “It’s no big deal. Enjoy it, yeah?”

And with that, you turned and walked away, leaving Soap frozen in place. He watched you go, only snapping out of his trance when Gaz whistled low under his breath. Soap turned back to the table, clutching the bag as if it held a treasure.

Seated back at the table, the book resting carefully in his lap, he barely touched his food, his usual chatter replaced by a soft, distracted smile. He flipped the book over in his hands, running his thumb along the edges of the paper bag, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

“Someone’s got a fan,” Gaz teased, grinning.

“Shut it,” Soap muttered, his cheeks flushing.

But the teasing didn’t stop there. One of the younger men at the table, a mechanic who had joined the base recently, leaned forward, asking him about you with a smirk edged with something he didn’t like, at all.

Soap’s expression darkened instantly, his jaw clenching. Ghost, always the observer, grumbled lowly. “Leave it, lad,” he warned, his voice a quiet rumble. The mechanic wisely dropped the subject.

As the conversation shifted back to base gossip, Soap’s focus stayed on the book in his hands. He traced the edges of the paper bag absentmindedly, his mind replaying the moment you’d handed it to him and the warmth of your hand on his. His smile widened, soft and genuine, as he looked the book over again, the edges of the paper bag crinkling beneath his fingers.

Ghost glanced at Soap briefly, noting the faraway look in his eyes. With a barely audible snort, he shook his head and returned to his meal, leaving the smitten Scotsman to his thoughts.

. . .

Soap spent the better part of the next day scouring every corner of the base, peeking into offices, workshops, and even the records room during normal hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. Each empty space only added to his frustration.

“Sneaky little mouse," he muttered under his breath with an undeniable smile, hands on his hips.

His gripping earned a chuckle from Gaz, who leaned back in his chair and exchanged a knowing look with Ghost. “Maybe you’re just not lookin’ in the right places, mate,” Gaz teased, popping a peanut into his mouth.

Ghost, however, offered a rare bit of practical advice. “Try the rec room. Late hours.” His tone was low, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Sometimes I go there when I can’t sleep. Tea’s decent, and I watch matches on my phone. Could be she’s got the same idea.”

Soap perked up at the suggestion, nodding gratefully. “Aye, worth a shot. Thanks, mate!"

Later that evening, Soap made his way to the rec room. The base was quieter, the halls dimly lit, and the faint hum of a vending machine filled the otherwise empty space. As he approached the rec room, the soft clink of a kettle caught his attention. Peering in, he spotted you by the small kitchenette, the warm glow of the stove’s light illuminating your face as you poured hot water into a mug.

For a moment, he hesitated. His usual bravado faltered as he took in the calm scene, unsure how to approach without disturbing the peaceful air you carried with you. But then, squaring his shoulders, he stepped inside.

“Didn’t think I’d find you 'ere,” he said, his voice low but carrying a playful lilt.

You glanced over your shoulder, surprised but smiling softly when you saw him. “Evening, Sergeant. Tea, late-night stroll, or both?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Both, maybe. Been lookin’ for you, actually. You’ve got a knack for disappearin’, y’know.”

You turned back to the stove, shaking your head lightly as you reached for another mug. “You found me now, didn’t you? Want some tea?”

“Aye, thanks.” Soap approached, watching as you handed him the steaming mug. He cradled it, savoring the warmth in his hands. “Listen, about the book…”

You waved him off, cutting him off before he could continue. “It’s nothing, really. I should be the one thanking you. You’ve shown interest in the books and my little corner. It means a lot to have someone notice.”

Soap blinked, caught off guard by your words. Before you could turn back around to retrieve your own mug, he reached out, catching your hand. His fingers curled around yours gently, his thumb brushing the back of your knuckles.

The contact was warm, steady, and startlingly tender.

“No,” he said, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “It wasn’t nothin’. You went out of your way for me, and… it means more than I can say.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat when he lifted your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your fingers. His lips were warm, his expression earnest as he looked up at you, gratitude and something deeper shining in his eyes.

For once, you were the one left speechless, your heart skipping a beat as the weight of his sincerity settled over you. Soap released your hand gently, his fingers lingering for just a moment before pulling back.

“Thank you,” he said again, his voice a near whisper.

You swallowed, your cheeks feeling uncharacteristically warm. “You’re welcome, Sergeant,” you managed, offering him a soft smile.

“Stay a while?” he asked, nodding toward the small table tucked into the corner.

Your heart skipped a beat, and before you could overthink it, you nodded, moving to sit down. He followed, his mug cradled in his hands as he eased into the chair across from you. The quiet hum of the room settled over you both, broken only by the soft clink of his mug against the table as he set it down.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Instead, it felt warm, almost fragile, like something new and precious was taking root between you.

“You’ve got a knack for this,” he said, his tone low and easy.

“For what?” you asked, taking a sip of your tea.

“Doin’ things that catch a man off guard,” he replied, his blue eyes glinting with something playful yet sincere. “Like huntin’ down a book I barely remembered just to give me a piece of my past back.”

You waved him off modestly, though the compliment made your chest tighten in an unfamiliar way. "It's...just a book."

“To you, maybe,” he countered, his voice soft. “To me, it’s somethin’ more. And so’s this.”

He gestured vaguely, encompassing the quiet space you now shared, the table between you feeling more like a bridge than a barrier.

You lowered your gaze to your mug, the steam curling upward as you processed his words. There was a warmth in his voice, an openness you hadn’t expected but found yourself leaning into.

When you finally looked up, Soap was watching you, his gaze steady and filled with something unspoken. You held his eyes, the corners of your lips curving into a smile that matched his.

“This is nice,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

“Aye,” he agreed, his voice low. “It is.”

And as the two of you sat there, sipping tea and sharing quiet smiles, the space between you seemed to shrink, the glow of the moment wrapping around you both like a promise of something more to come.

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