#like they finally got to close that chapter???

[bratzray]

ᥫ᭡Forever Theirs ᥫ᭡

❥ Chapter 2: Interview Phase!

Warning:  Obsessive behavior, Gwi-ma slightly mentioned {phone call}, jealous!Abby, mental tension, stalking 

Synopsis: The day after you meet the Saja boys, you decide to go shopping with Ji-yoo for your new companion Luna, that’s when you bump into Abby at the store, you don’t recognize him at first but Ji-yoo does. There’s tension between you and Abby that you can’t quickly put your finger on but you continue on about your day. Later when walking home you find a poster, stating that a manager position is needed for an idol group but it doesn’t state which one, you call in a schedule your interview, which then takes a interesting turn 

Tag list:  @doodle-with-rhy, @just-set-things-on-fire, @strayharmony943,@nonetheartist

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It was the next day after the crazy encounter that you had with a group you now know as the Saja boys. No matter how hard you try you’re constantly thinking about them, and that crazy feeling you got when you were around them. Trying to push that feeling away you get out of bed to prepare for the day ahead of you. 

After taking a nice long shower, you decided to do your hair and put on a nice and simple outfit. Nothing too complicated, but still looking cute as ever. You pick up your phone and take a couple pictures with you and your new cat Luna, before making a post on your instagram and posting some pictures.

You text Ji-yoo telling him to come pick you up so that you can go to the vet and pet store together before getting some groceries. He responds telling you he’s on the way, so you start putting on your shoes and grabbing a purse big enough for the kitten to lay inside of it. You hear a car horn blaring outside and that's how you know that Ji-yoo is waiting for you. 

“Let’s go, little baby.” you say as you pet Luna before making your way to the elevator. You finally make it to the front of the building as you see Ji-yoo standing outside his car waiting for you to get inside. He opens the car door for you then he closes the door behind you, placing your purse in your lap, you start playing with Luna. 

“Soo, what did you decide to name the little rascal?” Ji-yoo asks as he reaches over the middle counsel to pet Luna. 

“Luna since I found her under the moon.” you say as you smiled at Luna as she purred while Ji-yoo petted her. He hummed in response before starting the car and driving off. 

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On the other side of town were the Saja boys and they were going crazy about the new post that you made on your instagram 

“Just look how beautiful she looks, oh my goodness.” Romance mumbled to himself as he looked at the pictures you posted

“Isn’t that the cat that was outside when we were there?” Abby ask as he also scrolled through the pictures

“Yea dummy, the damn cat followed her home.” Baby said as he continued playing his game on his Ipad 

“Of course you remember because you also followed her home.” Romance said with a snarky attitude before feeling something hit the side of his head. That something being Baby’s bottle that he was drinking out of. 

“Stop fighting you two…” Jinu said as he walked into the room

“I wonder if she’s taking the cat to the vet..” Mystery spoke up before looking at the photos you posted. 

That’s when all the boys paused taking in the words that he just said. It seems like the most responsible thing to do, especially knowing the cat was the stray. They all hummed before they looked deeply into the photos you posted 

“We’re going to the vet aren’t we?” Mystery whispered already knowing the answer 

“Yes.” The other four boys said before getting up from looking at the Ipad and putting their best outfit on to go see you again. 

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While you were walking out of the vet with Ji-yoo, you got that warm feeling again and this time it felt much closer and powerful than the other two times. You tried shaking it off and made conversation with Ji-yoo 

“So, baby girl is healthy but she’s a little underweight.” you said to Ji-yoo as you pet Luna behind the ears, feeling her bite slightly at your finger 

“Yea, which means I’m going to have to spend a whole bunch of money buying everything you need for her.” He said rolled his eyes before taking out his phone to find the nearest pet store 

“Oh please don’t be acting like I’m forcing you to buy anything, if anything I can get it myself I just need someone to carry it.” you replied, an attitude slightly growing in you as you walked off.

Ji-yoo just huffed before following close behind. 

As you continue walking you hear voices somewhat behind you 

“Who is the man with her?” One said in a slight low pitch 

“I don’t know but I don’t appreciate how he talks to her.” Said another 

Right as you were about to turn around to figure out who they were talking about, Ji-yoo pulled you into the pet store. You huffed, annoyed as you were thrown off your footing but you said nothing. You start looking and walking around shopping when you suddenly bump into a brick wall. 

“What the hel..” you say as you rub up and down on the surface before looking up and seeing a man’s face, a beautiful man at that. 

“OH MY GOODNESS!! I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have rubbed on you like that.” you quickly said as you bowed to show your embarrassment, that was until you felt an arm wrap around your waist bringing you back up to make eye contact with said man. 

“Don’t worry darling, this won’t be the only time you cop a feel.” the man mumbled. That same warm feeling that you got before came back again, you feel like you should recognize him but you can’t put your finger on who he was, as you blush slightly at the words he said. He smiles down at you before placing his other hand on your cheek. 

“You’re really as beautiful as I thought you were…” the man whispered before rubbing your cheek. You smile slightly at the compliment before feeling someone tug you back roughly.

“Can we help you?” you know that voice and tone from anywhere. Ji-yoo never really liked when others hit on you but that was more or so because he was like a protective older brother, always making sure that you were safe. 

“You can’t help me but she can” said the man, but you had a feeling these two know each other so you ask 

“Ji do you know him?” you whisper as you look over to Ji-yoo. The face he made back at you made you feel stupid 

“You’re telling me you don’t recognize who he is?” he said, raising his voice slightly. You shook your head no before looking back at the man trying to put things together. The man smiles down at you before glaring at Ji-yoo

“I don’t understand why you’re interrupting the conversation me and this beautiful woman are having…” He said practically growling ask he spoke to Ji-yoo 

“Don’t act like I don’t know what’s up..you’re just trying to play with her feelings and I WON’T let that happen.” Ji-yoo barked back before pulling you away to the counter to pay for the things you were going to get. You wave bye to the man before following Ji-yoo, he waves back before blowing you a kiss. 

You huffed as you followed Ji-yoo to the front 

“What was that all about?” you asked trying your best not to get upset at his protective behavior, but instead of responding he continues to ignore you 

“Ji-yoo, I’m talking to you.” you say, annoyed at him ignoring you. He finishes paying before grabbing you by the arm and rushing you to the car. You finally push your arm out of his tight grasp 

“What is your damn problem?!” You ask raising your voice because you were generally upset at the way that he was acting right now 

“[✮] get in the car.” He mumbles before putting the stuff he brought in the back of the car 

“No I won’t get into the car until you tell why you’re acting like this. That man was nice and kinda cute. You might just be dramatic right now!” 

“[✮] GET IN THE FUCKING CAR!” He yelled which caused you to jerk back and tear up from frustration. You shake your head before opening the car and sitting down, slamming the door behind you. 

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The boys were waiting for Abby to get back from inside the store when they saw what unfolded between you and some man they now hate. It took almost everything in them not to deal with him themselves once they saw tears swell in your eyes 

“I’m going to fucking kill him…” Mystery mumbled as he clenched his fist

Right before they got up, Abby walked over to them. 

“He’s protective…” He said 

“What the hell does that have to do with the fact he just yelled in baby girl’s face?” Romance asked slightly annoyed at Abby’s simple “explanation”. 

“The reason he yelled is because she wanted to talk to me, but he didn’t want her to. He said he knew what I was up to and didn’t want me playing with her feelings.” Abby responded before sitting next to Baby who was on his Ipad 

“What…that makes no sense, what could you possibly be up to and why does he think you’d play with her feelings?” Jinu asked before taking a sip of his milkis. 

“She didn’t recognize me, but he did. It’s just we’re idols so he probably thinks we’re just messing with her…” Abby said finally shaking his head understanding why the interaction just happened, but cannot shake off the fact that he didn’t like how controlling this man can be. Right before he was going to say something, Baby spoke up. 

“He’s her best friend, his name is Ji-yoo.” He said before showing the boys a picture of the both of y’all together, you holding the camera as you both made a silly face in the photo. The boys looked at the photo not liking how close the both of you were to each other 

“Why the hell is he in nearly every picture…” Jinu said before rolling his eyes at the pictures silently wishing that it was him instead of Ji-yoo. 

“Apparently they’ve been friends for years which would explain why he’s in so many photos. It also looks like she used to be a manager for a couple small music artists.” Baby replied before showing the group more pictures from your public instagram. 

“I have the perfect plan, it just requires a printer and a phone number…” Romance smiles before making his way to the car that they came in. 

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It’s been nearly 3 hours since you last spoke to Ji-yoo after his little outburst in front of the pet store. It was just you and him in the car since Luna had fallen asleep from being out all day 

“[✮]...” Ji-yoo finally spoke up, breaking the tension between the two of you, but he was met with the same silence he had given you when you wanted to talk. 

“[✮] please. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way but you know how I can get.” he said trying to get you to understand him, but you just huffed in return. You knew he could be protective but cussing at you and ignoring you isn’t the way to address whatever problem he was having 

“[✮]...He’s a Saja boy. They play with girls' hearts, he’s an idol for goodness sake. I just didn’t want to see you get hurt..I just shouldn’t have yelled at you, I really am sorry [✮]...” he said practically pleading with you to finally listen to him and understand that it truly was a misunderstanding 

“I understand your protectiveness, but don’t you ever cuss at me again or it's your head..” you said sternly because you smiled at him. He pulled into the parking space in front of your house when you saw a paper hanging on a light post by the car that read, “Looking for an experienced manager for a new idol group, please contact 03-1240-5896”. You smiled knowing you could finally start working though you did and still do have a decent amount of money saved from your jobs in America. You end up saving the number, planning on calling it later once you and Luna get settled. 

“I’m gonna go take Luna upstairs and open the door so it’s easier to take the stuff upstairs kay?” You said to Ji-yoo looking over your shoulder before making your way into the apartment complex 

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Right as you walked away, Abby walked up to Ji-yoo. Ji-yoo was getting the things out of the car to make things slightly easier to carry inside when he felt a presence behind him. Turning around was when he saw him. 

“Did you fucking follow us here?!” He said, surprised at the fact that Abby was standing right behind him. 

“No, I was taking a walk and recognized you. I wanted to apologize if I had done anything to upset you, I truly like her and I want to be with her” Abby said knowing for a fact that he’ll still be stubborn like he was before at the store 

“I love that for you but she’s someone I value greatly and I won’t let some 개새끼 [son of a bitch] hurt her for some idol fantasy.” he replied before pushing past Abby, carrying the litter box and bed for Luna, right before he could continue walking, Abby picked up the rest of the stuff and raced over to Ji-yoo 

“Please understand that my intentions aren’t to hurt her, cause I wouldn’t be saying sorry to you if I felt like you didn’t have some influence in her life.” He said while following Ji-yoo to the elevator, standing right beside him while making it up to the floor you lived on 

“I won’t believe a damn thing until I see it. I’d be stupid to believe a 바보 [fool] like you.” Ji-yoo replied as the door opened, making his way to your apartment complex. Abby already knew exactly where your apartment was thanks to Baby, but that’ll look a little too creepy

They finally make it to your house, when Ji-yoo knocks on the door and as soon as he does you can hear tussling around the house. You open the door while Luna is hanging from the front of your cardigan, craws digging deep into your skin

“I’m sorry Ji, I know I said I’d be down but she didn’t want to let me go.” You laugh a little though in pain, as you grabbed her off your shirt and placed her on your shoulder. You noticed the man from earlier standing right beside Ji-yoo

“It’s nice to see you again…” You look at him confused trying to figure out who he is since Ji-yoo seems to know him 

“You can call me Abby darling.” He said holding his hand out to you, you gave him your hand and he placed a light kiss on the back of it. You smile slightly as you heard a huff from Ji-yoo when you finally cut the tension between all three of you

“Please come in, I don’t want you standing out here holding all that stuff.” You said as you stood to the side to let the men in. They placed everything down, and Ji-yoo started to unpack everything in the corner. 

“Thank you for helping us Abby.” You said to him smiling up at him as you smiled up at him 

“I’d do it again for you darlin.” He said as he returned the smile you gave him 

“How can I repay you?” You asked ready to take out some money to give him 

“Don’t do that, but I would love to have your number.” He said, smiling down at you as he pulled out his phone. You blushed slightly before putting your number into his phone and leading him out your house. Giving him a quick goodbye, you made your way back to Ji-yoo. 

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It had taken nearly 3 hours to set everything up for Luna but you finally did it. It was a bit late but you still wanted to try your chances with calling that new management position, Ji-yoo had left nearly 30 minutes ago so it was just you and Luna. You got your phone and called the number, you didn’t expect anyone to answer until you heard it. 

“Ahh…how may we help you…” A deep male voice spoke on the other end, your body stiffened like you recognized the voice from somewhere but couldn’t quite put your finger on it yet.

“Um. Yes I would like to apply for the manager position that was posted on the paper…” You said slightly shaken up from the person on the other end 

“Mmmm…What name should I put down for the interview…” The man asked, he seemed very uninterested and sounded angry.

“[✮]-” Right before you could say your last name you get cut off by a ground shaking laugh on the other end of the phone, before you could say anything you hear

“These boys…I knew there was a reason they needed my help and this is why!!” The man continued with his barking laugh before he got replaced by a kind woman. 

She asked your name again, which you gave her and you set up a date for the interview which was now 2 days away. You couldn’t wait, this is your chance to actually work and feel comfortable in your new environment 

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The boys had been sitting around the phone, listening to your sweet voice which was contrasted to Gwi-ma’s deep and intimidating voice. 

It was fine until he heard your name and started barking and that was when they cut the call and replaced him with someone else. The reason they didn’t answer the call themselves is because they were afraid you would recognize their voices so they asked Gwi-ma which seemed like a big mistake. 

“You boys are foolish.” They heard his voice blaring in their heads, unable to escape whatever he had to say to them. 

“Weak and hopelessly in love…foolish boys truly.” Gwi-ma continued to degrade them as he saw them asking for help to talk to their bonded lover as weak and useless. 

“Gwi-ma, we only asked because she could recognize our voices, it wouldn't be completely useless to want the surprise effect..” Romance mumbled before continuing to stay quite as Gwi-ma continued 

“I cannot help you everytime you cannot talk to a girl especially if that girl is bonded to you even when she dies.” He snarled at Romance's comment before huffing, not wanting to continue the conversation, disappearing back to wherever he came from. 

The boys signed, feeling relieved that Gwi-ma finally is leaving them alone 

“Lets remember not to ask him for anything again…” Romance said, annoyed at what Gwi-ma said to him 

Right before the others could reply a demon worker of theirs knocked on the door. Once allowed permission to enter, she talked 

“My lords, she has agreed to the interview process and she’ll be here in the next two days.” She said before turning back around a closing the door 

Before any of them could react, Abby jumped out his seat in excitement. 

“What the heck is wrong with you?” Baby said looking up from his Ipad, glaring at Abby for messing him up while he was playing a game 

“She texted me…” Abby mumbled to himself, he kept repeating the same phase before Jinu came up behind him to see what he was so excited about, that’s when he saw your name at the top of his messages and y’all had begun a conversation 

“When the hell did you get her number?!” Jinu question Abby causing the other boys to jump up 

“You got her number?!” Baby yelled, upset that Abby got it before him

“When were you gonna tell us??” Mystery questioned surprised Abby actually got your number

“WOW! Imagine keeping baby girl from me…” Romance said with a attitude that Abby didn’t tell him that he got your number 

“Yea I got her number when I went to her apartment…” He whispered hoping they didn’t hear him 

“YOU WENT TO HER APARTMENT?!!” The other boys yelled, upset that he went without telling them first 

“Yea..but we’ll see her in two days…” Abby responded, laughing slightly trying to lighten the mood, before feeling at least 20 projectiles being thrown at him at an alarming speed causing him to fall. 

The boys huff but they can’t be mad for long, because they’ll see you soon and once they get ahold of you they’ll never let go

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❥ Chapter 3

[cainetarot]

PICK A CARD: ★ JULY PREDICTIONS ★

⚠️MY READINGS ARE EXTREMELY ACCURATE, TAKE IT WELL AS IT RESONATES, MY BLOG CHANNEL DO NOT SUPPORT SUGARCOATING STRICTLY ⚠️

𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐄 1

Wow, too much goin on ya'll.

Before even shuffling ur damn cards i got the song "Run baby run" like whaaaaaaa!? 😳

Lately, something has disappointed u, an exhausting, back stabbing, maybe a betrayal? A draining cycle has FINALLY hit rock bottom.

In July, ya'll be stepping up into a new journey, a new cycle 🔥

SURVIVAL MODE IS OVER..u are closing or have closed a major karmic cycle 💫 Chapter is over, especially one where u were stuck in survival mode.

Things start moving fast this month ya'll. But with that speed, u gotta face truth bombs ⚡️

NOW IK WHY U GOT THAT SONG!

Ya'll can get stalked badly ngl, U could get an offer or opportunity or MONEY YEAHHHHHAHAH 🌝

Someone might play mind games or act selfishly, especially someone who’s insecure about ur ABSOLUTE glow up 😏🔥

If someone is shady around u, U'LL KNOW!

ik its hard, ik it's exhausting but trust me, once u'll focus on urself and ur glow up, nothing...I REPEAT NOTHING CAN STOP U! ⚡️

Don’t entertain drama.

Ur entering your boss era.

What's next in ur love life? FOR EXTENDED/PERSONAL PAID READINGS DM ME STARTING FROM JUST 2.99$

𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐄 2

Why u so stubborn dawg?

WHAT the fuck are u holding on to?? lemme see..🤨

U thought July would be chill? Nah. This month is a plot twist..A convo or argument gives u a shocking clarity..

All ur doubts, fears, and overthinking are trapping ur fire. ARE U AWARE? Ur also clutching onto something too tightly ...money, pride, control, or ur emotions ❤️‍🔥

Something u were clinging to shatters, maybe a toxic connection, false hope, delulu, or a fear based goal.... IT BREAKS ⛓️‍💥

Expect a rude awakening, BUT GUESS WHAT?

The moment u release, the Wheel turns ☸️

U may say “I can’t do this anymore” and ghost a job, project, or person. A new person enters with fiery energy..maybe a flirt or idea partner.⚡

New timelines open. New luck, new paths, and sudden breakthroughs come ur way once u walk out of that emotional PRISON.

Best advice for u? FOR EXTENDED/PERSONAL PAID READINGS DM ME STARTING FROM JUST 2.99$

𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐄 3

HOLY SHI..

STRAIGHT UP main character energy.

July brings love, leadership, fame potential, and a chance to COMPLETELY rewrite ur destiny 😭🌟

Either u gonna be meeting ur equal, or u and someone u already know are stepping into an aligned, powerful match!! 💘

This isn't just a situationship. It’s either a deep soulmate/twin flame awakening 🔥

ya'll could be meeting someone at an event, party, gathering, or even manifesting a relationship u thought was LOST.

Cards show drama, competition. Don’t ENGAGE.

Expect a surprise invite to a celebration/event/home. A karmic ex or hater tries to stir drama 🐾

Something that was “stuck” for months starts flowing again, Also ya'll can get compliments on ur looks, leadership, and voice✨

July is UR divine alignment month.

But who's that soulmate? FOR EXTENDED/PERSONAL PAID READINGS DM ME STARTING FROM JUST 2.99$

Make sure to follow me, and DM for paid personal/extended readings

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[jaegeraether]

The Runaway - Chapter 12 (Alexia Putellas x original character slow-burn)

Jae's Masterlist

(Disclaimer: I do not speak Spanish, or Catalan, so go easy!)

Prepare yourself for a yearning Alexia���

CHAPTER 12

ALEXIA

The moment the final whistle blew, Alexia didn’t celebrate. Not really.

She smiled. She nodded. She hugged teammates. But her mind wasn’t on Chelsea. It wasn’t even on the 8-0 aggregate scoreline. It was already racing ahead - past the win, past the cameras, past the tunnel.

To her.

The minute they stepped off the pitch and back into the changing room, Alexia didn’t sit. She didn’t even undo her boots. She went straight for her phone, still tucked inside her duffle.

Emirates Stadium. Arsenal vs Real Madrid.

It didn’t take long to find. She didn’t even have to search - her feed was flooded with it.

Arsenal advance to the semi-finals.

Mariona’s magic goal in the first half, Baker’s brilliant brace in the second.

Player of the match: Delaney Baker.

She felt the emotion before she could name them. Relief, pride, something dangerously close to euphoria. Her thumb hovered over a highlight clip - Delaney striking the ball on the edge of the box, body cutting through the chaos like a blade. The net rippled. The crowd roared.

Alexia let out a breath.

God, she loved watching her play - and only now did she realise how tightly wound she’d been, not being able to watch it live. But then came the other feeling. The sharp one. The one that settled in her chest when she noticed the way Delaney limped toward the corner flag. Subtle, but there.

She knew that limp. She knew the pain behind it.

'Why are you still playing on that ankle, carinyo?'

She wanted to text her. Wanted to call. Wanted to be the first voice in her ear when she got back to the changing rooms. But she also knew the rush that came after a game like that. The media. The medicals. The high. So, she waited until she knew Delaney had some time to herself.

Alexia attempted to keep herself patient while she showered, washing her hair and changing into her Barca travel kit. While the last of the girls finished cleaning up, she stepped out to video call her.

God, she was pretty. Her face lit up with her successful night, her arm draped around Mariona casually like they hadn’t just advanced Arsenal to the semis between the two of them. Those deep blue eyes sparkled at her like she was exactly the person she’d hoping would call – and suddenly Alexia knew she wanted to be there, celebrating with her. Celebrating her.

Somehow, an hour later, Delaney was there.

Outside Stamford Bridge.

Alexia had barely muttered a word to Irene before she’d slipped outside. But it was beyond worth it. The moment she’d seen her, everything in her stilled.

Delaney was flushed, still glowing from the match, her hair damp and wavy. Her hoodie swallowed her frame, and her hands reached out for her absentmindenly, grabbing at Alexia’s hips, tugging her close.

The second Alexia had her arms around her, she didn’t want to let go.

Delaney fit against her like she was made for her. Like the slope of her neck had been carved for Alexia’s hands alone. And then that spontaneous kiss - God.

Desperate. Claiming. Not a hello. Not a goodbye. Something messier.

Alexia had intended on taking it slow, expecting nothing but a hug. To give her space. But Delaney had pulled her down to her level and kissed her like she’d never wanted anything more. And the taste of her - chapstick, mint, adrenaline - had nearly undone her.

She’d kissed back harder than she'd meant to. Pressed her against the car more possessively than she should have. She barely remembered hearing Mariona’s warning. She barely remembered anything except the feel of Delaney’s hand in her hair, the soft moan she made when Alexia had taken control, parting her mouth, the whisper of congratulations from between her lips.

She’d wanted to stay.

She’d never let anyone keep her before… then again, she’d never wanted to be kept before. But something about Delaney made her linger. As if leaving her felt unnatural. Like every cell in her body resisted watching her drive away.

Her phone buzzed before she found her voice.

She saw Delaney’s face fall ever so slightly – reflecting Alexia’s own. 

Alexia didn’t have to check the name on her phone. She knew. Jenni. Three messages. Then four. Then five.

And Delaney saw.

Alexia had felt it - how her body tensed, how her gaze dropped to the screen and then flicked away just as quickly, her hands falling.

She wanted to explain. Say it was just how they were. That she'd never need to worry about Jenni in that way. That she hadn’t asked for the photos or the flirting or whatever the hell Jenni thought was funny in the moment.

But her words failed her. Why would she spoil the only moment they had?

Delaney changed and Alexia was so attuned to her that she’d felt it. She held her with one hand, answering Irene’s call with the other.

She’d put her back in the car. Clipped her seatbelt on just to be able to lean over her. Assessed her ankle... her wrapped, damaged ankle. She shouldn’t have been running on it, let alone playing.

Alexia had been as demanding as she could with someone who wasn’t hers. 'Don't go to America. Rest.'

Jenni was rough in competition, and against Delaney? She would be unapologetically brutal.

Alexia had kissed her again on the cheek. Soft, lingering, full of things she couldn’t say aloud. She’d murmured something against her cheek, but it felt more like a beg disguised as a command.

Text me. Please text me.

When Irene’s voice echoed from the doorway, she felt her body split in two – la Reina and Alexia. Captain and… whatever Delaney wanted her to be.

And now she sat alone on the back of the bus, hoodie pulled up, earphones in, phone in her lap.

A text from Jenni lit up the screen. Again.

She didn’t open it.

She opened Delaney’s chat instead. Typed. Realised texting so quickly might be too overwhelming. Deleted everything she’d written. Waited.

Patience was not her strong suit in any sense. Not in football. Not outside of football. Especially not when it was Delaney. Especially when she felt uncomfortable about her seeing Jenni’s messages.

She leant her head back against the bus chair and sighed. Even if they talked, what could she say?

That she didn’t want Jenni? That she hadn’t for years? That even though she was unapologetically an instigator, that she was still one of her best friends? That she was notorious pot-stirrer, and to ignore her?  That she couldn’t stop thinking about the taste of her mouth, the trust in her eyes, the way she’d whispered “go, please..” with her fingers still tangled in her hoodie?

That she didn’t want to go back to Barcelona? Not tonight. Not without her.

The closer they became, the more the feelings sharpened. Intense, consuming, impossible to ignore. And with every lingering look, every shared breath, Alexia felt herself falling deeper into something that was beginning to genuinely scare her. Not because it wasn’t real, but because it was. Because every step closer meant more to lose. And somewhere inside her, a fear of her own had begun to bloom - that if Delaney ever pulled away, if she ever ran - Alexia wouldn’t just miss her. She’d break.

And worst of all, she could already feel it happening - that helpless falling feeling… mixed with that quiet, irreversible tug toward something she might not survive the loss of.

Alexia let her head slide across and smack against the cold window, screen dimming in her hand. She felt Irene’s eyes on her but couldn’t care in that moment.

She hadn’t even said goodbye properly.

She felt herself begin to spiral down that trap – the insecurity. It’s why Alexia usually stayed so closed off with people. Flings were easy. One night stands even more so. She’d always been good at keeping things casual. At holding people at just the right distance. But Delaney kept stepping past the lines she hadn’t even realised she’d drawn.

Delaney made her rethink things she’d never questioned - what it meant to be seen, to be trusted, to be chosen not for her accomplishments as a footballer, but for who she was at her core.

Because she was different from everyone else. She was everything.

She felt her phone buzzing and should have been embarrassed by just how quickly she grabbed for it.

Jenni: ¿Me estás ignorando o qué? Are you ignoring me or what?

Giving a sigh, she flicked out of the message and felt another buzz.

Delaney: Text me when you land please, Ale.

Alexia blinked at the screen. Her pulse slowed. She hadn’t run. Not yet. Pride aside, she answered immediately.

Alexia: You will be awake?

She needed rest.

Delaney: I’ll make sure I am…

She was still trying. The trust she put in Alexia never went unnoticed or unappreciated. She hearted her message, at which point the bus arrived at the airport.

The players filtered out, Alexia near the back with Irene keeping close to her. They passed through security and into the departure lounge. 

She found a seat and looked at the time – suddenly against the idea of Delaney staying awake to message her when she landed.

Alexia: Is late, carinyo. You should be sleeping.

Jenni messaged again, but she swiped away, instead focussing on the three flashing dots as the Australian typed.

Delaney: My eyes keep closing... I think I’ll sleep while you fly.

Alexia: You should sleep now.

Delaney: Trying to get rid of me?

Alexia would have rolled her eyes, but she knew her message was rooted in insecurity. How that woman was insecure, she’d never know. 

Alexia: Never.

Delaney started typing again, even slower. Alexia pictured her drifting off in Mariona’s car. Would she be home by now?

Delaney: Are you at the airport?

Alexia: Sí, waiting for the plane.

Delaney: What song are you listening to?

Alexia smiled at the fact that she knew her so well. She screenshotted it and sent it to her.

Delaney calling…

Her heart skipped a beat. She was surrounded by her team, but she didn’t hesitate to answer.

“Hola, Ale…” She murmured sleepily. Her voice could melt butter. “I’m assuming you’re sitting with your team, being anti-social with your hoody and earphones…”

Alexia scoffed and saw Irene raise an eyebrow.

“…you don’t have to talk, I know you’re surrounded by people.”

Alexia: I miss your voice.

“You only had it an hour ago...” She chuckled, a white noise starting in the background.

Alexia: You are home?

“Sí.. I’m just jumping into the shower.” Her voice sounded a little more echoey – and Alexia loved that she was comfortable enough to shower on the phone to her.

Alexia: I join?

There was the sound of her shower door opening, and then another chuckle as she read the message.

“I think you’d be too distracting.”

Alexia: I will help washing

She pictured Delaney biting her lip. “Mmn... I’d like that about now. I can’t even be bothered to lift my arms.”

Alexia: You have a rough game..

It was more than rough. It wasn’t like their game – it was much more pressure and difficulty. Real Madrid punished them whenever they could, and playing half the game on an injured ankle would have been physically draining.

“So did you-”

Alexia raised her phone to her mouth as if recording a voice note and unmuted herself. “-don’t do that.”

She saw a few players turn to her.

Delaney made a surprised sound that was like honey right in Alexia’s ears. She couldn’t help but imagine the Australian riding her as she sat against a bedhead – her pretty sounds directly in her ear. She crossed her legs.

“I… yeah..” she admitted huskily. “I had a hard game.”

Good girl.

Alexia: Better.

“Ale? I.. uh.. can we talk? I mean – about something..”

Alexia didn’t pretend to not know what she was talking about. Any form of insecurity, she’d address. Would it better or worse if she said her name?

Alexia: Jenni?

“Yeah..”

Alexia: We know each other long time. She is troubles stirrer but she is my close friend.

The sound of the shower stopped and the glass door opening as she stepped out. “She’s important to you..”

Alexia: Yes, very.

“I don’t want to be that person who is uncomfortable with your relationships. I know we’ve spoken about it briefly – I just don’t know specifically where you two stand, and seeing all of the messages just threw me.. I’m sorry.”

Alexia: No sorry, carinyo. I should have tell you. Jenni is my friend close to me. Nothing else.

“I’m sorry..”

Alexia: No sorry.. you ask me anything.

She heard her take a breath and wished they were having the conversation in person. “You said you used to date.. but are there still feelings there?”

Alexia: Not from me.

“From her..”

Alexia: I think so from her.. actions?

“She’s not exactly subtle about it, Ale.”

She knew it must have sounded awful, the way she was explaining the situation. But truly, she didn’t care for her like she did Delaney. 

Alexia: I know but I can not change her..

Please don’t let my friendship with Jenni ruin this relationship, she thought. Please.

“I know, and I wouldn’t expect you to. I wouldn’t want to change anything between you two. Or any relationships in your life for that matter. I just.. I just needed to know where you stood in your relationship with her.”

Alexia: She is not you.

“Oh, Ale. I’m sorry for this.. sickness.. in me. I am clearly a lot of work.”

It was so hard for her to trust. That relationship was so tenuous with her.

Alexia: You are not work. You are worth everything.

Alexia: Any times you unsure, you ask me sisplau. Okay?

“Okay, Ale. I have one more question… you don’t want us to play against each other? Why..?”

Alexia: Jenni és protective of me

“I feel like that’s the understatement of the year.” She heard her sigh. “But I haven’t done anything to her..”

Alexia: You are important to me, carinyo.

“So she’s aggressive towards everyone important to you? You know what – don’t answer that. I just.. yeah. You’ve answered my questions. It's not your job to reassure me. You said she’s just a friend to you and I’ll trust you.. I’m working on that. Thank you for being so patient with me.”

Surely she knew by now - if it mattered to Delaney, it mattered to her. She would take any job on if it was of any benefit to the Australian. Standing, Alexia wandered off to a quiet corner to take herself off mute.

“Danny..”

“Ale.. god, your voice.” She breathed with what sounded like something in her mouth.

Her longing sent a shiver down her spine. “You are in bed?”

“Not just yet...”

“I can see you?” It came out polite – but she couldn’t stop the need seeping into her voice. She was so used to being commanding and getting what she wanted. However, Delaney had a way of turning her into someone softer, quieter. Someone who ended up in a state of begging instead of demanding – which was new but surprisingly not unpleasant.

“You are alone?”

It was the same question as she’d asked on New Years Eve, her voice warier now than it was then. To reassure her, she turned on her own camera.

“I promise.”

After a hesitant pause, the camera turned on. Delaney stepped back from where she’d propped it up near her bathroom mirror, wearing nothing but a towel. She gave an apologetic smile as she spat out the last of her toothpaste and put her toothbrush back. Alexia could only watch, her eyes too attuned to every single little thing she did as she worked through her nightly skin care routine, her fingers massaging cream into her face. Alexia couldn’t remember the last time she felt this way about anyone – perhaps because she never had.

“You’re staring, Ale.”

She was leant against the sink now, looking down at the camera is such a way that she’d wished she were there in person to witness.

“Of course I yam…” She watched Delaney bite her lip. “No saps com em costa deixar de mirar-te… argh - que preciosa ets, carinyo.” You don’t know how hard it is to stop looking at you...argh - how beautiful you are, sweetheart.

“I don’t quite have the vocabulary for that yet…” she admitted with an expression that said she understood the meaning anyways.

‘Yet’ almost felt like a promise. One she wanted to cling to with both hands.

“You’re alone?” She asked again.

Alexia tore her eyes away for long enough to double-check around her, even though she was in a corner. She wasn’t about to let history repeat itself.

“Sí, Dan-”

She turned back just in time to see the towel drop. Delaney was naked. Drying herself with her towel. She didn’t seem to be doing it for the sake of being naked, but rather including Alexia in her night time routine.

A boarding announcement was made for her team and Alexia ignored it, her attention right here she wanted it to be.

The Australian grabbed the phone, walking into her bedroom and setting it up on her bedside table, just like the night prior. She slipped under her sheet and turned to Alexia, her hand sliding under her pillow.

“Was that the boarding announcement?”

Alexia nodded, jaw flexing. She looked up to see Irene patiently studying her. She gestured to the players boarding.

“You should go, Ale…I don’t want to make you late again.”

“My choice.”

She rolled her eyes. “You do realise how stubborn you are?”

The Spaniard tilted her head defiantly. “You like me how I yam.”

Instead of some clever quip, she held her eyes for a few seconds and answered honestly. “I really, really do.”

She suppressed a shiver. “I text you when I land.”

“No... call me when you get home instead. I want to wake up to you again.”

[therogueflame]

Say It

omg,

hi sweet baby angels!!! look who finally wrote a new piece and isnt relying on queueueueueuing chapters she wrote seven million years ago!!!!! based on this ask. enjoy.

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WC: 7.6k

Summary: They can look all they like, but only you carry the proof of what he is to you and what you are to him.

Warnings: 18+, rough sex (p in v), fingering, targcest, multiple orgasms, creampies, breeding, multiple positions, dirty talk, bratty reader (lmk if i missed anything!)

Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader

MDNI!!!

The hall glows with firelight and heat, the smell of roasted meats clinging to silk and skin as laughter swells beneath the Red Keep’s high rafters. You sit lower at the feasting table, far enough from the center that no one expects you to speak, close enough that you can see him. Daemon. Draped in dark velvet, silver hair loose over his shoulders, a wine cup cradled in one hand like it was made for him. He looks bored, or maybe pleased, or maybe both. You can never quite tell with him when he smiles like that.

He is not alone. The court never lets him be. Ladies linger around him like wasps drawn to ripe fruit, sharp-eyed and silk-wrapped, fluttering fans and lashes with feigned restraint. One of them, a girl from House Velaryon with pale skin and storm-colored eyes, reaches out and lays her hand on his forearm as she speaks. It is not a casual touch. Her fingers slide, her thumb grazes the inside of his wrist. She leans in as she laughs, just a little too close.

He lets her.

He does not touch her back, not quite, but he also does not stop her. His expression does not shift, his body does not tense. He just tilts his head slightly, wine catching the light as he takes another sip, and listens. You see the way the girl watches his mouth as he drinks. You see the way her gaze slips down to his neck and lingers there. It makes something ugly twist low in your belly.

You have not touched your wine. You have not said a word in several minutes. The man beside you, some knight’s son with a lion-stitched doublet and soft, forgettable features, has been trying to speak with you since the second course. You barely hear him. He asks if you liked the music. You do not answer. He tries again, offering a gentle smile and a question about dancing. You turn your head slightly and say no, quiet but cold. He does not ask a third time.

All your attention is fixed on Daemon.

He knows. Of course he knows. He has not looked at you, not even once, but he can feel your gaze like a tether pulled tight. You know he can. That smile of his has curved sharper. He lifts his cup just slightly, as if in silent toast, and laughs at something the Velaryon girl says, even though you doubt he was listening. His whole body is a performance, and tonight you are not in the front row. You are not even part of the act.

You hate it.

You hate the way she looks at him. You hate that she is allowed to. You hate that she touches him in front of everyone and no one says a word. You hate that she might think she could keep him, even for a moment, even for a night. You are not his wife. You have no claim. You are not even promised. You cannot stop her. You cannot reach across the table and slap her hand away. You cannot stand and declare what he is to you, what you are to him, because no such thing has ever been said aloud.

Still, your body remembers the shape of his hands. Your skin still bears the bruises he left. You remember the way his breath felt against your throat when he called you sweet girl, when he told you to stay still, when he said yours like it meant something. But none of that matters here. Not in front of the court. Not in front of her.

She leans in closer again. Her hair brushes his shoulder. Her laugh rises like bells. Daemon lifts his goblet once more, sips slow, then finally moves his gaze.

He looks at you. Only for a moment. No more than a breath. But it is enough.

His eyes meet yours across the chaos and gold of the feasting hall. He does not blink. He does not look away. And then he smiles. Not for her. Not for the room. For you.

You do not smile back.

You hold his gaze a moment longer than you should, until it burns. Then you rise. Quietly. Deliberately. The scrape of your chair is barely heard beneath the swell of music and wine-soaked laughter, but it cuts through you clean.

You leave before the final toast is raised. Before the singers begin their third round. Before she can lean in again and whisper something sweet and simpering into his ear.

You do not storm out. You do not make a scene. You walk with your chin high and your silence sharp, knowing it will follow you more loudly than any words would have.

Your chambers are too warm when you enter. The fire crackles too loudly. The wine on the table sits untouched.

You do not pace, but you feel like you might. Your skin itches with something too close to rage, too close to want. It sits behind your ribs and twists, slow and tight, until you can’t bear to sit still.

You feel him before you hear him. The door does not creak, but it opens. He does not knock. Of course he doesn’t.

Daemon steps inside like the room belongs to him. Like you do.

“You left early,” he says.

“You noticed,” you reply.

“I notice when someone stares at me for half the feast,” he says, voice smooth. “And then vanishes before the sweets.”

You turn to face him. “I suppose I lost my appetite.”

He smiles. “A shame. The roasted pears were delightful. But not quite as sweet as the Velaryon girl’s lips.”

Your face does not change. “You kissed her?”

“No,” he says. “But she wanted me to.”

“And you were tempted.”

“I am always tempted,” he says, stepping further into the room. “That is what makes it fun.”

You lift your chin. “Fun.”

He shrugs. “You must know by now how I enjoy being watched.”

“I saw you,” you say. “I saw the way she looked at you.”

“I let her.”

“You let her put her hand on you.”

“She has hands. What was I meant to do, hack them off at the wrist?”

“You could have said no.”

“I never say no to harmless attention,” he says, smiling. “It keeps the court guessing.”

“It keeps the court thinking you are theirs to take.”

He takes a step closer. “Let them think what they will. They are wrong.”

“Are they?” you ask, sharp. “You did not look particularly unavailable tonight.”

“And yet here I am,” he says, spreading his hands slightly, “in your chambers, not hers.”

You cross your arms. “That proves little.”

He cocks his head. “Does it?”

“You belong to no one,” you say.

He doesn’t argue. “True enough.”

“You are not mine.”

“No,” he says again. “But gods, how you want me to be.”

You exhale slowly through your nose. “You are full of yourself.”

“I have good reason to be.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

“You think I should have made a show of rejecting her?” he asks. “That I ought to have stood in the middle of the hall and shouted that my cock is already spoken for?”

“Is it?” you say, soft yet cold.

He steps close enough for his voice to drop. “You would know.”

You tilt your head. “Would I?”

He smiles. “Don’t be coy. It doesn’t suit you.”

You step around him, slow, measured, the air between you too warm now, too thick. “You act as though you enjoy the idea of women fighting over you.”

“I enjoy being wanted.”

“And you enjoyed being wanted by her.”

He looks at you for a moment. “I enjoyed knowing you were watching.”

You stop.

He watches the way you still.

“I could have let another man walk me back tonight,” you say.

“You did not.”

“No. But I could have.”

He smiles, faint and dangerous. “And I could have taken her to bed.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because she’s not you.”

There it is. Said simply, said plainly, with that flash of teeth just beneath the charm. He doesn’t soften when he says it. He doesn’t look ashamed. He offers it like a challenge.

You stare at him, chest rising.

“You let them think they have a chance,” you say, quieter now.

“I let them look,” he replies. “That’s all they get. A glimpse. A taste of something they’ll never touch. That is the game, little cousin. Let them ache for it.”

“And what of me?” you ask.

His expression changes just slightly. “What of you?”

“If I want more than a game,” you say, voice like ice beneath flame. “If I am not content with glimpses and riddles. What then?”

He takes a step toward you, close enough that you feel his breath against your cheek when he speaks. “Then you are not like them.”

You do not flinch. “But you want me to feel like I am.”

“No,” he says, voice low. “I want you to feel the difference.”

You look up at him. “Then make it.”

He studies you.

“I have no claim,” you say. “No ring. No promise. Nothing but your word and the marks you leave behind.”

He lifts his hand to your jaw, gentle, dangerous, not quite touching. “That should be enough.”

“It isn’t.”

There is no space left between you. You feel his restraint like the crackle before lightning. You want him to snap. You want him to beg. You want him to yield—but you don’t want him weak.

“You test me,” he says.

“And you let me.”

He smiles, slow and wolfish. “Because I want to see how far you’ll go.”

“And what happens when I go too far?”

His lips hover near your throat. “Then I will drag you down with me.”

The silence that follows hums like a live wire. Nothing breaks it. Not the wind, not the fire, not the pounding of your heart. You don’t flinch. You don’t breathe. You wait.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less dangerous.

“If I am yours,” he says, “say it.”

You meet his gaze, steady. “If you are mine, act like it.”

He watches you for a beat longer. A breath. Two.

Then he moves.

His mouth finds yours before the words are cold in the air. No warning, no restraint. Just heat, hard and immediate. His hand knots in your hair and drags, angling your mouth to his, and he kisses you like you’ve both already lost. Like this was always going to happen. His teeth graze your lip, catch, pull. Not hard. Just enough to make you gasp.

You press into him, chest to chest, hips already shifting like your body wants something before your mind can catch up. You kiss him like you mean to punish him for every smirk, every flirtation, every woman who looked too long. He kisses you like he’s daring you to try.

His hands drop to your waist. He lifts you without asking.

You feel the edge of the table dig into the backs of your thighs as he sets you down atop it, dragging you forward until your hips meet the wood. The same table where you sometimes take meals. Where letters wait unopened. Where you sit like a lady when others are watching.

Not now.

His body crowds yours, knees parting your legs as he leans in, mouth brushing your throat, breath hot.

"Mine," he says against your skin, the word like fire.

Your hands find his shoulders, digging into the velvet of his doublet, feeling the solid muscle beneath. You want to rip it away, to see him bare and wanting, to mark him as he's marked you.

"Prove it," you challenge, voice barely steady.

His laugh is dark, dangerous. "So demanding." His teeth graze your pulse point. "So greedy."

One hand slides up your thigh, bunching the silk of your gown, finding the heat between your legs. You're already wet for him—have been since you watched him across the hall, since you imagined tearing him away from her. His fingers press against you through the thin fabric of your smallclothes, and you can't help the sound that escapes you.

"There," he murmurs against your throat, fingers stroking slow, deliberate circles. "That's what I wanted to hear."

You bite back another moan, head falling back as he works you with practiced ease. The silk of your gown pools around your hips, and his free hand traces the line of your collarbone, down to the laces of your bodice.

"She could never make sounds like that," he says, voice rough with want. "Could never arch like you do. Could never—"

"Stop talking about her," you gasp, nails digging crescents into his shoulders.

His fingers still. "Jealous?"

You meet his gaze, breathless but defiant. "Possessive."

The shift in his gaze is subtle, but you see it: a spark of something molten behind the glinting violet, some chemical recognition of your challenge that makes his breath hitch and his jaw tense. His lips curve, not in mockery this time but in anticipation, as if your defiance is the final ingredient he’s been waiting for.

“Good,” he says, and the word is roughened by want—almost hoarse as it breaks against your mouth.

He crushes you back into the table with his body and kisses you fiercely, teeth clashing, lips bruising, tongue sliding in with a claim so absolute it erases the memory of anything softer. The taste of him is as intoxicating as the wine left untouched on your table; smoke and salt and something sweeter beneath, a promise of indulgence laced with threat. He kisses you like he means to possess you from the inside out.

His hands move without mercy. One closes tight around the nape of your neck, holding you exactly where he wants you as he devours your mouth. The other slips beneath the generous folds of your gown—an impatient sweep up bare thigh, knuckles grazing sensitive skin until he finds your smallclothes and drags them aside. You feel cool air against fevered flesh just before his fingers make contact: two at once, slick with intent, pushing inside you so abruptly that you gasp against his lips.

He swallows the sound whole, then pulls back just enough to let you see how much it pleases him.

“So wet already,” Daemon murmurs, voice gone almost guttural with hunger. His thumb circles lazily over that aching bundle of nerves—just brush after cruel brush—while his fingers press deeper within, stretching and curling until your body trembles around him. “Were you thinking about this while you watched me across the room? While she touched my arm? While she batted her lashes and hoped I’d take her to my bed instead?”

You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out is a whimper—the humiliation sharp as pleasure when he smirks down at you.

“Mm,” he says. “Just as I thought.”

He works your body with an expert’s patience: slow thrusts punctuated by sudden twists of his hand that jolt pleasure up your spine. Each time he brings you close to release, he slows again—deliberately stalling, denying what’s already within reach. You realize too late that this is a different kind of game: not the one played for courtly advantage or public display, but one meant solely for this room and this hour and both your undoings.

Your hips buck against him—helpless now—and heat floods your cheeks as you realize how shamelessly you’re moving for him. Every time he retreats just enough to make you ache for more, every teasing circle of his thumb or shallow dip of his fingers makes you crave it more desperately.

He bends low until his lips are at your ear.

“I want to hear you say it,” he whispers—a demand hidden behind velvet softness. “Say what you wanted while you watched me.”

You can barely form words; your pride wars with need and loses every round. Still, when he crooks two fingers just right within you—pulling a shudder from somewhere deep and secret—you stifle a cry behind bitten lips.

He does not tolerate silence for long.

"Answer me," he commands, stilling his movements.

"Yes," you gasp, desperate. "Yes, I was thinking of this," you admit, voice catching as his fingers resume their torment. "I was thinking of how only I know what you sound like when you're inside me."

His smile is all teeth, all triumph. "And what sound is that?"

You reach between your bodies, finding the hard length of him straining against his breeches. He hisses when you palm him, squeezing just firmly enough to make his rhythm falter.

"Show me again," you challenge. "I seem to have forgotten."

In one fluid motion, he withdraws his fingers and brings them to his mouth, tasting you with deliberate slowness. His eyes never leave yours as he sucks them clean, and the sight makes heat pool low in your belly, makes your thighs tremble.

“Stand up,” he says, and his voice is not a request—it’s the leash or the whip, it’s the ring of steel on stone. You obey before you’ve even processed that you’re moving, legs trembling beneath you, skin burning with shame or anticipation. He shifts your body, handling you like he owns every inch: guiding your hips so they nudge the edge of the table, palms flat to its surface, head bent. For a heartbeat, he just stands behind you—close enough that you feel his heat but not touching. You become aware in that pause just how badly you want him, how hollowed out and untethered he’s made you with nothing but words and steady pressure.

Then the air changes; he moves in. His chest presses to your back with an intimacy that feels almost tender—almost. The illusion of gentleness lasts only long enough for him to seize hold of your wrist and pin it beside your head against the wood. He leans in until his breath ghosts over your ear, hot and deliberate, and lets his other hand slide up beneath your hair to encircle your throat—not choking, just holding. Just reminding.

You hear rather than see him undo the laces at his waist. There’s a moment when nothing happens except the double thunder of both your pulses.

“I want you to remember this,” Daemon says, voice pitched for your ear alone. “When you sit with your ladies tomorrow, gossiping over sweetmeats. When you stroll through the godswood with them and pretend not to look at me from beneath your lashes.” His hand abandons your throat and travels down the length of your back, slow as syrup, until it slides under your skirts and traces along your inner thigh. “I want you to feel this between your legs all day. I want every step to remind you who did this to you.”

He gathers up your gown in one practiced motion—no pretense left—and bunches it above your waist. The air on skin should be cooling but instead it stings, as if every nerve has risen up in revolt. You can hear him breathe in when he looks at you: a soft inhale through clenched teeth. He presses into you then—hot flesh against wetness—and positions himself at your entrance but does not push forward yet.

“Say it,” he murmurs into the shell of your ear.

You bite down hard on defiance, it tastes metallic on your tongue. “Say what?” Your answer is another challenge—a glint of rebellion even now.

His fingers tangle tight in your hair and haul back gently—just enough for pain to mingle with pleasure and send a jolt down your spine. “Say who owns you.”

The question hangs in the air like ash after fire. You can hear voices from deeper in the keep—a man laughing drunkenly two floors below, bells tolling midnight—but here there is only the question and his body pressed against yours.

You let yourself breathe once before answering. “Yours,” you say, barely more than a whisper.

“Louder,” Daemon commands.

You swallow pride and gasp, “I’m yours.”

He rewards honesty with violence—a single thrust that buries him inside you so deep that stars explode behind your eyes and all sense of poetry deserts you in favor of white-hot sensation. The sound torn from you is less than human.

The world shrinks down to hips slamming into yours, his cock splitting you open again and again until nothing exists except those points of connection—his hand cinched around yours on the table’s edge, his teeth scraping behind your ear when he bites down hard enough to mark skin for days. One arm comes around to flatten across your sternum, he holds both hands prisoner now so all you can do is brace yourself against each punishing stroke.

You lose count of how many times he pulls out nearly all the way before sheathing himself again with a violence that seems meant as punishment or reward—or maybe just necessity. The table protests under each impact, somewhere in another life you'd be worried about splinters or bruises or whether anyone will hear but here all that matters is keeping pace with him as he drives into you harder each time.

He does not stop talking throughout—not once—but now his words are reduced to grunts and groans mixed with filthy encouragements.

“Good girl…that’s it…take all of me…” Each command lodges itself deeper until finally every ounce of dignity crumbles into need.

You come apart once, convulsing around him so intensely even Daemon grunts in surprise, but he does not let go or slow down, if anything he fucks through it harder while holding tight so none of those shudders escape without being felt by both parties. When wave after wave hits until tears dampen the wood beneath where your cheek is pressed flat, he softens fractionally—his hand stroking soothing circles over where his other pins yours down—but then resumes pace as if determined to wring out every last drop from what remains.

There is something breaking loose inside him, too. By now each thrust comes paired with a half-choked curse or plea, voice more ragged than before, less certain even as body moves relentlessly forward.

He growls low in his throat when climax approaches—you can feel him swelling inside just before release—and for one last instant everything sharpens into unbearable clarity.

The taste of sweat running salty from his jaw onto yours. The burn where nails gouge crescent moons into wood. The way neither one will ever be forgiven for what comes next.

His release comes in violent pulses, hot and pulsing deep inside you. He makes no attempt to withdraw, pinning you harder against the table as he empties himself with a growl that vibrates through your joined bodies. His hips stutter, then press flush against you, holding there as if to seal what he's done. To mark you from within.

You feel him throb inside you, feel the wetness of his seed as it fills you. His breathing is ragged against your neck, his weight nearly crushing as he drapes over you, spent but unwilling to separate.

For several heartbeats, neither of you speaks. The only sound is shared breathing and the distant echoes of the feast continuing without you.

When he finally pulls away, you feel the loss of him like a physical ache. His seed runs warm down your thighs, and you remain bent over the table, trembling, unable to trust your legs to hold you upright. The silk of your gown falls back into place, but it feels foreign now—like a costume you've forgotten how to wear.

Behind you, you hear him adjusting his clothing, the soft rustle of fabric and leather. When you finally turn, he's watching you with an expression you can't read. His hair is disheveled, his doublet wrinkled, but he looks entirely too composed for what just transpired.

"Look at you," he says, voice softer now but no less intense. "Thoroughly ruined."

You straighten slowly, wincing at the pleasant ache between your legs, at the wetness still cooling on your thighs. You should feel shame. You should feel used. Instead, you feel claimed in a way that satisfies something primal inside you.

"Is that what you wanted?" you ask, smoothing your gown with hands that still tremble slightly. "To ruin me?"

His smile is slow, almost tender. "I wanted to remind you."

"Of what?" You meet his gaze steadily, refusing to be the first to look away.

"That she may touch my arm, but you..." He steps closer, one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. "You have parts of me no one else will ever know."

The gentleness is almost more unsettling than his roughness. You lean into his touch despite yourself, your body still singing with the aftershocks of what he's done to you.

"And tomorrow?" you ask. "When the court gathers again? When other ladies bat their lashes and reach for you?"

His thumb traces along your cheekbone. "Tomorrow you'll sit at that table knowing my seed is still inside you. Knowing these bruises came from my mouth." His voice drops to a whisper. "Knowing that while they dream of having me, you already do."

The arrogance should infuriate you. Instead, it sends another pulse of heat through your core. You can feel him there still—the stretch, the fullness, the evidence of his claim slowly seeping from your body.

"You're insufferable," you tell him, but there's no venom in it.

“Nyke āōhon,” he says.

I am yours.

Not teasing. Not smug. Just truth, laid bare between your breaths.

The words settle like ash on your skin, weightless and hot. Your pulse stirs again, though you are already wrecked. You study his face—how the usual sharpness has faded from his eyes, how the heat still coils beneath it, steady and sure.

"You say that now," you murmur. "But what happens when another lady reaches for you tomorrow night?"

He doesn’t look away. "She won’t."

"And if she does?"

"Then she'll lose her hand."

You blink once.

He says it like a fact. Like a weather report. Like something he's already decided.

There is no jest in his voice. No grin. Just quiet certainty, as if the notion of any other woman touching him is not only offensive but punishable. Permanently.

You should find it absurd. You don’t.

Not when your body still aches from how he claimed you. Not when his seed is still inside you, warm and thick and unmistakably his. Not when the bruises blooming along your hips match the span of his hands. Evidence, all of it. Proof you don’t need to ask for.

His hand rests on your hip, fingers slow, possessive.

“Let them look,” he says. “Let them wonder. You’ll already know.”

You don’t answer him.

Not with words.

Instead, your fingers trail down to where his hand rests on your hip. You curl yours around his wrist and pull it away—not roughly, just firmly. A silent correction.

His eyes flick up. Curious. Intrigued. He doesn’t resist.

You rise from the table, slowly, your skirts settling uneven around your legs, the fabric rumpled and half-undone from what he already did to you. Your body aches in places only he knows, but you stand tall anyway.

You take two steps back, crossing the chamber without looking at him. You don’t need to. You can feel his eyes on you like a second skin.

You stop at the edge of the couch. Pause. Let the quiet thicken.

Then you look back over your shoulder.

“Well?” you say. “Will you sit, or must I make you?”

His mouth twitches. That flicker of a smile. He crosses the room without a word and lets you push him back into the cushions, one palm on his chest.

You climb onto his lap before he can settle. Hike your skirts up. Settle your weight on him slow, deliberate, like you’re daring him to move.

He exhales through his nose, sharp and amused.

“Is this a game to you?” he murmurs.

You lean in until your mouth brushes his ear.

“No,” you whisper. “This is a reminder.”

Then you rock your hips against his, and whatever clever thing he was about to say dies on his tongue.

He hardens beneath you almost instantly, his body responding even as his breath catches. You feel him through the fabric of his breeches—thick and wanting already, as if what happened moments ago was merely an appetizer.

"Again?" His voice is rougher now, strained. "So soon?"

You don't answer with words. Instead you grind down against him, slow and deliberate, letting him feel the heat of you through the layers between. His hands come up to grip your waist, fingers digging into silk and flesh.

"Greedy little thing," he breathes, but there's admiration in it. Hunger.

You can feel his seed still slick between your thighs as you move against him, the evidence of his earlier claim making each roll of your hips smoother, more provocative. The knowledge that you're marked by him, filled by him, sends fresh heat spiraling through your belly.

"You like knowing you've marked me," you say, hands sliding up his chest to rest against his throat. "That I'll carry part of you inside me for days."

His pupils dilate at your words, at the press of your fingers against his pulse. "Yes," he admits without shame.

You lean closer, lips brushing his jaw. "Then you'll understand why I need to mark you too."

Before he can respond, you bite down on the tender skin just below his ear—not gently, not teasingly, but with enough force to leave an impression. He jerks beneath you, a sharp intake of breath, and you feel him grow harder still.

"The court will see that," he says, but there's no protest in his voice. If anything, he sounds pleased.

"Good." You pull back to meet his gaze. "Let them wonder who gave it to you."

His hands flex against your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows above bone. "You think I'll let you brand me so easily?" There's challenge in his tone, but his body betrays him—the rigid length beneath you pulses with each heartbeat.

"I think you already have," you murmur, tracing the mark blooming red against his throat. "I think you want everyone to see it."

He watches you through half-lidded eyes, the violet of his irises nearly swallowed by black. "Perhaps I do."

You work at the laces of his breeches, fingers nimble despite the tremor of desire running through them. He lifts his hips slightly to help you, a silent acquiescence that makes your power over him feel both fragile and absolute.

When you free him, he's already fully hard again, the head glistening with evidence of his arousal.

His breath stutters when you wrap your fingers around him, stroking once from base to tip with deliberate slowness. The sound he makes is half growl, half plea—a crack in that carefully maintained composure that makes satisfaction bloom warm in your chest.

"Look at me," you command softly.

His eyes snap to yours, violet fire and desperate hunger. You hold his gaze as you position yourself above him, feeling him hot and hard against your entrance. The wetness between your thighs—his seed mixed with your own arousal—makes the first brush of contact electric.

You sink down onto him slowly, taking him inch by torturous inch until you're fully seated in his lap. The stretch burns sweetly, your body still tender from before, but the feeling of being filled by him again makes you moan despite yourself.

"Seven hells," he breathes, head falling back against the cushions. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, but he doesn't try to control your pace. Not yet.

You begin to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles that make him twitch inside you. Each movement sends sparks of pleasure racing up your spine, but you keep your rhythm measured, controlled.

You begin to move, rising up until only the tip of him remains inside before sinking back down with agonizing slowness. Each motion draws fresh sounds from him—quiet gasps and bitten-off curses that make your own arousal spike higher. The power is intoxicating, watching the Rogue Prince reduced to trembling need beneath you.

His breathing grows ragged as you continue your torturous pace, lifting yourself almost completely off him before sinking back down with maddening slowness. You can see the effort it takes him not to thrust up into you, the way his jaw clenches with restraint.

His jaw clenches as you take your time, hands fisting in the silk of your skirts where they pool around his waist. You can see the effort it costs him to remain still, to let you dictate the rhythm when every line of his body screams for more.

"Patient, aren't you?" you murmur, trailing your fingertips down his chest. "I never thought I'd see the day."

His laugh is strained, breathless. "Don't mistake restraint for patience, sweet girl."

You lean forward, letting your lips hover just above his. "And what should I mistake it for?"

"Strategy," he says, voice rough. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your gown. "I'm letting you have your moment."

You raise an eyebrow, rocking your hips just enough to make his breath catch. "My moment?"

His smile is sharp-edged even as pleasure makes his voice thick. "You think you're in control because you're on top. Because I'm letting you set the pace." His thumbs trace higher, finding your nipples through the silk and circling them with maddening lightness. "But we both know who taught you to move like this."

The touch sends heat spiraling through you, but you don't let it break your rhythm. If anything, you slow further, until each rise and fall of your hips becomes an exercise in torture for you both.

"Perhaps," you breathe, "but you're still the one begging."

"Am I begging?" His hands slide to cup your breasts fully now, kneading the soft flesh as his hips finally jerk upward—just once, just enough to bury himself deeper and make you gasp. "Or am I simply enjoying the view?"

His thumb brushes across your nipple again, more firmly this time, and the sensation shoots straight to your core. You can't help the small sound that escapes you, the way your inner muscles clench around him in response. His smile widens, knowing.

"There," he murmurs, "that's what I wanted."

You lean down until your lips brush his ear. "And what about what I want?"

"Tell me," he breathes, his hands sliding to your hips again, fingers digging into flesh.

Instead of dignifying his question with a response, you anchor both palms flat against the solid muscle of his chest and bear down. You ride him in earnest now—none of the earlier coyness or measured pace, nothing calculated in your thrusts save raw hunger. Each downward stroke impales you on his cock, driving him impossibly deeper, until every inch of you is stretched and claimed and rendered wholly, ruthlessly his. The sensation is ferocious. It wrings sharp little cries from your lips that you cannot stifle, a symphony of surrender and defiance all at once.

The sound as your hips meet is obscene. Wet, rhythmic, an endless collision punctuated by the slap of flesh and the rasp of your breath. Somewhere below you the velvet cushions squawk and creak in protest beneath the violence of your movements, somewhere above you is only the hot blur of your own need and the violet fire of his gaze. He stares up at you as if he wants to memorize every twitch and tremor, as if your pleasure is the only thing in the world that matters—even as his own self-control unravels by degrees beneath your hands.

Then that control snaps altogether.

With a guttural sound, Daemon surges upward without warning. He wraps one arm around your waist, hard and unyielding as a steel band, crushing your body flush against his. The other hand slides into your hair at the nape and fists it tight, yanking your head back to bare the column of your neck. Before you can so much as gasp, his mouth is on your throat, hot and seeking.

“Mine,” he rasps against skin gone feverish beneath his tongue. Then he bites—not playfully but with primal intent—at the place where neck meets shoulder. It’s a sharp burst of pain that vaults straight into pleasure, he worries at it with teeth and tongue until you feel blood surely just beneath the surface, until tears spring to your eyes and you have to clutch at his shoulders to hold yourself together.

You dig your fingernails through his doublet with such force that you’re surprised not to draw blood yourself. The pressure only goads him onward. Beneath you, Daemon takes command of both rhythm and tempo. He thrusts up into you with brutal precision, using every ounce of strength in those infamous rider’s hips to drive himself deeper still. The new angle makes something inside you catch fire—each movement slamming into that sweet spot inside, making lights flare at the edges of your vision.

You try to keep up with him but it’s hopeless. There’s no pacing this, only helpless submission to sensation so intense it borders on agony. You want to slow down but he won’t let you—he holds you right where he wants you and fucks into you relentlessly until pleasure becomes something desperate and frightening.

He marks you everywhere he can reach—the curve of jaw, hollow of throat, even along collarbone where bruises will flower purple-black by morning—but always returns to that first spot behind your ear. He tongues it between words when he pauses for breath, occasionally he licks at the sweat pooling there as though tasting proof of conquest.

There is no space for pretense or courtly games here now—not when ecstasy burns through both of you like wildfire.

He slows briefly just long enough to slide a hand between your legs again, thumb slicking over where you're joined. Sensation detonates outward from each rough circle until you're gasping nonsense words into his hair—beseeching or cursing him or simply wailing because it’s too much—but still he doesn’t relent.

You never thought yourself capable of begging until now.

"You think you can take control from me?" His voice is a rasp against your ear, his breath hot and damp. "You think I don't see what you're doing?"

Your answer is a moan as he hits that perfect spot again, your body clenching around him involuntarily. His laugh is dark, triumphant.

"There it is," he murmurs.

He shifts beneath you, adjusting your position without breaking his rhythm. The new angle sends sparks shooting up your spine, makes your thighs tremble with the effort to maintain even the illusion of control.

One hand leaves your hip to slide between your bodies, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with the precise pressure he knows will undo you. The dual assault—his cock driving deep inside while his fingers work their magic—makes your control slip further.

"Daemon," you gasp, the name torn from your throat.

"Say it again," he commands, voice tight with his own building pleasure. "Let me hear you."

"Daemon," you repeat, louder this time, not caring who might hear beyond these walls. His name becomes a chant, a prayer, falling from your lips with each thrust.

The tension coils tighter in your core, your movements growing erratic as you chase your release. He feels it coming—the way your inner walls flutter around him, the catch in your breathing—and doubles his efforts, fingers working faster against your swollen flesh.

"Come for me," he growls, the words vibrating against your skin. "Let me feel you break around me."

It's not the command that sends you over the edge but the raw need in his voice—the way he sounds as desperate for your pleasure as you are. Your release crashes through you with such force that your vision blurs at the edges, your body convulsing around him as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you. You cry out his name one final time, loud enough that it echoes off the stone walls, a sound that would scandalize the entire court if they heard.

Daemon holds you through it, his rhythm faltering only slightly as your inner walls clench and pulse around him. When you slump against him, trembling and spent, he cradles the back of your head with unexpected tenderness, his lips brushing your temple.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for once there's no calculation in the word—just awe, rough and honest against your skin.

But he's not finished. Even as aftershocks still ripple through you, you feel him growing impossibly harder inside your oversensitive flesh. His hands grip your hips again, lifting and positioning you despite your boneless state.

"Not yet," he breathes, and begins to move again—slower now but no less intense, each thrust deliberate and deep. "I'm not done with you."

You whimper at the overstimulation, your body still singing from your release, but you don't pull away. Instead you let him use you, let him chase his own pleasure while you tremble in his arms. The sensation borders on too much, pleasure and pain blurring together until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

His breathing grows ragged against your neck, his movements more urgent. You can feel him swelling inside you as his own release approaches. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging deep enough to leave marks that will mirror the ones already blooming across your skin.

"Look at me," he demands, voice strained with the effort of holding back. When you lift your head, your eyes are glazed with pleasure and exhaustion, but you meet his gaze.

The raw possession in his words sends an unexpected pulse of heat through your oversensitive body. You're still trembling from your own climax, but something deep inside you responds to the hunger in his eyes, the way he watches you like you're the only thing that exists.

His thrusts become erratic, desperate. You feel him pulse inside you once, twice, then his release tears through him with a violence that makes his whole body go rigid beneath you. He pulls you down hard against him as he empties himself, his seed flooding you with liquid heat. A guttural sound escapes his throat—half growl, half prayer—as he holds you motionless, letting every pulse of his release fill you completely once more.

You feel the warmth of him spreading inside you, mixing with what remains from before, marking you in the most primal way possible. His grip on your hips is bruising, desperate, as if he's afraid you might disappear if he loosens his hold even slightly.

When the last tremors fade, you both remain still, breathing hard against each other's skin. The fire has burned lower while you were lost in each other, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Your body feels liquid, boneless, thoroughly claimed in ways that go far deeper than flesh.

"The feast," you murmur eventually, though neither of you makes any move to separate. "They'll notice we're gone."

His laugh rumbles through his chest where you're pressed against him. "Let them notice." His fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine, possessive even in gentleness. "Let them wonder what kept the Rogue Prince from their tedious company."

You shift slightly in his lap, feeling him still buried deep inside you, and he hisses at the sensation. The movement sends a fresh trickle of his seed down your thighs, a reminder of how thoroughly he's claimed you tonight.

"They'll talk," you say, though you make no effort to move away from him.

"They always talk." His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking the tender skin he marked earlier. "The question is whether you care what they say."

You consider this, studying his face in the flickering firelight. His hair is disheveled, silver strands clinging to his damp forehead, and there's a smugness in his expression that should irritate you. Instead, it makes something warm curl in your chest—satisfaction at being the one to unravel his usual composure.

"I stopped caring what they say the moment you first touched me," you admit quietly.

Something shifts in his gaze at your confession—a flicker of surprise, perhaps, or recognition. His thumb continues its gentle stroking along your nape, and for a moment the silence between you feels different. Less charged with conflict, more weighted with understanding.

"Good," he says finally. "Because after tonight, there will be no hiding what you are to me."

You raise an eyebrow. "And what am I to you?" 

He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re still asking. Like he’s already told you—flesh to flesh, word to word, again and again until the whole room reeks of it.

His hand curls at your neck, thumb brushing just behind your ear. Slower now. Steadier.

"You’re mine," he says.

The words are simple. Unearned, if they came from anyone else. But they don't. They come from him.

And gods, after tonight, you feel it. In your throat. In your bones. Between your thighs. In the mess you’ll carry with you to the bath tomorrow, and in the way you already dread having to share a room with anyone who dares look at him like they don’t already know.

You breathe in deep and let it out against his shoulder.

His hand stays at your nape. Your body aches in the best way a body can ache. His legs are half spread beneath yours, and he hasn’t moved to pull away. You think he won’t for a while.

You close your eyes.

Let them look.

Let them talk.

You are his, and he is yours. 

[rafeslvbug]

CHAPTER 7 - maybank blues series

you’d never been inside tannyhill before, sat on their leather couch, or experienced the cameron’s little bubble of luxury. in a way, you couldn’t imagine ever loving john b enough to leave this, like sarah had. she was as loyal as anyone you’d ever met to have done that. abandoned her room, which though you hadn’t seen, you could assume was bigger than your standard box room.

“i just wanted to ask about my car..” you began, following rafe’s movements with your eyes as he sat down in front of you, having disappeared for a brief moment after opening the doors.

“oh yeah,” he murmurs, tapping his fingers against the table. “it’s– uhm– at a mechanics…” he says, although he sounds uncertain, unable to make direct eye contact with you.

“are you sure..? you don’t sound it..” you were afraid to be overly blunt, in case he decided to retract his offer of taking care of your car. although, he did say it wasn’t an offer, more something he would do anyways. nonetheless, these were minor details people tended to go back on.

“yeah i’m sure.” rafe looked agitated, staring at his phone every few seconds, intently. knee bouncing up and down, impatience emanating from him.

“are you expecting something..?” he looks up at you, and you gesture to the phone. he shakes his head, turning it screen down.

“no, sorry, just got a business deal closing today,” he explains, and you nod along. “i’ll tell you when the car’s ready, maybe i’ll just drop it off or…”

he trails off when panic flashes across your eyes. if he dropped it off, jj would see. if jj saw, he’d get angry again. “or..i’ll tell you where to go get it, so you can get it yourself.”

“yes, that’s good,” you nod, and rafe lets out a brief chuckle.

“alright then, i’ll text you..just need your number.”

“oh right, yeah.” you rummage through your bag to find your phone, handing it over to him. it’s small in his hands, still with the home screen button, front camera cracked, corners chipped. he doesn’t judge, doesn’t say anything, types his number into your phone.

“hm..sarah had to convince you to talk to me, huh?” he muses, a soft smile across his face. you flush red. he’d seen the messages when adding his number.

“no! i uhm— are you going through my phone?” you reach forward to snatch it back, only for him to pull it out of your reach.

“not going through it! it was already open..” he defends himself, scrolling down the chat, beginning to read out text after text. “ ‘could you try and tolerate him?’” rafe pouts, looking down at you in mock sadness when he asks, “you can’t even tolerate me?”

“rafe!” you scold, lunging from your spot on the couch, forwards to try and grab your phone.

“‘pretty please..with a cherry on top!’ awwwh i see why you’ve been bothering with me, sarah added a cherry,” he snickers, just before you finally give up on trying to get your phone. legs folded underneath you on the couch, unimpressed until he hands your phone back.

“ ‘m just teasing,” he chuckles.

“you shouldn’t go through people’s phones,” you grumble, tucking it back into your bag.

rafe bites his cheek, looking at you with an obscure look before he asks, “d’you really only tolerate me because of sarah?”

you shrug, “well sure, i wouldn’t really speak to you otherwise– no offence! it’s just..how it is.”

he nods, tight, “no, yeah, i figured as much.” though he doesn’t sound as you thought it would. his earlier playfulness has died down, almost uncomfortable.

“you tell your boyfriend ‘bout this?” rafe points at the little plaster over your wrist, “y’know, the tripping incident.” he brought your attention to the small cut and now your mind is stuck, drifting back to cole. in the moment you’d forgotten about it, now he came flooding back. a sharp, unwanted feeling. or maybe..how he said everyone knew what luke was like. did rafe know? is that why he was so skeptical?

“why’d you say tripping like that?”

“hm?”

“you don’t think i fell, okay, so what’d you think happened?” you question, almost interrogatory, watching the subtle raise of rafe’s eyebrows.

“i think..you got into a fight with someone, you just won’t say who,” he admits.

“who would i get in a fight with?” you probe.

“i don’t know..girl at the country club? maybe some idiot guy, shattered a glass because he thought you weren’t doin’ your job properly,” rafe reasons, and you let out a soft sigh. he doesn’t know. he’s being sincere in his suggestions, he doesn’t even suspect it.

“oh..”

“so?” rafe inquires. you give him a blank look, head empty.

“well who was it? guy or girl?”

“neither. floorboards,” you state, sticking firm to your lie.

rafe tuts, shaking his head, “sure..anyways, you dodged my question.”

“what question?” you furrow your brows, so stuck in thinking about the probability of others..besides shoupe and the pogues, and potentially cole…finding out about luke, that you’d forgotten what he’d asked originally.

“did you tell cole about this?” he repeats.

“oh…” your sound fades, tapping your hands rhythmically against your thighs.

“oh?” rafe inquires, the implication in your lack of words clear. his eyes dart down to your moving hands, repetitive, distracting for you.

“no. i didn’t..he uhm he’s not my boyfriend, anymore,” you revealed, noting how rafe was the first person you told this to– probably not ideal, considering the reason for your breakup. hell, being here wasn’t a good idea at all.

“why not?” rafe asks, but you’re already shifting off the couch, noticing just how close to rafe you are.

“oh just didn’t work out..i’m gonna go, but text me for the car, okay?” you rest your bag strap on your shoulder, making your way to the door.

“was it him?” rafe calls out. still on the couch. unmoving. not even looking at you when he asks.

you pause. shuffle into the doorframe again. “was what him?”

“that cut, the tears,” he gestures to it again. “did he do that to you?” his voice is low, surprisingly concerned.

“no,” you breathe. “no, he didn’t.”

“okay..just checkin’,” rafe nods. you spare him a glance over your shoulder before you leave, softly clicking the door behind you. the whole interaction strikes you as weird, flittering topics, and at it’s core, the amount of questions rafe asked, the genuine interest and curiosity he showed. you brushed it off. just his attempt to get you to like him, tolerate him just that little bit more.

taglist: @starkeyjoseph @rafesbabygirlx @slut-4-rafey @lanaslushworld @littlelamy @rain-likes-purple @sunny1616 @csturnioloswifey @silkylovey @supasolaa @octoberbxbyy @rafeobx @jamesbeaufortismylife @vanessa-rafesgirl @bambigirl10 @f4sh10n-m4v3n @amelialovesrafe @letstryagaintomorrow @athenabarnes @sapphichotmess @dumbbandpoetic @emma12345sworld @samwinchesterisawhore @arigoldsblog

[casssmalefantasy]

NOTHING BUT NET - PAIGE BUECKERS X OC

CHAPTER FIVE

new’s not always bad.

I parings: paige bueckers x tatum rhodes

I synopsis: tatum’s here to play basketball and keep her guard up. but when the team parties and eyes start to lock, the line between teammate and something more gets blurry—way blurrier than she expected.

I warnings: slow-burn romance, guarded/complex feelings, alcohol use, party scenes, emotional tension, anxiety, brief references to past cheating and heartbreak, queer themes, first kiss, soft but intense moments, internal conflict

I word count: 4.9k

I tags list (comment): @fivest4rbuecks @indigo491 @everyonewatchesuconnwbb

I last chapter • next chapter

──────────────────────

The gym smelled like sweat, floor polish, and the ghost of championships. Werth was loud with sneakers dragging, balls bouncing, and Geno’s voice cutting through it all like a siren. It was one of those days—three hours deep, bodies aching, and season two weeks out. Everyone knew it. The intensity had shifted. There were no more light practices. No more easing in. It was UConn now, and it was real.

Tatum stood on the baseline, hands on her hips, jersey clinging to her back from the drills. Her chest heaved from the last set—closeouts into shell drill into full-court transition defense. Geno hadn’t stopped talking for forty minutes. Nobody had. The volume stayed up, and so did the standards.

“That was the stupidest shit I’ve ever seen. Run it again,” he barked.

And they did.

Azzi hedged too slow on the switch, and Tatum caught it. “Gotta get there earlier, Az. That angle’s wide open.”

Azzi nodded, didn’t take it personally. That was the thing about this team—they respected the truth, even when it came fast and sharp.

They rotated. Paige was loud today, too—calling out switches, getting under screens, clapping in rhythm to the tempo of the drill. She pulled Jana aside during a water break, voice low and encouraging, pointing something out on the board.

Tatum didn’t do soft-spoken. She called it mid-rep if she saw it. She knew Geno would if she didn’t. And lately, Geno had stopped yelling at her and started expecting things from her instead. Which was worse, somehow.

“Slide sooner, Ice—ball’s moving faster than your feet,” Tatum said after a scramble drill.

Ice just tapped her chest and nodded. “I got you.”

That was the culture. Honest. Brutal if needed. But built from trust.

They moved into three-on-three shell—defensive reads, rotation timing, help side communication. Tatum was sharp. She anticipated passes before they left fingertips. She directed traffic, called out cutters, closed out with high hands, and clapped once when she forced a turnover.

Geno’s voice pierced over the action. “That’s what I’m talking about. Tatum, keep talking. Some of you need to follow her lead.”

Tatum didn’t smile. She didn’t need to. She just reset and got ready for the next possession.

There were micro-moments with Paige. Glances across the key. A look exchanged during a dead ball. Something wordless between them that always flickered at the edges. But Paige had dialed it back since the night at Ted’s. She hadn’t said anything. She hadn’t needed to. Tatum had made it clear without ever using words….not now.

Still, in the scrimmage, the energy between them pulsed. Paige hit a midrange pull-up with a hand in her face and didn’t say anything, just looked at Tatum as she ran back.

Tatum smirked. “Alright, Bueckers.”

Next play, she got the switch she wanted, called for the iso, and buried a three with Paige on her. The bench went loud.

“OKAYYY GIRLYYY!” KK shouted from the sideline.

Tatum just jogged back on defense. No celebration. No talk. Just game.

She was in rhythm now—reading the floor like it was breathing with her. She hit a cutter with a no-look bounce pass through traffic. She boxed out hard, got boards in traffic. She took a charge. Geno was still yelling, but it wasn’t at her.

When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard read 36-29. Her squad won.

Everyone bent over, catching breath, untying sneakers slowly.

Geno paced in front of them, arms crossed. “You wanna know what a UConn guard looks like? Look at Tatum today.”

Silence.

Tatum’s jaw flexed. She didn’t react. That kind of praise hit somewhere too deep. She didn’t know if she believed it yet. But she heard it.

“I’m not handing out medals,” Geno added, like he’d caught himself saying something too nice. “We’re not there yet. But that’s the kind of shit that gets you minutes in March.”

Tatum looked down at her shoes, sweat dripping off her chin. Her chest was still heaving, but not from the drills anymore.

She belonged here.

At least… she almost believed it.

The ice bath was brutal, like usual. Cold enough to make your teeth clench, but everyone had adjusted to it by now—a weird post-practice ritual that somehow felt like a group therapy session in a freezer. Tatum settled into the tub with a quiet inhale, the shock of the cold hitting her lungs first. Sarah was already there, arms resting behind her on the edge, while Ice and Jana were slowly easing in, hissing through their teeth.

Paige sat across from Tatum, legs in, in a Nike sports bra. She wasn’t saying much yet, but her eyes kept sliding toward Tatum like she wanted to.

“So,” Ice said, exhaling hard. “Who’s actually committed to a Halloween costume this year?”

Sarah grinned. “Men in Black. I got the sunglasses and everything.”

“Oh, that’s gonna eat,” Jana nodded. “I’m still deciding. Might go funny this year, something dumb as hell.”

“Magic Mike’s gonna be half the damn team,” Ice said, smirking. “KK’s in. Yana. Me. Paige.”

Paige chuckled, lifting a brow. “Gotta give the people what they want.”

“Oh we know,” Ice teased. “Wait till your fans see you in your costume.”

Paige shot her a look, mock offended. “Bro relax. I probably won’t even post it.”

“They’ll probably find out somehow,” Jana grinned. “They find everything.”

“They really do. It’s kinda scary sometimes,” Paige laughed, and the girls broke into laughter with her. Then her eyes flicked back to Tatum. “What about you?”

Tatum hesitated a second, then said, “Betty Boop.”

Jana’s eyes lit up. “Oh wait, that’s fire. You pulling that off with the curls? You better go all out.”

Tatum gave a small smile. “Yeah, just gotta grab a few more things tomorrow.”

“I still need to get stuff too,” Paige said, casually. “If you want a ride, I can take you.”

There was a small pause. Not awkward, but just long enough to register. Tatum glanced up, met her eyes. Paige’s voice had dipped, a little softer than the rest of the conversation, like there was something underneath it she didn’t say out loud.

Tatum nodded once, keeping her voice neutral. “Sure. That’ll probably be easier.”

“Cool,” Paige said, quickly, like she didn’t want to make it a thing.

Sarah leaned forward. “Tatum, you really stepping up at practice lately. Noticed it today.”

“Yeah,” Ice agreed. “You’ve been calling shit out early. That help side switch with Jana? Saved us.”

Tatum shrugged, trying to brush it off. “I just don’t like running extra when someone misses a rotation.”

“Say you’re a leader without saying it,” Jana said, nudging her foot under the water. “You been on one.”

“I just… try to fix the little stuff before Geno screams about it.”

Paige gave a short laugh. “Well, good luck with that.”

That earned a few laughs. Tatum relaxed just a bit.

“You really don’t miss much, though,” Sarah said. “Feels like you see the play before it happens.”

Tatum glanced down at the water, voice lower. “Trying to prove I’m worth the spot.”

“You already did,” Paige said—not loud, but clear.

Tatum looked up. Paige didn’t look away.

Ice splashed her hand through the water. “Y’all getting sentimental. That’s enough for today.”

The moment broke, and the group laughed again. Tatum leaned back into the cold, still quiet, still guarded, but letting herself enjoy it. The teasing. The noise. The way they made space for her without needing to be asked.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The drive was quiet. Not heavy, just soft. Like the world hadn’t fully woken up yet, and neither had they.

Tatum tugged the sleeves of her UConn sweatshirt over her hands as she slid into the passenger seat of Paige’s car. She’d gone simple—black sweats, Ugg slides, curls down, hood halfway up. Paige didn’t say much when she pulled up. Just nodded, a slow half-smile from behind her glasses. She looked warm, like sleep still clung to her—grey sweatpants, Nike slides, grey Eric Emanuel hoodie zipped halfway. Ponytail low, sleepy but still sharp around the edges. Tatum noticed and immediately tried not to.

Daniel Caesar played low through the speakers, humming like a second thought. They didn’t speak. Paige tapped the wheel once, then again. Tatum stared out the window, grateful for the silence. Mornings weren’t made for talking.

It wasn’t until they hit the edge of I-84 that Paige said, “You want anything from that coffee spot up here?”

Tatum blinked out of her thoughts. “Just an iced coffee. Maybe a croissant.”

“I got you.”

“I’ll Apple Pay you—”

“Nope.” Paige reached over, caught Tatum’s phone mid-air before she could even tap her screen. “I said I got you.”

Tatum narrowed her eyes. “I’m serious.”

Paige turned off the ignition and looked at her. Really looked at her. “Tate. It’s on me.”

Tatum froze. The nickname cut through the air like warmth in a cold room. Paige was already halfway out the door before Tatum could say anything back. She sat there alone for a moment, unsettled in a way she didn’t hate.

Tatum had never liked people paying for her. Not even back then. Her ex had let her cover everything and made her feel like that was love. She thought it was, for a while. That paying meant giving. That giving meant keeping. Now someone doing something for her—even something small—made her chest tight in a way she couldn’t explain.

Paige came back balancing two iced coffees and a brown bag. She handed Tatum hers without a word.

“How much was it?” Tatum tried again.

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Tatum. Don’t worry about it.”

“You keep saying that like I’m gonna listen.”

Paige smirked. “You keep arguing like I didn’t already pay.”

Tatum didn’t respond. Not really. She just looked down at the coffee cup, the name scribbled on the side. Tate.

“Tate?” she said, quieter than she meant to.

Paige was already buckling in. “What? I can’t call you that?”

“It’s not that you can’t,” Tatum said. “It’s just… new.”

Paige shrugged, pulling out of the lot. “New’s not always bad.”

Something about the way she said it made Tatum glance out the window again. Like it meant more than it said.

They drove the rest of the way into Hartford mostly quiet. Brent was playing now, something slow and half-broken playing over warm beats. Paige didn’t say much, but her eyes kept cutting toward Tatum when they stopped at lights. Not obvious, but not hidden either. Tatum noticed. She just didn’t have it in her to call it out. And maybe she didn’t want to.

Inside the store, it smelled like cologne and new denim. Clean racks. Exposed brick. A playlist that tried too hard to be cool, but still kind of hit. Paige watched Tatum float through the space like she belonged in it—hand grazing fabrics, gaze locked in. This was her arena.

Paige was supposed to be shopping for a tie and a hat, and Tatum found her five minutes in, standing like she forgot what she came for.

“You came all the way here for a tie and hat?” Tatum raised a brow.

Paige gave her a grin. “What? It needs to look good.”

Tatum tilted her head, amused. “Doesn’t take much.”

“Oh,” Paige teased, stepping forward a little. “You think I look good without trying?”

Tatum rolled her eyes. Dangerous territory. “You don’t need me to tell you you’re attractive. People do that enough.”

“But you still said it.”

Tatum made a sharp turn down another aisle. “What kind of tie are you even looking for?”

They found one eventually. Black satin, nothing too flashy. Paige liked the one Tatum held up first, said it matched her eyes. Tatum ignored the comment like it didn’t happen.

Later, Tatum held up two red dresses. One was strapless, short. The other had a slit, a little more dramatic.

“No try-ons,” she said. “So help me pick.”

Paige didn’t hesitate. “The one with the slit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’d look good on you.”

Tatum didn’t say anything, but she put it in the cart.

They circled the store for a while longer, the music shifting into something cringey and chart-topping. Paige sang under her breath in the worst possible key just to annoy her.

“Oh my God, please stop,” Tatum laughed. “You’re ruining the song.”

“Some would say I’m improving it.”

“No one would say that.”

They finally get to the register, an older woman in a UConn crewneck and sneakers stopped in her tracks. “Oh my god,” she said, squinting. “You’re Paige Bueckers! And—wait—Tatum? The transfer?”

Paige smiled. “Yes Hii.”

The woman beamed, looking too excited for her age. “You two… y’all are gonna be a problem this year.”

Tatum blinked. “Thank you,” she said, unsure if it was the right response.

“Can I get a picture?” the woman asked, already pulling out her phone. “With both of you? My niece is obsessed with UConn and she’s been following your transfer story since it broke. Said ‘watch out for Tatum Rhodes.’”

Tatum froze for a second. Paige stepped in, gentle. “Of course.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, Paige doing the thing where she leaned in slightly, head tilted just right. Tatum stayed still, trying to smile like she’d done this a hundred times before. She hadn’t.

As they walked out, bags in hand, Paige nudged her shoulder lightly. “You alright?”

Tatum nodded. “Just not used to that.”

“What? Fans?”

“No. Being known.” She paused. “Being… seen.”

Paige looked over at her, serious now. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t know if I want to,” Tatum admitted. “Sometimes it feels easier not to.”Tatum’s fingers absently adjusted the sleeve of her hoodie

“Feels like when people look at you, they already have an idea,” Tatum added. “What they want you to be. Who they think you are. It’s hard to breathe in that sometimes.”

Paige looked over. “Yeah,” she said, voice low. “It can be. But you get to decide who you are. Not them.”

That sat heavy between them.

Outside, the sun was sliding down, soft gold stretching over the sidewalk. The air had cooled. Paige walked a little slower now, like she didn’t want the day to end yet. They loaded the car. Brent was still playing, softer now.

—

Halfway back to campus, Paige spoke again. “You nervous about your first game?”

Tatum didn’t answer right away. “I was gonna give you some press-friendly quote. But I’m not gonna do that.”

Paige stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“I’m nervous,” Tatum said. “But excited too. This is the first time I’ve started a season and haven’t felt like there’s something broken in me. Like I’m not trying to outrun doubt every time I step on the court.”

Paige didn’t respond right away. Just nodded. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

Tatum glanced at her.

“You’re here for a reason,” Paige said. “The team sees it. Geno sees it. I see it.”

Tatum looked out the window, fingers gripping the coffee cup now half-empty. “Thank you, P.”

Paige smiled. “Nicknames go both ways, huh?”

Tatum shook her head, but there was a small grin there. “Guess so.”

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

When they got back, Tatum lingered for a second outside the door before heading in. Azzi was on the couch with Sarah, Netflix playing something nobody was watching.

“How was your lil shopping day?” Azzi asked, voice loaded.

“It was good,” Tatum said, slipping off her slides. “It was fun.”

Azzi smirked. “That all?”

“Drop it.”

She disappeared into her room.

Paige was fresh out the shower when Jana peeked into her doorway. “So?”

“So what.”

“How was the ride? Did she give you the cold shoulder?”

Paige threw a pillow at her. “No. She talked.”

Jana raised a brow. “Okay interesting. Maybe she likes you after all.”

“Yeah yeah whatever,” Paige muttered, hiding her smile. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

But she didn’t sleep right away.

She laid in bed, phone face down, lights off, thinking about the way Tatum looked when she said the word seen. About how her voice dropped when she admitted to being nervous. Paige didn’t know everything about what happened in Louisville. But she knew that something had cracked there. And maybe this year was about learning to feel whole again.

And if Paige could help her feel that, even a little?

She’d show up every time.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The apartment smelled like hair spray and setting powder and whatever sugar-sweet candle Azzi had lit in the kitchen. The playlist was all early 2000s bangers—Ashanti, Usher, Nelly—and it was already warm inside from all the movement.

Tatum leaned into the bathroom mirror, the red lipstick smooth under her steady hand. She blinked once, checking the line, then rubbed her lips together and breathed out. The wig sat perfect, curls brushing the top of her shoulders, jet black like ink. She adjusted the garter on her thigh, the lace catching the light just right, then grabbed her hoops.

Just as she was clipping the last earring in, she heard the door burst open behind her.

“Goddamnnnn,” Ice said, stopping mid-step. “You look good Tatum.”

Azzi’s head poked around the corner, already in costume as a sparkling fairy with wings that lit up. “Okay Betty Boop! I see you!”

KK let out a low whistle from behind them. “Tatum, blink twice if you’re secretly filming a music video.”

Tatum rolled her eyes, but the corner of her lip curved. “Y’all are annoying.”

“Oh, we’re annoying?” Jana’s voice came from the living room. “Says the one who walked out here lookin straight from a movie.”

When Tatum stepped into the living room, the reactions didn’t slow. Caroline smiled. Morgan clutched her heart. Sarah just stared and mouthed “Wow.”

But it was Paige that made Tatum freeze.

She wasn’t looking at anyone else. Just her.

White tank top, low-slung pants, boxers showing, fake hundred-dollar bills peeking out. She had a backward cap on, a damn tie around her neck, and somehow still looked hot enough to short-circuit Tatum’s brain. Paige’s mouth parted just slightly, her eyes dragging down over Tatum’s figure and back up with a quiet disbelief.

Tatum glanced away fast, hoping no one saw how her breath caught.

Jana broke the tension, waving her digital camera in the air. “Alright! Line up! I’m getting pics of everybody.”

There were solo shots, then roommate trios, then a big group picture that Kayla—their friend that did Paige and Azzi’s braids sometimes—took while balancing on a kitchen chair.

“Paige and Tatum—get one together,” Azzi said casually.

Tatum raised a brow. Paige looked at her, silently asking, and to everyone’s surprise—including her own—Tatum nodded.

They stood side by side. Paige’s hand went to Tatum’s waist without a second thought. Tatum’s skin prickled under the touch. Jana counted down to the flash, but neither moved after the photo was taken.

“You two look so good it’s actually rude,” KK muttered.

Tatum finally broke the silence. “That Magic Mike thing… it’s working for you.”

Paige smirked. “You think so?”

“You know so.”

There was a beat too long before Jana yelled, “LET’S DO A PREGAME SHOT!” and they did.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

They piled into Ubers, Tatum and Azzi sharing one with Sarah and KK, loud laughter filling the car. The ride was short. The house they arrived at—some football player’s off campus housing—was already packed and pulsing with music, windows lit in purple and orange.

Inside, it smelled like vape clouds, sweat, cheap cologne, and weed. Lights flashed blue then pink then red, and the bass thumped playing Drake Back To Back—enough to vibrate through their bodies.

“Okayyyy! This is my shit,” Ice announced.

Tatum joined her, then Jana, then Paige. It started out fun—Tatum letting herself move to the rhythm, letting her hips go loose, feeling the music more than thinking about it.

But at one point, she caught Paige’s eyes across the room.

She was watching. Not in a weird way. In a locked-in, you’ve got my full attention kind of way. And when some guy leaned in to say something to Tatum, Paige didn’t look away.

Tatum kept cool. The guy was nice, a little tipsy, harmless. He tried to flirt, complimented her costume. Tatum gave him a tight smile, said “I’m into girls,” and he backed off politely enough.

She walked back toward the group and Paige stepped toward her immediately.

“You good?” Paige asked, her voice low but focused.

“Yeah. He was fine. Just trying his luck.”

Paige nodded once, but Tatum could feel her eyes lingering a beat longer than necessary.

Tatum nudged Azzi. “Come get a drink with me?”

As they walked toward the makeshift bar—white claws, Trulys, cheap vodka poured into plastic cups—Tatum stared into hers and blurted, “Why does she look good.”

Azzi tilted her head. “Who?”

Tatum didn’t answer. Just sipped her drink.

Azzi didn’t press. “Come on, let’s go back.”

The night blurred in a haze of dancing and yelling and old R&B lyrics shouted at the top of their lungs. Tatum wasn’t drunk, but the tipsiness was enough to loosen the reins on her restraint. Her body was warm, her guard down just enough to let her lean into the fun.

At one point, she and Paige ended up in the corner of the kitchen, semi-shielded by a crowd but still in their own little bubble.

PartyNextDoor hummed through the speakers—low, sensual, the kind of sound that felt like heat pressed against skin.

Tatum said something about someone’s costume. Paige laughed, but didn’t look away from her face.

Then Paige’s eyes dropped.

Tatum noticed.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

“You’re doing the same thing,” Paige said softly.

“So?”

Paige stepped in closer. Her voice was smooth, a little slurred from the drinks. “I’m not playing games with you, Tate.”

“I’m not playing either.”

Their eyes locked, and Paige tilted her head like she was reading every possible answer off Tatum’s lips.

“You gotta tell me what you want.”

Tatum’s heart beat hard in her chest. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Tatum looked away, then back. Her voice was low. “This is dangerous.”

Paige’s smile was slow. “Maybe. But right now, I don’t care.”

Tatum shivered. Paige’s hand touched her hip, fingers gentle but certain. She leaned down, voice barely above the music.

“You look so good tonight,” she said. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to hide how much I want you.”

Tatum’s stomach flipped. Her chest felt tight and hot and terrified all at once.

“What do you want, Tate?” Paige asked, not letting up.

Tatum closed her eyes for half a second. “We can’t.”

Paige’s brow lifted. “We can’t what?”

“We’re teammates. This is messy.”

“If you want me to stop,” Paige said, pulling back an inch, “Just say it.”

Tatum didn’t say anything.

Paige tried again. “Say it.”

“I want you,” Tatum said quietly.

Paige stepped closer, hand now cupping her face. “You have to be sure.”

“I am.”

That’s all it took.

Their lips met fast—tentative at first, like a question—and then deeper, hotter, more certain. Tatum’s hand gripped Paige’s tank top. Paige’s fingers slid into the hair behind Tatum’s wig, anchoring her closer. The music melted behind them, like they weren’t at a party anymore. Just each other.

When Tatum pulled back, lips parted, breath shaky, her chest heaved. Paige smiled, flushed and close.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Tatum didn’t answer. Just grabbed Paige’s face again and kissed her harder.

Across the room, Azzi nudged Sarah. “Look.”

Sarah looked up. Her eyes widened. “Oh??”

Jana caught it too. “They’re really—okay, damn.”

KK smirked. “I knew it.”

Most of the room didn’t notice. A few of their teammates saw. But Tatum didn’t care.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t thinking about what was smart, or safe, or strategic.

She was just thinking about Paige.

And how good it felt to stop pretending she didn’t want this.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

Tatum woke up too aware.

Her room was quiet, dimly lit by the soft gray light of a cloudy morning. But her head wasn’t foggy. Her thoughts, unfortunately, were clear.

Too clear.

The kiss. Paige’s hands on her waist. The weight of her stare. Her voice. That corner. The way her mouth moved when she said Tatum’s name like it meant more. The way Tatum let her.

Her heart kicked in her chest, and she sat up like she could shake it off. She couldn’t. The red garter from last night was still looped around her leg like a reminder. She yanked it off, tossed it into her laundry bin, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

“Stupid,” she muttered to herself. “You knew better.”

The apartment smelled like toast and eggs, and Tatum barely had the energy to care. She padded out to the kitchen in her pajama shorts and socks, eyes heavy, heart heavier.

Azzi was at the stove, flipping veggie-loaded eggs with avocado toast already plated on the counter. She turned slightly, taking one look at Tatum and arching her brow like she already knew everything.

Tatum froze mid-step. “Don’t,” she said flatly.

Azzi didn’t say anything. Just gave a small smile—teasing but not unkind—and went back to cooking.

Tatum opened the fridge for a cold water and took a long sip, needing the cool burn down her throat to ground her. “I know you want to ask,” she said finally, eyes still on the fridge door, “But I don’t want to talk about it. And it shouldn’t have happened.”

Her voice was clipped. Too clipped, even for her.

Azzi turned off the stove. “I wasn’t gonna ask,” she said softly. “But… maybe it’d be better to talk to her. Before it gets messier.”

Tatum looked away. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Azzi didn’t argue. Just nodded, lips pressed together like she knew Tatum was lying to herself and didn’t want to press it.

Tatum went back to her room. She sat at the edge of her bed, water bottle in hand, staring down at the floor like she could find some version of herself that didn’t always do this—didn’t always ruin good things before they had the chance to be real.

It wasn’t about Paige. Not entirely.

It was what Paige reminded her of. The slope. The softness. The risk of falling for a teammate again when she had clawed her way out of that exact mistake last time. When she had promised herself UConn would be different.

Basketball. Only basketball.

So she told herself the kiss didn’t mean anything.

Even if her mouth had memorized the shape of it. Even if she still felt Paige’s touch on her skin.

She’d bury it. Same way she buried everything else that ever threatened to hurt.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

Later that day, Jana decided to have game night at her dorm apartment—the apartment was loud the second they walked in. Ice and Caroline were already trash-talking over Uno, and KK was singing terribly to an usher song blaring from the buetooth speaker.

“I’m bringing real music back,” KK announced, holding up her phone like it was a mic.

“Okay Usher 2004,” Ice said with a grin, tossing a handful of popcorn at her. “Calm down.”

Jana looked up from refilling drinks. “Ayeeeee! The roomies are here!”

Azzi nudged Tatum forward with a smirk. “We made it. Is there space left on the couch or did KK claim it with a blanket and ten pillows again?”

KK dramatically laid across it like a Victorian widow. “I am the couch.”

Everyone laughed.

Everyone except Tatum.

She smiled tight. Kept her hands in her hoodie pocket. Made her way to the kitchen to get a ginger ale and stayed close to the snacks like it was her job.

Paige clocked it instantly. The distance. The sidesteps. The way Tatum’s eyes didn’t land on her once.

She tried not to let it get to her. But it did.

Allie—quiet, sweet, and armed with a deadly sense of humor when you weren’t expecting it—offered Paige a Sprite. “You look like you could use some hydration,” she said under her breath.

Paige cracked a half-smile. “What gave it away?”

Allie nodded subtly toward Tatum. “Just a vibe.”

Eventually, the group scattered, some settling into card games, others flipping between music and food. Paige saw her chance when Tatum went to throw her empty ginger ale can out.

They ended up in the kitchen alone. Again.

“Tate,” Paige started, voice low.

Tatum stiffened. “Don’t.”

Paige stepped closer. “You’re not even gonna talk to me?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Tatum said, not looking at her. Her tone was careful. Calculated. “It was a mistake.”

Paige blinked. That stung more than she expected. “A mistake?”

Tatum turned, finally facing her. “I told myself I wouldn’t do this again. I came here to play. That’s it.”

“I didn’t ask you for anything more,” Paige said quietly. “But pretending it didn’t happen? That’s not you either.”

Tatum looked down at her drink, fingers tight around the cup. “I don’t want to ruin anything.”

“You’re not,” Paige said, voice gentler now. “We’re not.”

Tatum didn’t reply. Her heart was beating out of her chest.

Paige could see it in her eyes—the push and pull. The fear and the fire behind it.

But then the door flew open and Ice yelled, “Yo! Who keeps hiding the Oreos.”

The moment dissolved. Tatum stepped away first.

“Better get back before KK starts singing more Usher,” she said, already halfway down the hall.

Paige stood in the kitchen alone for a beat longer, still holding her cup, her jaw clenched.

This wasn’t what she expected. But it also wasn’t over.

Not even close.

[babextoken]

yeah, I’ll fuckin text you back, I’m the dumbest girl alive

Dangerous to Me series ⟡ chapter 5

catch up or relive it ˚𝜗𝜚˚‧ masterlist

summary: or the Top 5 Most Mortifying Things to Happen at a Listening Party. Number 1 will make you reconsider accepting future invitations 🫣 pairing: Vessel x reader wc: 1.2k head's up: still the same old idiot frenemies in love, silly listicle format for a little bit, texting, yearning, Vessel throws a party, talking about sex, bizarre behavior a/n: I wrote this while riding in the car through the mountains in an attempt to not lose my mind. ⟡₊⋆∘˚⊹ Situation Enjoyers™: @lifemod17 @glitterghost @adenobabe  @jeriiicho @milk--bones  @okoatmeal  @horsebiologist @intake-of-breath @fruitsandcheese @killed-by-thegods @goosepond69 @friendly-neighborhood-ghoul @lynzeequitlollygagging @thatxxjiyong-ssi  @cloudy-soul @daddysaidbringthethunder  @evisnotok @cheomain @object-of-my-desire @dreamer-lost-in-wonderland @thedemonofsodom @canopies-of-gold-and-evergreen @thewayyoulay @houseofsleeptoken @jerrysghostwriter @music-lover23 @renegadebirch @blackcherrywhiskey @saythatuwill @temptation-waits @kenjipepsi1 @iiischeckeredsocks

recommended listening:

Coming in at #5: You didn’t know anyone at the party except for the host! Now maybe it’s controversial to rank this one so low, but you went in knowing this would be the case. Bonus points to you for having a fully charged phone and plenty of interesting apps to make it look like you were busy and in high demand! 

#4: You and every other girl opted for the same little black dress and boots. Self explanatory but still irritating no less. What in the y/n fan fiction is this? 

All of our introverts will appreciate this next one!

#3: There were no pets to hide with. What else is there to say? 

#2: Vessel’s EP was good. Like really good. It seriously fucked. You’re now forced to concede that he has even more redeeming qualities than you previously thought.

And finally, #1:

Vessel iced you out. Well, was it really icing someone out if all you get is a polite nod and a raised beer bottle? You’re still not sure how you made the cut for this listening party. There had to be 30 or 40 people here, and it wasn’t even at his house. It was some rental space in a corporate building but you wouldn’t have been surprised by this information if you had just looked up the address instead of mindlessly plugging it into Maps. You had built up in your mind this fantasy of what this party would be…if you ruminated on it nightly then it would happen. You could will it into existence. You would come over in your slinky dress and bzzzt 

m0thmansdad: my friend 😭 my account got hacked soz 

What the hell? Instead of being a cynic, you decide to be the dreamy magical thinking girly and decide that it was fate that brought mothmansdad back to you during this abysmal party. Just as you were perfectly executing a French Exit an hour early, you got that message. Closing one door to open another. It always falls into place. You decide to message him back later once you’re home because you know you’ll get sucked in. 

You: 😭 you’re back m0thmansdad: was worried I got your username wrong or something  You: no, I was out actually. m0thmansdad: a date? 😏

You: no. A whack party. 

Was the party actually whack? No. Not at all. You had to admit that the first couple of minutes just sitting for a bit listening to the EP as a group was awkward at first, but it was oddly…fulfilling to see Vessel listen to his EP and get instant feedback from his friends and colleagues. And everyone else’s reactions were priceless too. Perhaps Vessel had a more interesting and worthwhile life outside of the video store than you thought. But he still wouldn’t look at you. You were at the party but you weren’t “on the inside.” Some folks came up and asked how you knew Ves, but that was about it. It was at that moment you realized how different you were not just from this crowd but from people in general. You wanted to be engaging. Warm. But because Vessel ignored you, you felt like an unworthy outcast. As if the hivemind said, if Vessel doesn’t want to talk to her, then neither do we.

m0thmansdad: oh?

You: yeah. Coworker’s party. Didn’t go how I imagined it would. 

m0thmansdad: dove, you should know better than to have high expectations with him smh 

“Dove.” Doves were gentle, delicate creatures. You felt like a bull in a china shop on a good day. 

You: I know. It wasn’t even expectations…it was full blown delulu time 

m0thmansdad: how so 

You: better to give it a voice 

You: you don’t want to hear this anyways 

m0thmansdad: I know my limits. And there are very few when it comes to you, my friend 

you: alright. So he invited me to this party and told me not to mention it to our other coworkers

m0thmansdad: ok

you: so I thought…this is so stupid. I thought maybe it was a ruse to get me over there. And that I’d be the only one.

m0thmansdad: …?

You: like, ok, imagine it! It’s not that far-fetched. He invites me over for this party and on two separate occasions he asks me to not say anything to anyone else. And he called me a good girl when I said I wouldn’t. 

m0thmansdad: Freud would have loved you 

you: stfu dude. Anyways. So I imagined I’d get there, he’d invite me in…

It unfolded so softly in your mind. You’d knock on the door to Vessel’s place, and he’d greet you by looking you up and down in your pretty dress, thanking you for coming. Inside, the lights would be dim, the EP playing, a bottle of wine on the coffee table. But no guests. 

“I must be fashionably early,” you’d joke. 

“No, no…right on time,” Vessel would say as he took your purse for you. 

Of course you had no idea what his place looked like, so you just imagined there’d be vinyls, maybe books. You’d spend a while looking around when you feel Vessel’s eyes dancing across your backside. Like out of a dream, you’d look back at him and ask softly, “when is everyone coming?”

You restarted and replayed this part of the fantasy over and over. Maybe Vessel would shrug, looking innocent, and tell you not to worry about the others. Or, maybe he’d stalk over to you, hands in his pockets whispering, “who, darling? No one else is coming.” Either way, you needed to end up on his lap. 

“God, you’re such a good girl,”  he’d say as one wide hand grasps your waist as the other gently holds your jaw, his fingers making their way into your mouth. You’d moan softly, grinding against him and feeling the shared excitement building. Fucking him on the couch would probably be one of life’s greatest pleasures if you ever got the chance. If he ever gave you the attention you so desperately craved. 

m0thmansdad: well then….

m0thmansdad: what an…active imagination you have. Thanks for sharing?

You must have glazed over and went into some kind of trance because you realize you practically sent him three paragraphs of your fantasy. 

You: can we pretend I didn’t just send that?

m0thmansdad: we can pretend, sure, but I won’t forget. You know how to paint a pretty picture, dove

m0thmasdad: too bad you left early. he might have liked to get you alone once everyone was gone

You hadn’t considered that…but wait…

You: I never said I left early.

m0thmansdad: lucky guess since you thought it was so whack lol 

m0thmansdad: unless I’m wrong? 

m0thmansdad: dove? 

the next morning 

You: sorry, fell asleep. no. You were right. As always. French exited and everything. 

m0thmansdad: no worries x 

m0thmansdad: love that about you. you know what you want and you just do whatever. Refreshing. 

You: that is my MO, yeah.

A few moments pass.

m0thmansdad: sorry to run but there’s someone absolutely pounding at my front door. It’s 9 am ffs 😩 you: mhm. No worries. I’m out and about anyways. Talk to you soon, I PROMISE! :) xoxo

[kjiscrawlingbackformore]

Peace - Act III : Chapter eleven

Lottie Matthews x fem!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Reader comes back to her hometown and transfers to Wiskayok High School after getting expelled from her previous high school. Follows Junior year into Senior year, all the way up to the crash. (Eventual NSFW mdni)

Warnings: The NSFW has finally arrived...mdni

A/N: Been waiting for this one shawtys,

The psychiatrist’s office was spotless, cold in the way hotel lobbies were cold—designed to impress, not comfort. The view overlooked Central Park, but Lottie wasn’t looking out the window. She was sitting perfectly still in the high-backed leather chair, her hands folded in her lap like she was waiting for a verdict.

Dr. Patel flipped through her file like it was light reading. Lottie knew what he was seeing. Words like bipolar tendencies, dissociative episodes, increasing agitation, manic bursts. She could recite the summaries herself by now.

Her father sat beside her, legs crossed, cufflinks gleaming. His mouth a straight, unyielding line. He hadn’t spoken once since they walked in. He didn’t have to. His presence did the talking.

“I think we should consider switching her medication,” Dr. Patel finally said, tone professional, clinical. “What she’s currently on isn’t holding the symptoms at bay anymore. The one I’m recommending is stronger, more stable. Long-term focused.”

“Side effects?” her father asked, like he was ordering parts for a car.

“Possible fatigue. Nausea. She may feel flat for a few weeks while adjusting. But if the goal is normalization, it’s a good next step.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Just like that. No one asked Lottie how she felt about it.

Her mother’s hand ghosted near hers on the armrest, unsure if she was allowed to reach for her daughter. Lottie didn’t flinch, but she didn’t reach back either. Her mother meant well. She always had. But good intentions didn’t carry much weight when they were smothered under the force of her father’s logic.

Lottie nodded once. Calm, agreeable, perfect, everything she knew her parents expected. The same way she had nodded in every appointment before this one. Like someone who understood the rules of the game and knew when she was supposed to fold.

Dr. Patel handed her the new prescription. A fresh piece of paper with a neat line of ink that would soon dull her into something manageable. She tucked it into her coat pocket like it didn’t matter.

The session ended in a blur of handshakes and paperwork. Her father thanked the doctor like he’d just closed a business deal. Her mother offered a thin, apologetic smile. Lottie walked three steps behind them as they exited the building, counting in her head like she always did when her thoughts got too loud.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six—

You.

She clung to the image of you like a prayer. Your lopsided smirk. Your sarcastic comments. The way you tilted your head when you were about to say something you thought was crazy.

Lottie didn’t need new pills. She needed that. Her lungs burned for it. Her soul ached for it. That stupid porch swing you sometimes sat on. That stupid camera bag you always carried around. The way you called her “Matthews” when you were pretending not to be soft.

That was her cure. Her only one. And she was hours away from it. Lottie looked up at the skyline as her father opened the door to the waiting car. She stepped inside without a word.

And started counting again.

The next morning, the sun was already high over the Matthews’ estate when Lottie padded barefoot into the kitchen. Her silk robe trailed behind her like a shadow, and she barely registered the faint clink of porcelain as Marta, the family’s maid, set down a plate of egg whites, fruit, and wheat toast—perfectly symmetrical, exactly 400 calories.

“Welcome home, Miss Lottie,” Marta said kindly, pouring fresh orange juice into a tall glass. “Your father called ahead. He said to make sure you started the new medication.”

Without a word, Marta handed her a tiny white pill bottle. Lottie took it. Her face didn’t move. She read the name once, some long, scientific, emotionless words, then popped the cap and dry-swallowed two pills. The orange juice stayed untouched.

The meds didn’t hit her like a punch. It was slower than that. More like someone turning the dimmer switch down on the world.

School was a blur for Lottie, and by the time lunch came, the school cafeteria was buzzing with the normal chaos. The Yellowjackets were gathered at their usual table, Van and Tai throwing grapes at each other while Shauna scolded them half-heartedly. Jackie pushed Jeff away from her as he went in for a kiss. You're rolling your eyes at the scene sliding in across from Lottie, tray in hand, and scanning her face.

Your eyes narrow, finally catching the lack of glimmer in Lottie’s eyes. “You good?” you asked, studying her too-quiet smile, the way her fingers toyed with the wrapper of her protein bar instead of actually eating it.

Lottie didn’t look up. She just nodded once, barely.

Your brows furrowed. “You’re kinda…off.”

“Yeah, well,” Lottie muttered, her voice thin, her smile thinner, “maybe I’m just in a mood.”

You froze at the comment. You swallow any words wanting to push back. You wanted to. But something in Lottie’s posture, a stiffness, a distance, made you sit back in your spot instead. Wait it out.

Across the table, someone cracked a joke, and the others erupted in laughter. Lottie smiled at the sound but didn’t join in. The noise felt far away. Like she was watching a movie of her own life in a language she barely understood.

By the time practice rolled around, Lottie was desperate to move. Desperate to feel something.

Coach Martinez barely blew the whistle before she took off down the field, slicing past the cones in clean, mechanical precision. The ball snapped against her cleats with practiced fury. When she scored during the scrimmage, it wasn’t celebration she felt—it was the briefest flicker of relief. Like bloodletting.

She imagined the ball was her father’s head. Imagined the stunned silence in that office when she didn’t argue. Imagined the pill bottle. The silence on the car ride home.

You watched from the sidelines, camera forgotten in your lap. You knew that look. You’d worn it yourself, the day your grandparents shipped you here, like they were throwing away a gum wrapper.

Anger.

When practice ended, Lottie didn’t even look toward the bleachers. She walked straight to the locker room, shoulders set, arms swinging loose—but you knew better. Knew what it looked like when someone was trying to outrun their own mind.

And you couldn’t fix it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But you sure as hell was going to try to make it better.

It was almost midnight when you slipped through the side gate of the Matthews’ estate. The back garden was quiet, perfectly manicured hedges casting long shadows in the moonlight. You knew the security system by now. Lottie had half-jokingly called you a bad influence the first time she’d taught you the blind spot in the camera arc near the pool shed.

You climbed the trellis carefully and tapped twice on the window.

Inside, a dim lamp flickered on. Lottie appeared in the frame a second later, mouth parted in shock, hair a messy halo around her face.

She shoved the window open with a whisper-shout, “Y/N, are you insane?”

“Probably,” You whispered, climbing inside. Your boots thudded softly against the carpet.

“Hi.” You greeted her with a smile.

Lottie blinked, eyes wide, a breath caught in her throat. “What are you doing here?”

You gave a half-shrug, half-smile. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured you couldn’t either.”

Lottie just stood there for a second. Then, her body sagged. “You’re lucky my dad’s in D.C.”

“Yeah,” you said, “lucky.”

Lottie locked the window and turned back to her, arms folded across her chest, but it wasn’t anger anymore, just that same numbness you had seen at lunch. Only now it looked cracked. Tired.

You sat down on the edge of the bed and held out your hand. “Come here.”

Lottie hesitated, then crossed the room and sat beside you. Your fingers linked in the middle without a word. For a long moment, there was only silence between you.

Then you leaned your head against Lottie’s shoulder. “You don’t have to talk. Just... don’t shut me out.”

Lottie’s throat bobbed. Her free hand found your thigh, curled around it like an anchor. “It’s like I’m underwater,” she said quietly. “All the time.”

“I know.”

“And everyone’s clapping ‘cause I’m swimming, but they don’t see I’m actually drowning.”

You turned your head, meeting Lottie’s glassy eyes. “I see it.”

That’s all it took.

Lottie turned suddenly, her hands cupping your face like you were something breakable and rare, and kissed you…hard, like she needed the contact to feel real again. It was messy and urgent, a little desperate, and you kissed her back with the same fire, grounding you with every press of your mouth, every inhale.

When you finally pulled apart, Lottie’s forehead stayed pressed to yours. Her voice was quiet, but her heart was loud in her chest. “Don’t go.”

You brushed your thumb across Lottie’s cheekbone. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Lottie’s eyes closed and she took a deep breath. Before going back to press her lips to yours. Her hand gripped your waist tightly, and her other hand slid behind your neck to deepen the kiss. You felt on fire, on the verge of melting into whatever Lottie wanted.

When her tongue slipped into your mouth, you let her. You let Lottie lead, her body pushing you slowly, gently into the bed, as she kissed you like it was her purpose in life. When she pulled back it was to catch her breath. Her eyes were dilated as she studied you. Studying your flushed cheeks, your puffed lips, your darkened eyes that were looking at her… Looking at Lottie like she was the only thing that ever mattered.

Lottie’s heart clenched in her chest. You were beautiful. And you were hers. She couldn’t even stop herself if she wanted to when she dove back to kiss you. Her lips trailing your jaw.

“Fuck you’re so beautiful baby,” she murmured against your skin.

You swallowed hard, chasing your breath. You and Lottie have had your fair share of make-out sessions. But this…this was so different. So much more. Shit you wanted it to be more.

Your stomach flipped as Lottie’s hand slipped underneath your shirt to palm the skin of your stomach. Her fingers were soft as she inched higher to your ribcage. Her lips went alongside your face until she reached your neck.

“Shit Lottie.” You whispered breathlessly.

Your hands are holding onto the back of her shirt like a vice. She hummed in response against the skin of your neck. The vibration ticking. Her lips press an open mouthed kiss. Then you feel her teeth nip and mark up every piece of real estate it can get to.

You know immediately that’s gonna be a problem tomorrow morning. But fuck do you care about that right now. Instead, you shift your head to give her more access. She chuckles at the action.

“Enjoying yourself?” She asks, her fingers edging the fabric of your bra.

You nod, not trusting your voice. Lottie smirks, and pulls away from your neck. Her eyes tracking her handy work before she looks at you.

“No, I want to hear you say it.” She says it with so much need. Its raw.

You lick your lips, and feel your heart pound in your ears. Her dark eyes are dilated meeting yours, and cheeks flushed. Her bangs are in disarray and some hairs are beginning to stick to her forehead. And with the way her lamp is illuminating her face.

God, was she perfect.

You chuckled, and pulled her in for a bruising kiss. One that poured everything that you were certain of. Your love and care for her. How much you wanted her…this. You pull away only enough to whisper against her lips.

“Baby, I’m enjoying this so fucking much. I could do this forever.”

Lottie’s breath hitches only for a blink of an eye before she closes the distance and slams her lips on yours. This kiss is all intensity and need. Hunger. Lottie could only be satisfied by this. You. She was certain of it.

She wanted to feel you in every way. She wanted to feel your kiss. Taste your skin. Memorize your body. She wanted to know you in such an intimate way. That if they asked her to make a map of you, she could from memory.

And she started by showing the world in this small way, you were hers. She knows she agreed to keep it a secret. It’s what’s right. It’s high school. It’s the fucking 90s. But when everyone sees your neck, they’ll know someone did that. Someone knows your body in a way no one else will.

And one day, everyone will know it’s her. Tonight, you know it’s her. And really that was what mattered. Hers was the only name on your lips. Lottie’s knee slotted itself right where it belongs-in between your legs. You let out a moan.

You were wearing your plaid pajama shorts. And a navy cotton sweater, Lottie was sure you thrifted at a salvation army. Those were her favorite to steal because they were somehow always the comfiest, and even better, they smelled like you.

The shorts were thin material, so when Lottie felt how damp you were against her skin, she let out a groan.

“Baby, you’re gonna be the death of me.” She mumbled.

You sat up from the bed and reached out to kiss Lottie again. Lottie moaned loudly against the kiss. Her chest brimming with pride. How you showed her how much you wanted her. When you bit her lip, she hissed, pressing her knee into your core.

Your moan causes you to release Lottie’s lip. In which Lottie takes a deep breath. She moves to unbutton her silk pajamas shirt. You watch with raised eyebrows, your eyes watching selfishly. Your hands gently rub along Lottie’s thighs, finding a path to her waist. The more skin Lottie showed, the more your hand found.

“Fuck Lot, you’re so perfect.” Your voice is low and tight. Lottie's heart skips at your words. Not knowing how she could be so turned on. How was it humanly possible to be so turned on by words? Your hands inched more and more towards her chest.

“You’re so unreal. So fucking beautiful. I want you so bad.” You whispered into the room. Lottie groaned, swallowing hard. And when your hand reached her boobs she folded. You kneaded and massaged the skin like it was second nature. Like you already knew exactly what her body needed.

It didn’t take long for you or Lottie to be fully naked. Skin on skin. Hands exploring. Hearts beating at the same tempo. Lottie took her time making her way down your body. She started kissing slowly down until she let her teeth bite into the skin of your thigh. You moaned and were panting for air.

“Baby, please don’t tease me.” You whimpered.

Lottie smiled against your skin and looked up at you from between your legs. Her big, brown doe eyes made eye contact with yours and it made your heart clench. She was so beautiful and sexy holy shit.

“Sorry.” She mumbled.

Your hands gather her hair and pull it back. Watching carefully as she dove into your legs. Lottie thankfully didn’t waste any time and let her tongue swipe through your now-soaked folds. Your hips bucking into her touch, a moan passing through your lips.

That was all she needed. She pulled you down even more, her grip on your thighs iron tight, she pulled you close until there was barely any space between her lips and your skin. She slid her tongue through your folds again, like it was a fucking five star meal.

You were biting your bottom lip so hard, you could taste the blood. Trying to hold back your moans. The way Lottie was doubling down, it was like she was trying to break you. You gripped her head and started to move your hips to the pace she set.

She could feel you trembling, she had to. There was a smile between the licks, you could feel it. You were too far gone to care. Your breathing was ragged and fuck were you holding onto Lottie’s sheets like they could do something.

Lottie did one long lick, before she popped her head up. Her chin wet with your arousal, eyes so dialted they looked black. She was panting, and stared at you, licking her lips.

“I want to hear you.” She tells you seriously, with a low voice, that you felt yourself get wetter just at the command.

Keeping eye contact, she took your clit into her mouth and sucked hard. Your whole body jerked and it only encouraged her to suck harder, like she was willing to do anything to hear you come undone. It was when you felt her finger slip inside you, when you started to see white.

“Oh fuck,” You groaned, your hips bucking, and your legs clamping around her.

She pulled your legs apart, and her finger started a slow pace of fucking you. And you knew you were done for. You moaned, “Baby-oh fuck-baby-fuck, I’m going to-”

Lottie didn’t say anything, but her finger went harder than before, and her tongue flicked your clit. That was what did it in for you. You let a string of curses fly out of you, as you came all over her.

Lottie fucked you through it, until your legs stopped trembling. She gave you a small kiss on your thigh before looking up at you with a small, smug smile. She licked her finger off and moaned at the taste.

“You taste so good.” She then is fingering you to gather arousal, offering you her finger. “Try it.”

You accept and suck off your own taste on her finger. It’s bitter and tangy. She doesn’t let you comment on the taste before she kisses you again. Then kissing all along your face. She is pushing your hair out of your face, letting you catch your breath.

“Shit,” You whispered, feeling fucked out.

Lottie nods, her eyes soft and her smile bright. You wrap your arm around Lottie to pull her into you. She lets you and kisses your sweaty forehead, pulling you onto her chest to rest.

“Not to be dramatic....But I don't think I can live without you,” Lottie says in the silence.

You nod and hold her tighter. “...Not to be extra dramatic, but same.”

Lottie doesn’t say anything else, but you could feel her smile. And then after a beat of silence, she shifts under you, “I want to eat you out again.”

You scoff, “Lottie!”

“What? You taste good. I’m not done-”

“Oh my god. Give me a minute to like catch my breath.”

“I can give you a minute…but like…just a minute.”

When they woke up the next morning, Lottie felt your body draped over hers. The warmth of your skin. The smell of your lotion in her nose. She felt alive.

She threaded her finger through your hair as you slept. Lottie dreaded when you’d wake up and get you both ready and rushed off to school. School where boys like Ben Grimes and Travis Martinez flirt and try to win you over.

School where Jackie Taylor makes things weird. School where she can’t kiss you or hold your hand in the halls. Where she can’t really have you.

Fuck she hated it. She needed school to end so she could just be with you. No obstacles. Just you and her against the world. But also, you were here. In her bed, draped on her like you were two pieces of a puzzle come together. She would manage high schools if this is how she woke up every day.

She was definitely buying an apartment for you both after graduation.

[missdaddycool]

♥︎ Joel miller x wife reader

A/N : hey Lovely people sorry if i didn’t make post this month i was busy but I am back !! Here the chapter 3 of my short story of Joel second have family 🫶🏼

English is not my first language!!!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆｡🧸

Jackson 📍

The baby came fast.

Too fast.

Y/N barely made it to the small clinic in Jackson before the first hard contraction hit like a freight train. There wasn’t time for calm breathing or quiet words. No time for Joel to get his bearings. The midwife barked instructions, and Joel just followed, eyes wide and jaw tight, every scar on his face seeming sharper under the harsh lights.

He held Y/N’s hand. He didn’t say much. Didn’t know what to say. Just held on and waited for something to break—maybe her grip, maybe the world.

Then it happened.

A cry cut the air, sharp and furious, like life was pissed off about being dragged into this broken place.

“It’s a girl,” the midwife said.

Joel didn’t move.

Y/N was breathing hard, eyes wet, looking at him. “Joel.”

He just stared at the baby as they cleaned her off, wrapped her, placed her gently in Y/N’s arms. She was so small. Red-faced. Quiet now.

Joel took a step back. Like something in him had been hit.

“She’s got your eyes,” Y/N whispered.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He saw her, that tiny face, the fragile fists, the tufts of dark hair — and it hit him like a hammer to the ribs. Sarah. Not exactly. But the ghost was close enough. That same impossible newness. That same terrifying love.

He turned away.

Didn’t mean to. It just happened. His body moved before he could think.

Y/N watched him with worry growing behind her exhaustion. “Joel, look at her.”

“I can’t,” he muttered. “Not yet.”

She didn’t push. Just held the baby, humming softly under her breath. Joel stood with his back to them, hands on his knees like he was trying to catch his breath even though he hadn’t run.

Everything was too much.

He’d done everything right. The crib. The nursery. The planning. But he hadn’t planned for this. How could he hold something that might break him all over again?

He thought about Sarah in her dinosaur pajamas, asleep on the couch that last night. Thought about the weight of her in his arms after it was too late. That memory lived in his bones now. And this new life—this tiny, warm, breathing girl—it cracked open that grave.

“Joel,” Y/N said, gently this time. “She’s not her.”

He finally turned.

“I know,” he rasped. “But she reminds me.”

“Then hold her. Let her remind you that you can still love something without losing it.”

That broke him a little. Just enough to move. He stepped closer.

Y/N reached out, placed the baby in his arms like she was passing him a part of the world worth saving. He froze. His hands shook. She was so light it felt like she might float away. But she didn’t.

She opened her eyes.

Dark. Deep. Unafraid.

Joel’s breath caught.

She blinked, yawned, then settled into his chest like she belonged there. Like she wasn’t carrying the weight of any past.

Joel stood there, silent, looking down at her. His jaw tightened, then loosened. His eyes burned.

“I don’t know how to do this again,” he whispered.

Y/N leaned her head against his arm. “You don’t have to know. Just show up.”

He nodded. Slowly. Tears slipped down his face — not loud or messy. Just there. Just true.

He looked down at his daughter again. She blinked up at him. And this time, he didn’t see a ghost.

He saw a beginning.

“Hey, little girl,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m your dad.”

And for the first time in a long time, that didn’t feel like a curse.

It felt like a second chance

[dozybeez]

Spin For Me (Pt. Twelve)

She's the quiet girl in class with a secret life after dark. He's the campus heartthrob who's used to getting what he wants— except her. When a class project forces them together, buried truths, blurred lines, and undeniable tension threaten to unravel everything they thought they knew.

→ part one → part two → part three → part four → part five → part six → part seven → part eight → part nine → part ten → part eleven

→ part thirteen coming soon

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 9.0k

content warnings: slowish burn, smut, lap dances, adult club setting, derogatory language toward sex workers, internalized shame, emotional distress, subtle? size, possession, and innocence kink. drugs & alcohol. MDNI, you will be blocked.

songs for this chapter:

tba

tba

The silence after yes is the kind that hums inside your ribs.

Not hollow. Not awkward. Just… full. Like the quiet that settles when a storm finally passes, when the wind dies down and the trees are left shivering in the aftermath, stripped but still standing.

You stay wrapped up in him. Breathing in tandem. Letting yourself sink into the safety of his arms like you’ve never been allowed to before. And Mingyu doesn’t let go—not even a little. His hands stay firm on your back, fingertips curled in the fabric of your outfit like he’s afraid if he lets go now, he’ll never get the chance to hold you again.

It’s warm where he touches. Too warm for this cold night.

You don’t know how long you stand there, nestled in the alley behind the club, your bare legs goosebumped, your body half exposed to the dark. But it doesn’t feel cold. Not with him pressed so close, his heartbeat thudding through your cheek, uneven and tired and real.

Eventually, your fingers loosen their grip on his hoodie, but not entirely.

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him.

His eyes are already on you—soft and dark and wide with something too big to name. His busted lip is split, a little puffy, still bleeding faintly at the corner.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Mingyu blinks. “For what?”

“For tonight. For the club. The video. The mess.” You hesitate, words trembling like they’re walking barefoot over glass. “For ruining your reputation.”

His face twists like the idea itself physically hurts him. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

You lift a shoulder in a helpless half-shrug. “You’re supposed to be the guy everyone wants. You’re not supposed to be seen with the stripper who gives lap dances in stilettos and glitter oil.”

He exhales slowly, but there’s a weight to it—something cracking under pressure. “Do you want to know what I see when I look at you right now?”

You don’t answer. You just stare at him.

“I see the girl who stayed up late studying for her midterms, who got that one tiny wrinkle between her brows whenever she concentrated too hard. I see the girl who cried when that rabbit in that TikTok animation got hit by a car. The one who eats cereal at midnight and falls asleep at the library with her mouth open.”

Your lips part, your heart thudding unevenly.

“I see the girl who gave me her last piece of gum on a rainy Tuesday. Who dances like she was born to fly but still thinks she needs to prove herself to people who don’t matter. And yeah…” His hand lifts to your cheek, knuckles brushing your skin so softly it makes your chest ache. “I see the girl who strips. Who danced for me like it meant something. Because it did.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he says, voice quiet but clear. “I’ve never been.”

You don’t mean to cry again, but the tears are there—tired and hot and stubborn. You blink fast, trying to shove them back where they came from, but one slips free anyway.

He catches it with the pad of his thumb.

“I’m yours,” you whisper.

A breath shudders out of him. He leans forward until your foreheads press together. His nose brushes yours.

“And I’m yours,” he murmurs back. “Every part.”

You close your eyes for one second. Just one. And when you open them again, the night is still here. The alley still reeks of beer and smoke and spilled perfume. You’re still standing in heels with glitter smudged on your collarbone.

But he’s here too.

And somehow, that makes it bearable.

"Let’s get out of here," he murmurs.

You shift against him and speak quietly but clearly. “I need to go back in.”

He stiffens. “What?”

You tilt your chin toward the club’s back door. “Just to grab my stuff—bag, clothes, phone. I’m not going back for another dance with a stranger, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

A small grin tugs at your mouth when you catch the way his jaw tightens. “Unless you were hoping to add to the busted lip.”

His eyes flick to yours, and for a second, something like exasperated affection flickers across his face. “Yeah, well. Not sure it’d be the worst way to earn another one.”

You raise a brow, amused. “You’re saying you’d fight someone again?”

His jaw ticks. “If they even look at you wrong.”

Your grin softens into something smaller, more real.

He exhales, steadying himself. “I’ll come with you.”

“You really don’t—”

“I want to.” His hand slips down to take yours, fingers weaving through like muscle memory. “Let me come.”

You nod.

The hallway inside the club is warmer, but it feels suffocating after the quiet outside. Your heels click dully against the floor as you lead him down the corridor past the bar and toward the dressing room.

A few heads turn. A few people whisper. You don’t care.

Mingyu walks behind you—not quite touching, but close enough that you feel his presence like a shield.

The security guard stationed outside the dressing room immediately narrows his eyes at Mingyu. “You again?” he says, voice sharp and unfriendly. “Back to cause more problems?”

You step forward quickly before Mingyu can respond. “Relax. I’m just grabbing my stuff, and then we’re leaving.”

The guard doesn’t look at you—he’s still watching Mingyu like he’s one wrong breath away from being dragged out again.

You squeeze Mingyu’s hand, then turn to the guard with a saccharine smile. “Just give me two minutes, okay? No need to glare holes into my boyfriend’s head.”

The man scoffs but steps aside with a grunt. “Two minutes.”

You turn to Mingyu, lowering your voice. “Wait here. Please don’t move. I’ll be quick.”

His eyes flicker down your body—still in your tiny stage outfit, glitter catching the hallway light—and he hesitates. “You’re not gonna change?”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to risk leaving you alone with him that long.” You nod toward the guard. “He looks like he wants to throw you through a wall.”

Mingyu huffs a breath but nods. “Fine.”

You dart into the dressing room, fast and focused. You grab your duffel bag, shove your phone and clothes inside, and swipe a makeup wipe across your face just to feel halfway human. Normally you’d change. You’d scrub the glitter off, pull on sweats and reclaim some dignity you feel you have lost.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you just want to get the hell out.

When you push the door open again, Mingyu’s right where you left him—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes trained on the hallway like he’s trying not to breathe too loud.

You sling your duffel over one shoulder, eyes flicking nervously toward the guard still watching by the dressing room door.

He pulls off his hoodie in one smooth motion and hands it to you, already reaching for your duffel with his other hand like it’s instinct—no discussion, no pause, just him quietly taking care of you.

You slide the hoodie on immediately. It swallows you whole, the sleeves slipping past your fingertips, the hem grazing your thighs. The fabric is soft and warm, heavy with his scent, a shield against the chill and everything else that still lingers.

He’s left standing there in just his white tee, the thin cotton doing little to hide the bruises beginning to form—dark smudges blooming along his arms and collarbone, a fading imprint from the man who tried to push him off.

But Mingyu doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are only on you.

His hand moves to rest on the small of your back, steady and protective, guiding you forward.

The guard raises an eyebrow at Mingyu, clearly unimpressed and probably about to say something, but you put a finger to your lips and whisper, “Shhh, we’re leaving now. Just don’t give him a reason to get mad.”

As you step away, a few of the other dancers pass by, smirking knowingly.

“If I saw my man with a busted lip after beating up some dude for me,” one says with a teasing grin, “Lord, I’d be on my knees right now.”

Her friend laughs, “Same. Wouldn’t even wait to get home.”

You flush, and Mingyu mutters, “Jesus,” under his breath.

His hand stays firm and warm on your back as you both slip quietly out the back exit and into the night.

⸻

Mingyu keeps his hand on the small of your back as you step out into the night, his hoodie hanging heavy on your frame, your duffel bag secure in his grip. The street is nearly silent, save for the low hum of traffic somewhere in the distance and the soft scuff of your heels on the pavement. The club’s neon buzz fades behind you, swallowed by the dark.

You don't speak. He doesn't either. But his presence beside you is louder than any words could be.

He unlocks the car with a soft beep, opens the passenger door, and gently helps you inside. His hand lingers at your thigh for just a moment—just enough to make your breath catch—before he leans in, buckles your seatbelt, and closes the door with a quiet click. It’s such a small thing, but it makes your chest twist.

By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, the silence has shifted again—no longer thick or heavy, but charged. Fragile. Sacred.

The car is cold. His knuckles are scraped. His mouth is still bleeding faintly.

But he looks over at you like you're the only thing that matters.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, even though you know he didn’t ask.

“I know,” he says. Then, softer: “Still wanted to make sure.”

You rest your head back against the seat, turning slightly to face him. The hoodie smells like him—warm laundry, cedarwood, and something sharp underneath it all, like adrenaline refusing to settle.

When the engine starts, the heater sputters to life in bursts. He pulls out of the lot with one hand on the wheel, the other dropping instinctively to your thigh again. That same touch as before—grounding, reassuring, firm but careful. Like he’s not quite ready to let go.

You place your hand over his, your fingers sliding between his knuckles until they fit.

The streetlights flicker past the windows like slow blinks. Each turn he takes is gentle, almost reverent, like he’s afraid if he jolts the car too fast, you’ll vanish beside him. His thumb strokes your leg absently, and neither of you says a word for blocks.

But it doesn’t feel like silence anymore.

It feels like everything.

It feels like beginning again.

You glance at him once, catching the way his jaw is clenched and his eyes flick toward you every few seconds like he’s checking—rechecking—that you’re real. That you’re here. That you’re his.

Your chest aches.

Not with pain.

With something fuller.

He pulls into his apartment’s underground garage, the fluorescent lights overhead making the bruises forming on his arms look worse than they did in the club. He parks in the corner, far from everyone else, and shifts the gear into park. But he doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

For a moment, the engine ticks beneath the silence, cooling slowly. The heater huffs one final breath.

Then he turns toward you.

Really turns.

His eyes rake over you—not in that heated way from before, not hungry or desperate—but with a kind of heartbreak. A kind of awe. Like he doesn’t understand how you’re still choosing him in this moment.

Your fingers tighten around his.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” he says suddenly. His voice is low. Rough. “I thought you were pulling away because it was too much. Because I’d moved too fast, or I’d made you feel—”

“You didn’t,” you say. “You never did.”

His eyes close, just for a second. Then he nods.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly, the click echoing louder than it should. Mingyu watches you as you reach across the console, one hand brushing along his jaw where the skin is swollen and tender.

He leans into your palm like it’s instinct.

You whisper, “Let’s go upstairs.”

His breath hitches. But he nods again.

You both step out in silence. The garage air is colder here—still and sharp, echoing with the distant hum of the city above. Mingyu meets you at the front of the car and adjusts his hoodie where it swallows your frame, tugging the hem lower with quiet intention. There’s something instinctive in the motion—something protective. Like now that you’ve said you’re his and he’s yours, he won’t let anyone else glimpse what’s his to hold. Not tonight. Not like this. Then he slides your bag off your shoulder and onto his, his free hand reaching for yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t speak.

But your fingers stay linked all the way to the elevator—and they never loosen, not even once.

⸻

You don’t speak as he locks the apartment door behind you. The quiet between you is thick but no longer heavy—more like it’s stretching, expanding to hold everything you both haven’t said yet.

You take a step further in, heart slowing to a more human rhythm, and that’s when you see it.

The blanket’s still half-folded on the kitchen counter, the same one he’d once brought to the library after seeing you shiver before. A paper bag of your favorite snacks sits slouched beside it, open and forgotten. There’s a pitcher of your favorite tea you always ordered—and a plastic-wrapped bouquet of peonies, the pink kind with ruffled edges you used to draw in the margins of your notebooks.

It hits you like a punch.

He had been ready.

And when you didn’t show, he didn’t rage. Didn’t throw it away. He just… put it down. Set it aside. Like he couldn’t bear to get rid of it, but it hurt too much to look at.

Your throat tightens. “You really were going to ask me tonight.”

His voice is quiet behind you. “Yeah.”

You blink fast and inhale through your nose, but it still stings. You nod, fingers curling against the hem of his hoodie still draped around your thighs.

Then softly, “I need to shower.”

It comes out almost like a confession, but it’s not an excuse. You just… want to wash off the night. The club. The glitter, the eyes, the guilt. You want to feel clean. Just for a moment. Just for him.

Mingyu nods, like he understands all of that without you needing to say it.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “I’ll get you stuff.”

He disappears into the bedroom and comes back a moment later with a clean hoodie, and a pair of his softest boxers. His eyes meet yours as he hands them over, and the brush of your fingers sends a flicker of heat straight down your spine.

“I’ll be quick,” you whisper, even though he hasn’t asked you to be.

“I don’t mind if you’re not,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it.

The bathroom light is warm and gold. You undress slowly, stripping off everything that felt like armor earlier—lashes, rhinestones, glittering scraps of cloth—and let them scatter across the counter like the parts of a girl you’re no longer trying to be.

When the water runs hot, you step in.

And for a moment, the world stops.

You let it beat down on your back, scalding and sharp, like it’s burning away the past few hours. The scent of Mingyu lingers on your skin—on your neck, your wrists, your thigh—and now it swirls with the steam, all-consuming. Your muscles ache. Not from the dancing. From the weight. From the wanting.

You don’t hear him come in.

But you feel the change in the air.

“Mingyu?”

His voice is gentle. “Yeah. I brought you a towel. Forgot earlier.”

When you glance over your shoulder through the foggy glass, you catch the way he’s standing—just inside the door, back turned in his pajamas, one arm extended blindly toward the counter with the towel folded over it. His eyes are squeezed shut like it physically hurts him not to look.

It makes your chest ache.

“You can open your eyes, you know,” you call softly. “You already saw me in an outfit that left nothing to the imagination.”

He doesn’t move.

“And,” you add with a little smile, “you saw me completely naked a couple days ago. On your couch.”

His voice is strained. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because now I know what it feels like to touch you.”

You go still under the spray. Heat creeps up your neck, blooming low and slow in your belly.

The air pulses between you.

“Do you want to see me again?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Yes,” he says, barely audible. “God, yes.”

“Then see me.”

He opens his eyes slowly, his gaze instantly locking onto you standing beneath the steady flow of warm water. The way the droplets trace delicate paths along your bare skin, the subtle curve of your neck, the soft rise and fall of your chest—it all pulls him in with a quiet, awed reverence. For a moment, the noise of the world falls away, and there’s nothing but you, illuminated in the golden bathroom light, radiant and utterly captivating.

You shift slightly, stepping just enough out of the shower to reach for the towel folded nearby. But before you can take it, his fingers move with a mind of their own, the towel slipping silently from his grasp to the floor. Instead of keeping the towel in hold, his hands come up, cupping your cheeks with gentle warmth, as if he needs the feeling of you close, grounding him.

His lips brush yours—soft and tentative at first, barely more than a whisper of contact, as if he’s testing the air between you. The warmth of his breath mingles with the steam, his fingertips still resting lightly on your cheeks, steadying you, grounding the moment. It’s a kiss that lingers in its gentleness, like a promise held close, fragile but full of meaning.

You respond with a slow inhale, your lips parting slightly, inviting him deeper, and with that subtle shift, the tenderness transforms. Your hands rise to the curve of his neck, fingers threading into the soft strands of his hair at the nape. The kiss grows, no longer a cautious question but a deliberate declaration, the heat pooling between you rising, spreading like wildfire.

His mouth moves with reverence—slow, exploring, savoring every inch of you. The brush of his lips down your jaw, the delicate nip at the corner of your mouth, the pull of his tongue just grazing yours—each movement carefully measured but aching with need. Your body responds in kind, pressing forward, hungry to close the distance that still lingers.

Breath catches and mingles; hearts thud in chaotic rhythms as the kiss deepens. Your teeth graze his lower lip in a subtle challenge, and he yields, giving in fully to the growing hunger. His hands slide from your cheeks, one trailing down your neck, the other settling at your waist, pulling you flush against him. You’re trembling under his touch, the water streaming down behind you forgotten for the moment, the world narrowing to the heat between your bodies.

There’s an urgency now, raw and unspoken, a feeling like all the moments before this—the waiting, the ache, the confessions—have led here. The kiss intensifies, breathless and relentless. His mouth claims yours with a fierce hunger, demanding, yet tender. You match him, deepening the kiss, pouring all your desire and need into the contact. His hands grip your hips, steadying you as you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer as if you could fuse together with the strength of the longing between you.

Still kissing, still lost in the fierce gravity of each other, you both begin to move without thought—slow, unsteady steps that carry you stumbling back beneath the warm rush of water. The shower envelopes you again, the cold tile beneath forgotten as the heat of your bodies and the water blurs into a shared fire, every lingering touch, every breath, every desperate sigh binding you closer in a moment that feels like both a beginning and an eternity.

The spray of the shower rains down around you, cascading over your shoulders, streaming down your spine—but you hardly feel it. All that registers is him. The heat of his mouth, the press of his chest against yours, the soft drag of his palms as they map your skin like he’s been waiting a lifetime to memorize you.

Mingyu is soaked now, utterly drenched in his tee and sweatpants, the fabric clinging to every line of muscle. Water darkens his hair in rivulets, plastering it to his forehead, dripping from his temples—but he doesn’t falter. Doesn’t pull back. His focus is entirely on you.

Your lips part on a gasp when his hand trails up, fingers skimming over the curve of your waist, slipping up the line of your ribcage. He’s reverent—like every inch of you is sacred—but his touch is undeniably hungry. You feel it in the tremble of his breath against your cheek, in the way his fingers brush just beneath the swell of your breast and pause there, savoring.

You shudder beneath the contact, your back arching just slightly, offering more.

His thumb grazes your nipple, soft and curious at first, then more deliberate. The pad of it circles slowly, coaxing a sharp intake of breath from your lungs, and your head tips back against the slick tile wall, not even noticing the goosebumps forming on your body. The water may have lost its heat but you don’t feel the cold. Not really. Not when his mouth is pressing kisses along your throat, hot and open-mouthed, tasting the water, tasting you.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice thick with something tender and raw, barely a breath against your skin.

“But you’re so warm,” you whisper back, voice trembling from more than just sensation. Your eyes flutter open, finding his—dark and storm-lit, burning and wide.

He lifts a hand—slow, steady—and tilts your chin up with two fingers, like he’s afraid to startle the moment, like he wants to see you before he devours you whole. His thumb strokes along your jaw as his gaze searches yours, fierce and unguarded.

“Then let me keep you warm,” he says, low and rough and entirely yours.

You don’t answer—not with words. Instead, your hands slide down his chest, feeling the soaked cotton clinging to him like a second skin. You trace the ridge of each muscle through it, feeling the strength he’s holding back for you. Your palms settle at his hips, and your fingers curl in the waistband of his pants, anchoring.

He exhales like it hurts, like the patience in him is breaking at the seams.

Then his mouth is back on yours—deeper this time, fuller. He kisses you like he needs it to breathe, like your lips are the only tether keeping him sane. His tongue slips past yours with a low groan that rumbles through both your chests, and suddenly there’s no air, no space, no boundary left between you.

The steam clings to your skin, sweat and water mixing until you don’t know which heat is yours and which is his. One of his hands tangles in your wet hair, tilting your head just right so he can kiss you harder. The other stays at your waist, sliding behind to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until you feel the full hardness of him through the soaked fabric.

A whimper slips from your throat, caught between the kiss and the steam, and he stills—just for a breath. His forehead leans into yours, chests heaving together, soaked and trembling, water cascading down your tangled bodies like a pulse.

Neither of you speaks.

But your lips part, not for words—for air, for closeness, for the sheer gravity of it all.

His eyes search yours, drenched strands of hair clinging to his forehead. The admiration in his expression makes your heart twist. And then—you smile. Barely there. Soft. Like the feeling blooming in your chest has nowhere else to go.

He smiles back, lips flushed, pupils blown wide.

Then, almost in tandem, your gazes darken—desire thickening in the space between your mouths. The warmth shifts. Deepens. A shared hunger blooms in silence, and you lean into it like you’ve both been waiting to burn.

Even as the water keeps pouring over your skin, even as your lungs beg for air, you can’t stop touching—can’t stop reaching for him like he’s the only thing anchoring you to this earth.

He pulls back just enough to see you, your eyes wide and blown and burning, your lips swollen and slick from kissing. A bead of water trails down his jaw and catches on the edge of his busted lip—still faintly swollen from the fight, split and darkened but somehow impossibly beautiful. Your gaze flickers to it, then back up to his eyes.

"You're bleeding a little again," you whisper.

He smiles through it—crooked, ruined, reverent. “Don’t care.”

His hands settle firm at your waist again, holding you like you’re fragile and holy all at once. But this time, when his lips find yours, he kisses you through the pain. The kiss deepens, then slows. He pulls you into him like he can’t stand the inches of distance still left. It’s less frantic now—but no less hungry. The kind of hunger that’s waited. That’s earned its patience.

His hands slide down, beneath the curve of your thighs. And before you can blink, he’s lifting you—effortless, like you weigh nothing to him. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your bare chest pressed to his soaked shirt, nipples dragging against damp cotton, sending jolts of heat through your body.

He steps carefully out of the shower, still holding you, steam curling around your bodies like smoke. The air outside the stall is cooler, but neither of you feels it. His grip is firm, steady, one hand cupping the underside of your thigh, the other splayed wide across your back, keeping you tight to his chest.

He sets you down slowly—delicately—on the bathroom counter, your skin sliding against the cool stone, still slick from the water. You shiver from the contrast, and he leans in immediately, kissing along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, murmuring soft nothings like I’ve got you and You’re okay, baby, as if his mouth alone could warm you.

Your legs stay spread around his hips, pulling him in close. You reach for the hem of his soaked shirt, tugging it up slightly, revealing the long, sculpted line of his torso. Your palms run up the ridges of his abs, mapping every inch, memorizing with touch what you’ve only dared to imagine. He lets you look. Lets you touch. His eyes never leave yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, voice fraying at the edges. “You don’t even know.”

Your hands roam higher—over his chest, along his shoulders, across the wet fabric still clinging to his arms. You slide it off, baring more of him, dragging your nails lightly over the bruises that have started to bloom along his biceps. The ones he got for you.

Your heart aches at the sight—but your body burns.

He leans down, kissing you again, and this time it’s messier. Wetter. All open mouth and gasping breath. Your hands tangle in his damp hair, fingers curling tight when he rolls his hips against you—slow, deliberate. You feel the length of him through the soaked sweatpants, hard and straining. Your hips arch instinctively, chasing friction, desperate for more. With a breathless whimper, you hook your fingers into the waistband and tug, aided by the steadiness of his hands, peeling the soaked fabric down until only his boxers remain between you.

The contact draws a low groan from his throat. He presses his forehead to yours.

“Tell me what you want,” he rasps, voice ruined. “I need to hear you say it.”

“I want you,” you whisper, your voice barely holding together. “I want you so bad, it hurts.”

His jaw clenches. That busted lip splits a little more, but he doesn’t flinch. He only nods—once, like he’s just barely holding himself together.

Then his mouth is on your chest.

He kisses the slope of your breast first, warm and open-mouthed. Then his lips part, tongue flicking against your nipple, drawing it into the heat of his mouth. You gasp, arching against him, legs tightening around his waist. He groans at the feel of you squirming against him and sucks harder, flicking the sensitive peak until your toes curl against the counter.

His other hand slides down—slow and reverent. He strokes the outside of your thigh, the curve of your hip, and then slides between your legs. His fingers brush the inside of your thigh, barely grazing your slick heat. You’re soaked—not just from the shower. He draws back to look at you, his lips swollen and wet, his pupils blown.

“Can I touch you?” he asks. “Really touch you?”

You nod, breath stuttering. “Yes.”

He kisses you once more before sinking to his knees.

His hands slide under your thighs, spreading you wider as he lowers his mouth to you—and even though your back arches and your hips jerk forward, he holds you steady, tender but firm. His tongue dips into your folds, slow and warm and devastating. You cry out softly, one hand flying to his hair, the other clawing at the edge of the counter.

He moans against you—moans, like the taste of you is something he’s craved forever. He eats you like a man starved, tongue teasing, licking, sucking, circling your clit with an impossible focus that makes your vision blur.

“Mingyu—” you gasp, barely able to form words.

He groans again, the sound low and guttural. “God, you taste so good. You’re so fucking sweet, baby.”

His voice, rough and low between your thighs, sends you spiraling. Your hips buck against his mouth, and he holds you tighter, guiding you through the pleasure like he’s worshiping you, not just pleasuring you. His tongue flicks faster, then slower, teasing you to the edge and back again.

You’re shaking, breath ragged, sweat and water slick on your skin.

But it’s not just lust—it’s love. It’s written in the way he touches you, the way he looks at you like you’re a miracle, the way he keeps whispering you’re mine, even as he’s unraveling you completely.

You’re already so close.

Your thighs are shaking around his shoulders. Every flick of his tongue, every warm breath against your drenched core is unraveling you by the second. Your fingers are in his hair, twisted tight, and the desperate sounds slipping past your lips barely sound like you anymore.

The tension builds—thick and hot and unbearable. It curls low in your belly, heat spiraling outward, wave after wave crashing toward the edge.

Your breath hitches. “Mingyu—I'm—”

But just as the tremor crests, just as your hips jerk and your chest arches—

He stops.

His mouth leaves you.

The absence is so sudden it feels like a crash.

Your eyes fly open, dazed and wide, your chest rising and falling like you’ve just surfaced from deep underwater.

“Mingyu—” you start to protest, voice breathless and aching.

But then you see his face.

He’s still kneeling, still flushed and dripping wet, but his eyes—God, his eyes are molten. Dark and wrecked and full of reverence. His busted lip is swollen, glistening with your arousal, and he’s panting like he’s barely holding himself together.

His hands smooth up your thighs, slow and trembling. “I want to feel that,” he says, voice low and thick, almost hoarse. “I want to feel you fall apart on me.”

You blink fast, breath catching.

“I want your first time to be with me, baby,” he murmurs, standing slowly, placing soft kisses along your inner thigh on the way up. “Not my mouth. Not my fingers. Me.”

Your chest caves in with the weight of it—the tenderness. The restraint. The absolute, aching need that vibrates through every inch of him.

You reach for him instantly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in until your foreheads touch, until you can feel his breath mingling with yours again.

“Then take me,” you whisper, raw and open and completely his.

He exhales a broken breath like you just shattered something inside him.

But he doesn’t rush.

Instead, he leans in slowly, catching your mouth with his again—soft at first, almost hesitant, but quickly growing deeper. Needier. Your legs wrap around his hips again, and now there’s nothing between you—just the soaked cotton of his boxers, sticking wet and hot to his skin, doing nothing to hide how hard he is for you.

You reach down between your bodies, your fingers ghosting over the waistband of his pants.

He stills under your touch.

“I want this,” you whisper, eyes searching his. “I want you.”

He nods once, sharp and reverent, like he’s sealing a promise.

“I’ll go slow,” he says softly. “You tell me everything you need, okay? We’ll stop whenever you want. We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you cut in, voice steady now. Sure. “I want all of it. With you.”

A groan slips from his throat, wrecked and full of awe.

Then he’s kissing you again—deep, slow, molten—and this time, he starts to guide you off the counter, lifting you easily into his arms again.

“I need to get you to bed,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You nod, already dizzy with want.

And as he carries you out of the bathroom, soaked and breathless and burning for each other, you know—this isn’t just sex.

This is love, finally given a body.

And it's about to be yours.

⸻

He carries you out of the bathroom like you’re the most precious thing in the world—limbs wrapped tight around him, heart hammering in sync with his. The cool air hits your wet skin the moment the door clicks shut behind you, but the heat between your bodies burns brighter than any chill.

The hallway to his bedroom feels endless, every wet step echoing with the weight of what’s about to happen, but also with the quiet certainty of belonging. His grip never loosens, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you steady as you adjust, grounding yourself in him.

When he finally sets you down, the bedroom swallows you whole—soft shadows pooling in the corners, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the lingering warmth of fresh sheets. Mingyu doesn’t hesitate; his hands are on you again in an instant, sliding up your back, tracing the curve of your spine, memorizing the landscape of your skin with reverent hunger.

He doesn’t rush. Not tonight. Not with you.

His hands slide over your trembling skin, reverent and slow, mapping every inch as if memorizing a precious secret. His mouth follows, trailing soft kisses along your collarbone, down the curve of your neck, each breath warm and heavy against your skin.

When his fingers find your bare thighs, the heat of his touch sends a shiver rippling through you. You part your legs instinctively, inviting him in, your pulse hammering in your ears as you watch his dark eyes flicker with hunger and tenderness.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire and something softer—something almost sacred.

His hand slides closer, fingers teasing the delicate skin between your legs. He traces lazy circles, coaxing your body to open, to welcome him gently. You catch your breath as his touch dips lower, his fingertips brushing your folds with exquisite patience, drawing out a soft gasp.

Slowly, deliberately, he slides one finger inside you—soft, small, careful. His thumb strokes just above, rubbing gentle circles on your swollen clit, coaxing a rush of warmth and ache that settles deep in your belly.

You tremble at the new sensation, but his voice is a balm.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Just like that. You’re so perfect.”

His finger moves with a slow rhythm, easing you open, inviting your body to trust. When he adds a second finger, curling gently inside, you gasp—a mixture of surprise and pleasure—but you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, needing his steady presence.

Then, as he tries to ease a third finger inside, your body stiffens, a sharp wince breaking free.

“Mingyu, I can’t,” you whisper, voice fragile.

He pauses, searching your face with fierce tenderness.

“I know you can, baby,” he murmurs softly, voice steady and sure. “How else am I supposed to fit all of me inside you?”

Your gaze drops, and you see him there in his boxers—hard, big, aching, desperate for you. A slow gulp escapes your throat. You want this—want him—but the thought sends a flutter of nerves through your chest.

You shut your eyes tight as he tries again, overwhelmed by the fullness, the pressure, the way his fingers stretch you more than you’ve ever known. But then—you feel the warmth of his mouth on your clit, his tongue gentle and insistent, and something shifts. A moan slips from your lips. When you open your eyes again, blinking through the haze of pleasure and heat, you find him staring up at you from between your thighs. His lips are wrapped around your core, his fingers still buried inside, and his dark brown eyes are locked on yours—intense, reverent, burning with devotion. The sight steals your breath. You feel like you could melt completely, unravel into the floor tile, just from the weight of that gaze and everything it holds.

His fingers ease back, then slowly press forward again, pushing that third finger just a little further—barely more than before. His mouth works magic, sending waves of pleasure to counterbalance the stretch, making the ache feel like something you can bear, even crave.

“Shh, you’re doing so good,” he croons against your skin. “I’m right here. You’re safe.”

Your hands clutch his shoulders, body trembling with the delicious tension of pain and pleasure intertwined. The water from the shower still clung on your bodies splashes around you both, but you barely notice—the heat between you is a furnace.

He never rushes, never pushes beyond what you can handle. His eyes are locked on yours, steady and full of devotion, giving you strength when you falter.

With every gentle stroke, every lingering kiss, every whispered promise, you feel yourself opening—not just to him, but to this moment, to this love, to the sacred trust between you.

And in that slow, charged space, you realize this is only the beginning.

He watches you carefully, gauging every tremble, every twitch of your thighs, the way your breath hitches and your walls flutter around his fingers. He knows your body now—knows the sounds you make when it’s too much, the sighs when it’s just right. And when he feels you open around him, finally, soft and stretched and clenching in waves, he knows.

He lifts his mouth from your core, slow and deliberate, and the absence makes you whimper—a sound that twists something primal in his chest. His fingers slip from your body, soaked and shining, leaving you fluttering open and trembling on the bed. You lie there panting, legs still spread, flushed and undone, your chest rising and falling in stuttered breaths as the air brushes over your damp skin.

He straightens to his full height, standing at the edge of the bed, the steam still curling off both your bodies, his chest heaving. His gaze drags down your body—flushed, glistening, pliant beneath him—and he feels his restraint unraveling, thread by thread.

Then, without taking his eyes off you, he lifts his fingers to his mouth—those same fingers that had just been inside you, coaxing you open with patience and care. There’s nothing hurried in the motion, just heat. Reverence. Want. The pink of his tongue darts out to taste your slick—and your breath catches, sharp and fast in your throat.

But then you see it. Just a glimmer. A trace of red mixed with your arousal, glistening faintly at the base of his knuckle. A smear of something more than heat. Your stomach flips.

“Wait—” you sit up on your elbows, reaching for him. “There’s blood—Mingyu, don’t—”

But he just shakes his head, gaze burning as his fingers slip between his lips anyway, slow and deliberate. He groans low in his throat like your taste is everything, like it’s sacred. He sucks the digits clean, tongue curling around each one with something close to reverence.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, thick with heat and something deeper, “it’s fine. You think I care about a little blood?”

You stare up at him, breathless. He’s standing over you, flushed and soaked, his busted lip still faintly swollen, a drop of water sliding down from his jaw to his collarbone, catching the light. He looks like sin and salvation all at once. Reverent and ruined. Devoted and starving.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice low and serious, like he’s carving it into stone. “All of you. That includes this. Every part.”

Your lips part, and your throat tightens—but it’s not shame you feel. It’s awe. It’s gratitude. It’s love, thick and overwhelming.

And when he starts to peel down his boxers—slow, eyes still locked to yours like he needs to see every flicker of emotion—you realize just how far gone you are for him.

Your breath catches, and heat coils in your belly again—deeper, needier this time. You’re trembling, open and aching beneath him, and when he lowers himself between your legs once more, the air thickens with something unspoken. Like the whole world has gone quiet to make space for this.

He lines himself up with trembling patience, his hands braced on either side of your body. His expression is still soft, but his eyes burn—deep brown and blown wide, pupils swallowing the gold. His chest heaves with every breath, and his cock is heavy against your entrance, thick and flushed, tip brushing through your slick folds like he’s soaking in every part of you before crossing the threshold.

“Are you ready?” he whispers.

You nod, but he doesn’t move yet.

“Baby… I need to hear it.”

Your heart thuds like thunder. You swallow hard. “Yes,” you whisper. “I want this. I want you.”

And that’s all it takes.

He exhales slowly, hips tilting forward, and you feel the first push—just the tip. The stretch is immediate, a burn that laces up your spine and tightens your throat. Your eyes squeeze shut, fingers gripping the sheets beneath you as your breath stutters.

He stills instantly.

“Okay?” he breathes, voice tight, like he’s holding back everything in him to make this right.

“Y-Yeah,” you manage, though your voice trembles. “Just… slow.”

“I will,” he promises. “I’ve got you.”

His hand finds yours and squeezes tight, grounding. Then, slowly—agonizingly—he starts to press in further. The ache sharpens for a moment, your body instinctively tightening around him, but he kisses your knuckles, murmurs your name like it’s the only word he’s ever learned.

You whimper when he sinks a little deeper, the sting blooming across your hips.

“I know,” he whispers, eyes locked on you. “I know, baby—it’s a lot. You’re so tight… fuck, you feel—”

He breaks off with a shuddered breath, like the pleasure of being inside you is almost too much.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your temple. “You’re perfect.”

And you believe him.

Bit by bit, inch by inch, he fills you—each breath pulling him closer, deeper, until the sharpness fades and the ache becomes something warmer, fuller, more bearable. He stretches you in a way that feels endless, but never once makes you feel like you’re being taken from. Only given to.

He’s gentle, so gentle, even when his body trembles with restraint. His busted lip brushes your cheek, and you turn your face to kiss it—lightly, reverently—like it’s your way of saying thank you without breaking the moment.

And then he’s fully seated inside you, hips pressed flush to yours, chest hovering just above your own. His breath is ragged, his forehead slick where it touches yours.

Neither of you moves.

The air is heavy and slow, like time has bent itself around this one instant. His hand finds the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Tell me how it feels,” he whispers, like he needs to hear it from you, not just see it.

You open your eyes—barely—and meet his gaze. “Like I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.”

He lets out a soft, broken sound. His lips find yours again, careful, full of love.

And then—then—he begins to move.

He starts slow—so slow it almost hurts. Not the stretch, not anymore, but the way every inch of him moves like he’s memorizing you from the inside. Like every drag of his hips is a sentence in a language he’s only ever wanted to speak with you.

You cling to him without meaning to—arms looped around his shoulders, fingers buried in his damp hair. His name spills from your lips in a soft, breathy whimper, and he answers it with a low groan against your mouth, like the sound is too much and still not enough.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispers, voice frayed and reverent, his forehead pressed against yours. “I don’t—fuck—I don’t know how I ever touched you and didn’t know this is what we were made for.”

The words sink into your skin like silk and fire. You can’t breathe around them. You don’t want to.

His rhythm is gentle at first, hips rolling with steady control, every stroke long and deep. You gasp each time he pushes in, the ache melting into heat that spreads through your core, turning into something that coils and tightens with every pass.

“Still okay?” he asks between kisses, lips brushing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the hollow of your throat.

You nod, then whisper, “More.”

His eyes darken—something wild and worshipful blooming in his gaze—and his hand slides down your side to grip your thigh, lifting it gently around his waist to angle you open even more. The next thrust sinks deeper, and your breath catches sharp in your lungs.

“Oh my god—” you gasp, nails biting into his back.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs again, voice lower now, rougher. “You’re taking me so well, baby. So fucking good.”

The friction builds—slow and deliberate—until every nerve feels alive under his touch. His pelvis brushes your clit on each deep roll of his hips, a perfect, maddening drag that makes you writhe beneath him, needy sounds escaping you with no shame, no filter. You’re completely bare for him—emotionally, physically, soul stripped raw—and he treats you like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

His busted lip splits further when he kisses you again, a smear of pink across your mouth that neither of you care about. He tastes like salt and sweetness, like heat and need, like the past and the future clashing in a single kiss.

“Mingyu,” you breathe, your voice cracking. “Please…”

He grits his teeth like he’s trying to hold back—but your body is slick and pulsing around him, velvet and tight and perfect, and he knows he’s not going to last much longer.

Still, he slows again, grounding himself in you. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced care. He rubs slow circles there, syncing with each deep thrust, and your mouth falls open in a choked cry.

“Let go for me,” he whispers. “I want to feel you when you come.”

Your head tips back, eyes fluttering shut, body trembling with the building wave inside you. His rhythm doesn't falter—deep, slow, intentional. His fingers stroke your clit in time with each powerful roll of his hips, sending lightning down your spine and setting every nerve alight.

The pressure builds so quickly it’s dizzying—like standing at the edge of something vast and irreversible. His name spills from your lips again and again, a broken chant that doesn’t sound like language anymore, only want. Only surrender.

“You’re so close,” Mingyu breathes against your skin, his voice unraveling. “I can feel it. Don’t hold back, baby. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you do.

With a shattered cry, your body clenches tight around him, back arching off the sheets as the orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. It rolls through you in long, blinding pulses—sensation layered on sensation until you forget where you end and he begins.

He groans deep in his chest as you come, the rawness of your pleasure unraveling something inside him. Your walls tighten around him in rhythmic waves, slick and perfect and endless, and his control breaks.

“Fuck, baby—just like that,” he rasps, burying himself deeper, deeper still. “You feel so fucking good—so tight, so warm—shit, I’m gonna—”

His rhythm falters—just slightly—as he pushes once, twice more and comes with a low, guttural sound. His body jerks into yours, thick and hot as he spills inside you, pulse after pulse until there’s nothing left to give. You feel everything—every throb, every twitch, every desperate breath between you.

The room is filled with the scent of sex and skin. The only sounds are the sharp inhales you both fight to take, mingled with the slow thud of your hearts beating in tandem.

Mingyu doesn’t move right away. He stays pressed against you, face tucked into your neck, arms trembling as they hold you close. Like he’s afraid that letting go will undo it all.

You feel the heat of his breath against your collarbone, the sticky slide of his chest against yours, the soft shake of his hands as he finally starts to breathe normally again.

Your fingers find his hair and sink in slowly, brushing back the damp strands from his forehead. He tilts his head just enough to meet your eyes—and the look he gives you nearly undoes you again.

He’s wrecked. Flushed. But his eyes are wide and warm and full of something you can barely hold.

Your lips are still parted when he begins to soften inside you, your bodies still tangled, breath still shared. His forehead rests against yours for a long, slow moment, like he needs to anchor himself in the closeness, the heat, the heartbeat under your skin.

And then, finally, gently—he pulls out.

You gasp, instinctively shifting your hips away, suddenly too aware of the sensation of his release leaking out of you. Warm and slow, slipping down your thigh. Your legs twitch to close, to hide, but Mingyu’s hand is already there—large and grounding on your hip, stopping you with ease.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent.

You glance up at him, eyes wide, cheeks flushing, but his gaze is fixed between your thighs—like he’s memorizing the sight. The proof of what just passed between you. The wet heat, the flush of your skin, the mess he made inside you.

“Mingyu…” you whisper, embarrassed.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and aching with something close to awe. “God,” he breathes. “You look so fucking pretty like this.”

You try to squirm away again, shy and overstimulated—but he doesn’t let you. His grip tightens gently, not to trap you, just to steady you.

“Let me see,” he says softly, almost like a plea. “Just for a second. You don’t know what you do to me.”

The vulnerability in his voice stills your retreat. And when you let yourself relax into the bed, legs still parted slightly, flushed and spent and trembling, his hand moves to your thigh again—gentle now, soothing.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, almost like he’s saying it to himself. “All of you. Even this.”

He leans down to press a kiss just above your hip, reverent and tender, like a thank you. Then one to your navel. Then another, lower. You’re too sensitive, too raw to do anything but breathe through it, overwhelmed by the way he’s still touching you like you’re something sacred.

Eventually, he lifts his head and meets your gaze again.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your damp cheek.

You nod, cheeks hot, eyes glassy with emotion you’re not sure how to name.

“I just…” You swallow. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

Mingyu’s smile is soft and slow. He leans in to kiss you again—sweet and deep, no hunger now, just the kind of kiss that says you’re safe.

“I did,” he says, lips brushing yours. “Because it was you.”

⸻

// this is pretty much 9.0k words of straight smut im so embarrassed and feel so guilty lol

Tag List: @sojuxxi @belovedgyu @bingumingoo1004 @burnerforfiction @jujuz251013 @dmstoyangyang @armycarat2612 @eisaspresso @svthinker @babycaratdeul @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @iluvhosh @caratcak3 @anateeso @tooflef @cocoalmond @mayalou @aeerio @aquasan29 @chemiru @dinonara-ara

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 16

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 6.3k+

Note: fucking hell YN is a bit melodramatic hey?? damn crazy. someone should do something about it.

xxx

The flat is nearly done. Well, nearly is the operative word. You can’t exactly turn a blank canvas into a masterpiece in just one week — not when you’re battling a mountain of flatpack boxes and wrestling with furniture that arrives with more screws than instructions. But I gave it a red-hot go. The sofa’s in place (mostly assembled), the kitchen’s unpacked enough to cook something edible, and the bed actually holds me without collapsing. The boxes are mostly unpacked, though there are still a few corners that feel bare — empty enough to remind me this place is still a work in progress. But honestly? I kind of like that. It gives the space room to breathe. Room to grow.

Speaking of growing, I’m currently drowning in cardboard. The sheer volume of it could probably form its own ecosystem. It’s all shoved into my bedroom right now, stacked like the starter pack of a hoarder’s anonymous meeting. It’s chaos, but it’s my chaos, and I’m strangely proud of it.

Despite the mess, the fridge is stocked with fresh food — no more sad instant noodles for me. And tucked in the corner is a bottle of wine I’ve been saving for a moment just like this. Tonight, that moment finally arrives.

I’m hosting a goddamn housewarming.

A bunch of my friends from The Van are coming over. Here. To my new flat. The place I’ve poured sweat, frustration, and a hell of a lot of laughter into. It feels like a milestone, even if the space isn’t quite finished. Because this — this is my fresh start. And tonight, I get to celebrate that with the people who know me best.

The nerves buzz beneath my skin — the kind that comes from knowing I’m about to open the door to more than just a flat. I’m opening up a part of my life that’s still a little raw, a little uncertain. But mostly, it’s mine.

And god, I’m ready for it.

Will’s been on my mind a lot lately. The space between us feels bigger than this whole flat, and I’m still trying to figure out how to bridge it. But tonight, I’ve thrown myself into every little detail—the perfect candle, the best tablecloth, making sure everything’s just right.

I want him to meet my people, to see this side of me, to taste my cooking—not just grab a quick bite on the run. It feels like a chance to remind him what we could have, if only that distance would close.

He said he probably wouldn’t make it for dinner, caught up with some deadline, but that he’d come by afterward. Knowing Will, I’m still holding out hope for a surprise.

Ruth shows up early, as she always does. I think she likes the idea of getting her hands into something, and she’s always ready to help. So we’re tackling the dinner together. Best friend type shit.

It’s a simple menu — pasta, salad, garlic bread. The basics, can't fuck it up, but Ruth’s made sure we’re not cutting any corners. There’s fresh basil for the pasta sauce, real garlic, not the stuff from a tube, and a block of parmesan for grating. No pre-grated cheese. We’re going for it.

“Okay, we’ve got the pasta and the bread covered,” Ruth says, setting down the garlic butter with a satisfied look. “But have you seen any tongs around here? I don’t see any.”

I blink at her, then look down at the kitchen drawers. “Tongs? Damn I haven't bought tongs yet have I?”

Ruth gives me a deadpan look. “You’re making garlic bread. How are you going to get it out of the oven without tongs?”

I roll my eyes, but she’s right. I’ve clearly missed some basic kitchen essentials in my shopping spree. “Fuck. Tongs,” I mutter. “Let me guess — I didn't buy cling wrap either, right?”

Ruth grins and hands me the fresh basil while pulling out a cutting board. At least I remembered that. She starts to look in my drawers, telling me all the things I've missed. Classic.

“You still need cling wrap, tongs, maybe a ladle... You know, the essentials. The adult things.” She pauses. “And I see you’re still rocking mismatched mugs. Gotta work on that.”

“Right,” I say, glancing at the array of mismatched mugs stacked in a corner. I haven’t quite gotten around to replacing the ugly ones. “Thanks for pointing that out.” I grin at her.

Ruth shrugs and pours some wine into a glass for both of us. “Hey, it’s part of the charm. You’ll get there eventually.”

She heads off to the living room to look at my makeshift bookshelves. I honestly had no idea I owned that many books. I had a box my mum parcelled over to me a few months ago and just never opened it. 

I scramble to put together a shopping list. I grab my phone and make a note: Tongs. Cling wrap. Ladle. Proper mugs.

By the time Ruth’s back in the kitchen, I’m just about to check the oven. She grins, holding up the wine bottle. “You ready for your first official dinner party in this place?”

I laugh, and the nervous energy I’ve been carrying all week suddenly feels a bit more manageable. “Sure. Just don’t judge me when it’s basically a glorified pasta night.”

Ruth shakes her head, clearly amused. “It’s going to be amazing. Don’t stress.”

As the others start trickling in, I’m already half-drunk off the wine, and the kitchen smells like garlic bread and fresh pasta sauce. I’m more than ready for the evening.

I want this — the warmth, the laughter, the feeling that everything is starting to slot into place. The place is starting to feel like a home.

First in is Matt, looking slightly more cheerful than usual. Then Naomi, Sam, and of course, Leon. The last one to walk through the door is Oscar, with his tattooed sleeves and that unreadable smile that always makes me a little nervous. I've learnt his name since the night out. He’s holding a six-pack of beers, a piece of the puzzle I hadn’t even realized I needed.

Even though the flat’s buzzing with activity, I can’t stop glancing at my phone, hoping for a message from Will. He said he’d come by, but so far, nothing. I try to shake off the nerves, but it’s there, just under the surface.

I give Ruth a quick look, and she grins back at me like this is the moment. I’m pulling it off.

“You made it, weirdo,” I say to Leon as I hand him a drink. He grins back, running a hand through his messy hair.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he says with a wink.

“Perfect. You’re just in time for the pasta," I say. "Let me know if it's too burnt. And if you need tongs or ladles, don’t hesitate to ask.”

There’s a round of laughter. The good kind. The kind where you’re not pretending to be someone you’re not. Everyone settles in, the energy rising to meet the occasion, and it feels like the beginning of something — like this could be a regular thing.

Matt immediately makes himself comfortable at the kitchen island, I tell him he should complement my brand new stools and he does. Sam and Naomi are on the couch, Oscar’s standing by the window looking out, his beer in hand, but still very much a part of the group.

I lean over to Ruth, still plating food, and whisper, “This is good. This is really good.”

“See?” she grins, nudging me with her shoulder. “You’re doing fine. You just needed a bit of support, that’s all.”

And just like that, the tension I’ve been carrying all week starts to slip away. Even if things with Will feel like they’re shifting in some unsaid way, even if George is still somewhere in the back of my mind, right now, I’m here. Right here. In my new flat, with my new friends, and the room is full of laughter and light and the smell of pasta sauce.

It’s not perfect, but for the first time in a while, it doesn’t have to be.

xxx

The night goes on with too many drinks, too much pasta, and a whole lot of laughter. Ruth ends up taking over the playlist, making us listen to all kinds of weird indie songs I’ve never heard of. The vibe is relaxed, comfortable — almost like this is something we’ve all been doing for years.

The conversation flows in waves, picking up new threads as we all bounce between topics. But I can’t shake the quiet tug in the back of my mind. Will hasn’t texted in a while, and every time someone mentions “plans for the weekend,” I catch myself glancing at my phone, wondering if he’s about to text me something — anything.

He said he’d swing by. I remember him saying it so casually, like he had a hundred other things to do, like he wasn’t as excited as I was to finally introduce him to this weird, wonderful group of people. He said probably after dinner.

But now is after. Well past the time he was supposed to show up, and still no sign of him.

The flat feels warm, filled with laughter and the clink of glasses. The food’s been devoured, and we’re well into the inevitable post-dinner chaos — too many empty wine bottles on the table, a bunch of half-finished drinks, and everyone drifting into different conversations.

Oscar, fiddling with the tablecloth, turns to me. His voice drops low, quiet but deliberate. “You enjoying it here?” he asks, eyes steady and kind.

His question hangs in the air longer than expected, heavier than the easy chatter around us. There’s something about the way he says it — like a small thing, but with enough weight to make me feel seen. I try not to overthink it.

“Yeah,” I say, taking a slow sip of wine to steady my hands. “It’s good. I’m finally getting settled.”

Naomi catches my eye and grins, always the one to break any tension. “You live alone! How fantastically adult of you!” She laughs, then leans forward, raising her glass like she’s about to make a toast. “So, surely you’re hosting pre’s all the time now?”

I laugh too, grateful for the distraction. Hosting parties still feels a little out of reach — like I’m playing a part rather than living it. “How fantastically adult of me!” I echo, but my words feel hollow, fading too fast. I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Yeah, I guess. I’m still figuring out how to organise the kitchen without tripping over pots and pans.”

Naomi’s grin widens, clearly enjoying the tease. “I bet you could totally host though. You’ve got the place, the vibe… And I’m sure Will would help with all the heavy lifting.”

I force a laugh, trying to hide the flutter of nerves that hits my chest. “Alright, alright, you guys are all obsessed with Will now,” I say, but there’s an edge to my voice I can’t quite mask. “Seriously though, I’ve only been here a week. Let’s not get carried away with the hosting talk.”

Oscar’s quiet gaze meets mine again, and his voice softens, almost thoughtful. “You enjoying it though? Living on your own, I mean?”

I hesitate, the question suddenly too big for the easy smile I want to give. “Yeah… it’s weird. But good weird, you know?” I try for lightness, but there’s a flicker of doubt I can’t shake.

He nods slowly, eyes warm. “It’s a big change. But it suits you, I think.”

His words hit in a way I didn’t expect — simple, but somehow more real than anything else said tonight. My heart skips.

Before I can say more, Ruth leans in with that spark in her eyes I’ve come to trust. “So, when can we meet Will, huh?”

I blink, caught off guard, but the smile still breaks across my face. “Oh, he should be coming soon!” I say—maybe a bit too eager—but it doesn’t matter. I’m excited, though now there’s a knot of worry twisting in my stomach.

Oscar raises an eyebrow, a subtle softness in his expression, like he’s watching a story unfold but isn’t sure where it’s going yet.

Naomi grins at me, all bright eyes and enthusiasm. “Well, we’re all excited to meet him!”

For the first time in a while, it feels like everything’s just right. I’m still figuring things out, but right now — in this warm, noisy, wine-soaked chaos of friends and laughter — it feels good.

Now, if only Will would show up.

xxx

He didn’t show. No text, no call, no nothing.

This is the casual bit, I suppose. He doesn’t want to meet my friends. Doesn’t need to. Not really. It’s fine, I tell myself. It’s all fine.

But even as I say that, it feels less fine than I want it to. It’s the way the night should’ve ended — with Will here, laughing, a glass of wine in hand, mixing into the chaos of the crew that’s been my lifeline since moving here. Instead, it ends with a quiet empty spot in the corner, where he should have been.

Everyone filters out slowly, footsteps soft on the floor as they gather their things. We’re doing that thing where we’ve all hugged and said goodbye, but somehow there’s still more to say before the night truly ends.

“See you Tuesday!” Naomi calls out cheerfully, her voice still light, but somehow, too loud against the silence that’s filling the flat.

I’m wiping down the last of my counter when Leon, already halfway to the door, tosses me a comment over his shoulder. “I’ve got an old bookshelf I’ve been thinking of selling,” he says casually, pausing in the doorway. “If you’re looking for one, let me know. It’s not much, but it’ll hold some books.”

I’m surprised, but it’s exactly the kind of thing I’ve been hunting for. “Oh, yeah, definitely,” I say, smiling a little. “I could always use another shelf. I’ll hit you up tomorrow.”

He grins, gives me a quick salute, and heads out. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me standing there for a second, processing how it feels like everyone is offering something these days. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m still settling in, or maybe it’s just them — these people who don’t mind extending little bits of themselves. Maybe it’s not so bad, this whole "being part of something" idea.

Oscar, standing near the door, finishes gathering his coat and keys, then turns to me with a calm smile. “By the way,” he says, his tone always steady, “I've got a social netball game next week. We're down a player. You should come along. Text me if you’re interested.”

I blink for a second, caught off guard by how casually he says it. Netball? Me? My heart races slightly at the idea of joining something new, but at the same time, the idea of being included, of having another regular to show up to, feels oddly comforting.

I laugh softly, shrugging. “Yeah, alright. I’ll text you.”

He nods. “Good. It’ll be fun. Everyone’s a bit rubbish, but we make it work.” His tone softens as he walks out. "And if you need any help with the flat, don’t hesitate, yeah? That’s what we’re here for.”

“Thanks, Oscar!,” I reply cheerily, watching him disappear out the door.

It’s strange, how suddenly, these people I barely knew a couple of months ago have started to feel like… home. Not that everything’s perfect, or figured out, but the little things, the offers, the casual kindness — they build something I can’t ignore.

They're so good at the casual kindness that none of them mention it. Not the fact that Will didn’t show, not the fact that they didn’t meet the guy I’ve been talking about for the past two months. It’s like the whole thing doesn’t even exist. The same casual tone is there when they leave, like it’s just another night of drinking and laughing. Not even a passing mention of him.

I stand by the door, waving them off, giving them the usual goodbyes, but my heart isn’t in it. I’m already retreating inside my head, processing the quiet absence of the night. And even though they’re gone, the quiet lingers. It settles in the corners of my flat, heavy in the air.

I start getting ready for bed, moving through the motions like I’ve done a thousand times before. But tonight, the evening feels heavier, somehow. The fun, the warmth of it all, has melted into something… off. The laughter still echoes in my ears, but it’s already fading.

Seeing everyone was nice. It warmed me up a bit. But Will’s no-show weighs on my shoulders, pulling everything back into question.

He’s been so weird. That’s the thing, right? He’s been so weird lately. Pulling back physically. Not calling, not texting the way he used to. The conversations have been shorter, the energy a little colder. It’s like there’s a wall I can’t get past.

What is it with everyone being weird? First George and now Will?

And maybe that's it. Maybe I’m the one who’s being weird. Maybe I'm the one overthinking it all. Or maybe Will really has just decided I’m not worth it anymore. Whatever it is, I can't shake the feeling that something’s off, and I don't know how to fix it.

And I’m being paranoid, I'm sure of it. I’m reading too much into it. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if he’s already decided I’m not worth it. Maybe he’s figured out that I’m not the kind of person you want to stick around for. Maybe I am just a distraction, a filler until something better comes along. I climb into bed, pulling the covers over me, but it feels too empty. It's become a rare thing to not sleep next to him. Or it became a rare thing, it's been more common again this last week.

I can still feel the weight of the night, the quiet hum of unspoken things between Will and me, filling up the space. I stare up at the ceiling, trying not to get lost in my own thoughts.

But no matter how many times I tell myself that it’s fine, that maybe it’s probably nothing... it’s hard to believe.

I want to be angry at him. I really do. But the thing is, I can’t summon it anymore. That’s the part that kills me. We’ve already done our time of angry, and now… now I’m just left with this thick, suffocating sadness.

I told him. I told him that night, the first time we crossed that line, that I wasn’t ready for anything serious. And he said he wasn’t either. No big deal. It was supposed to be a fun thing, right? Nothing to complicate. But this — this silence, this absence — it doesn’t feel fun anymore.

He helped me move. He helped me move for Christ’s sake. He even roleplayed coming home with me in the IKEA showroom, like we were already living that life. How was I supposed to brush that off like it was some weird joke?

And then there’s Monaco. Monaco. That brand trip invitation had my stomach doing flip-flops. Why would he invite me if he wasn’t looking for something? He even knows I can’t just drop everything and take a week off work, especially after the move. So why make it feel like it was an option?

I cling to the hope that he’s just letting me down gently. That he’s realised we’re not going to work out long term, and he’s sparing me the awkwardness of some big breakup speech. Maybe he’s just trying to soften the blow, make it easier, to not put me in a situation where I feel like I have to argue or beg him to stay.

But that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach.

Shift in bed, feeling the silence in the room press against me. I try to shake it off, tell myself it’s fine, that I’ll just talk to him when I see him next. It’s all I can do — try to bury the disappointment and hope it doesn’t bubble up when I finally see his face again. But I know, deep down, this isn’t going to go away until I confront it.

What hurts the most isn’t the waiting. It’s the not knowing. Because the truth is, if I knew where we stood, even if it was bad, even if it was over, I could deal with it. But instead, I’m just here, with all this space between us, with nothing but his absence to fill it.

And that? That’s the part I can't fix.

xxx

Its been a week.

Will hasn’t spoken to me all week.

It feels like a punch in the gut, but I can’t help the feeling that something’s shifted. The longest we’ve gone without talking since we met, and there’s nothing — no text, no call, no plans to meet up.

When we met — that stupid party I didn’t even want to go to — he texted me that same night. And then we just… didn’t stop.

It started as relentless. Snarky. Annoying. Like we were both trying to win something, though I’m still not sure what. For weeks — no, months — it was constant. A daily back-and-forth of sarcasm, one-liners, and deeply unnecessary hot takes. The kind of energy that should’ve fizzled out fast. But it didn’t.

It softened, eventually. Less sharp edges, more… rhythm. But it never really stopped. The most we’ve ever gone without messaging was about 25 hours — and even that was because he was on a plane and I was half-dead with a cold.

And now?

After he invited me on a holiday.

After he helped me move flat, kissed me like I was worth living for, learned my pizza order, and figured out exactly what makes me tick?

Now, it’s quiet.

And I don’t know what to do with the silence.

Fucking hell, even a “u up?” text would satisfy this craving I’ve got for him right now. As ridiculous as it sounds, the idea of him texting me — even just to say something stupid or half-hearted — would be enough to quiet the pit of frustration that’s been growing in my stomach all week. Goddamn, I’d even take a “I hate you” as a response to my question of "Where have you gone?".

At least then I’d know.'

At least I wouldn’t be left here wondering. Wondering if I messed something up or if it was him or if I’m just being too sensitive. It’d hurt, sure, but the silence? That’s worse. The quiet stretches out longer and longer, and with it, all my stupid, paranoid thoughts start creeping in. Maybe I said something wrong. Maybe I took the wrong step. Maybe I’m just too much, and that’s why he hasn’t even bothered to reach out.

But no, I don’t even get that. I get nothing. The space between us is thick with unanswered questions.

If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure why I care this much. It’s just a thing, right? Just a guy. We weren’t anything serious. I said it myself: I wasn’t ready for anything serious. But that doesn’t stop the feeling. The one that twists in my chest every time I check my phone and see it’s still empty.

I try to shake it off. I mean, it’s not like I need him to validate me, right? I’m fine. I’ve got my own life now.

But it’s funny how much a single text can feel like it could break the tension in my chest. Even if it’s not the answer I want, it would be something.

Instead, I’m left with the silence, which, honestly, might just be worse than any shitty message he could send.

Still, I keep telling myself it's fine, that he’s probably busy. It’s just a bit of space. Just a bit of time to breathe. But the truth is, I’ve spent the entire week in this weird limbo, where I’m pretending I don’t care, pretending I’m fine. But I’m not.

Still, I try to keep myself busy. I’ve got my new flat, right? It’s not just empty space, it’s mine. And the more I sink into it, the more it starts to feel like a home.

The new flat vibe is pretty damn good, I’ll admit. It’s like the universe is handing me a chance to do something with my life, to build it the way I want to. No more shared walls, no more roommates, no more worrying about someone else’s mess. This is my space. It feels cool, like I’m finally grown up. Like I’m not just floating through life anymore, I’m steering the ship. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself when I’m crouched on the floor, rearranging bookshelves for the fifth time.

Should I arrange them in order of colour or by authors surname?

I’ve thrown myself into interior design, and honestly, it’s a little embarrassing how into it I’ve gotten. I’m that person now — scrolling through Pinterest boards and flipping through magazines like I’ve got my life together. Who even buys magazines anymore? Me, apparently. Maybe it’s the thrill of having a blank canvas, or maybe it’s just me convincing myself I’m doing something productive while I wait for Will to acknowledge me again.

It’s not just the flat. Somehow, I’ve picked up three new hobbies in the last week. Because of course I have. Why not? I’ve got the space for them now, and apparently the energy too. I’ve started baking — simple stuff, like cookies, but it feels like a tiny victory each time the oven beeps. Then there’s painting. Like, actual painting, with brushes and canvas. It’s therapeutic in a way I didn’t expect. And, just to really round it out, I’ve joined an online book club. Because I have a ton of time to read now, right?

I think I’m doing all of this because I’m trying to fill the space, to prove I’m okay. That I can do this alone, that I can be enough. Because right now, all this newness is really just a distraction from the quiet. The kind of quiet that grows when the person you’ve been waiting for stops showing up.

But at least I’ve got these things, right? New hobbies, a new flat. It’s like I’m learning how to be by surrounding myself with things that fill the silence. I’ve got three types of flour in the pantry, a canvas that’s half-painted in the corner, and a Pinterest board that’s at least 50% living room inspiration. At least it’s something.

I just wish I could shake the feeling that it’s all a little... empty.

Like no matter how many hobbies I pick up or how many magazines I flick through, I’m still just waiting. For Will to text, for him to show up, for him to decide whether or not he wants to be in my life.

Maybe I just want to feel like I’m worth something. Worth his attention. Because right now, all this newness in my life — the flat, the hobbies, the Pinterest boards and the cake experiments — it’s just stuff. It’s all just stuff I’m using to fill up the quiet, to fill up the space where Will’s presence should be.

And then there’s work. God, work. It's is just awful. It’s like every day I’m dragging myself through quicksand, and the more I think about it, the more I want to scream. I moved across the world for this job, and right now, I can’t even remember why I thought that was a good idea. I was so excited back then — new city, new job, new life — but now? Now it’s just a slog.

The people at work are fine, the work itself is fine, but everything just feels so... meh. I felt Will pulling away all last week — the messages slowing, the distance growing in the silences between us. And I just let him, I guess. It’s like he’d already checked out, and I’m still trying to figure out where I fit in.

It’s like I’ve slipped into autopilot. I go in, work on my silly little programs, then come home to stare at the same four walls of my flat, wondering if I’m just wasting time.

The real kicker is when I think back to last week — that week with Will, building furniture, figuring out the best spot for the couch — it makes coming back here feel that much harder. How was it so easy with him? We were in sync. We didn’t have to try; just living together for a few days felt... right.

But now? Now it feels like that was a different life, a different version of me. One who wasn’t dragging herself through a job she feels nothing for. One who had the energy to care about something deeper than painting.

I want that feeling back. That rhythm. But every time I sit at my desk or stare at my inbox, the thought won’t leave me: Why did I come here? And more importantly — where is he?

Work was supposed to be the thing that would make it all worth it — the move, the change, the upheaval. But instead, it’s just another reason to feel stuck.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s easier to blame the job than to admit that maybe I’m just goddamn lonely. It always comes back to that doesn’t it?

Every. Fucking. Time.

I'm sick of going on about it.

I felt so cool when I got this job. So proud of myself. Like I was finally getting what I deserved. A real, grown-up job in a new city. In London, It was the dream, right? I had this whole story about how I’d made it.

They headhunted me. Me! Some young woman from halfway across the world, with no more than a decent CV and a wild idea that maybe, just maybe, I could do this. The company paid for my flights, gave me a sizable bonus — which, honestly, I only just used to furnish my flat. I always thought that money was the start of something big. I was going to fill my new space with things that meant something, that screamed me.

We can ignore the part where it took me eight months to find a flat.

But I don’t talk about it much. I kept it to myself, like a little secret that I didn’t want to admit, even to myself. This whole “new life” thing, I mean. It sounded so easy, so clean when I first thought about it. Move abroad, get a job, settle in. And yet, here I am, restyling my bookshelf again, and trying to piece together what was supposed to be this amazing new chapter.

And George! I couldn’t believe I got to live in the same city as George again. The mate who was there when everything felt like it was falling apart, the one who somehow kept me grounded and floating at the same time. After all this time apart, suddenly, we were both here, sharing the same streets, the same city.

And Look how that turned out.

Okay, I’m being overly cynical now. I say that about George, but it’s better now. At first, I wasn’t sure what to expect — how to slip back into the old rhythm. But after the move out conversation, in the garage, everything felt lighter with him. And then he  sent me a meme out of the blue, and I felt this weird little buzz in my chest. Like we were gonna pick up right where we left off, no awkwardness, just that familiar ease. It felt good.

It is good.

He seems less intense now, less… complicated. Or maybe I’ve just learned to roll with his quirks. Either way, we’re back to sending each other memes and laughing over all the dumb stuff we used to get up to. It feels easy again, and that’s a fucking relief.

And we’ve got that dinner I promised him coming up! After all this time, it’s finally happening. Don't ask why it took two weeks, I’m honestly just excited to catch up, to hang out with him like we used to. No pressure, no weirdness. Just two friends who’ve found their way back to each other. I say that. I still lived with him when it was weird. We didn’t exactly leave each other. But honestly, I can’t stop smiling just thinking about it. Feels like the good old days.

I drag my fingers through my hair and try to focus on that instead of the Will situation. And it works. Mostly.

My head’s too full of questions about Will, too full of the aching uncertainty of what’s really going on with us. I could blame work for all of this, but that wouldn’t make anything easier. It pulses on the back of my brain light a headache that no amount of paracetamol can cure

It buzzes beneath the noise of everything else, stubborn and unwelcome, refusing to let me forget.

xxx

Dinner with George is... easy. Comfortable. I can’t remember the last time I was this relaxed with him. We’re at a nice Italian place near his flat. It's nothing fancy, just cozy. The kind of place where you feel like you’re in the middle of a casual night out, not some rom-com scene.

It’s weird, seeing George not at the flat. He’s always been just... there, popping in and out without any big plans. The whole time we've known each other it's been like that, even living across the UK we used to just, pop in. But now, we have to plan to see each other, carve out time like it’s something that needs scheduling. We’re grown-ups now, I guess. It feels different.

I tell him that, how strange it feels to have to make plans, to check calendars, to figure out when we can actually hang out. It’s all a bit too real. Like, we’ve entered that stage of adulthood where everything is a bit more... intentional.

He shrugs, almost like he’s not bothered by it, but there’s something in his smile that makes me think maybe he gets it. “I’ll give you your key back,” he says, his voice light. “It’s all good to just drop by whenever, yeah?”

It should feel like a relief, and in a way, it is — a reminder that some things don’t have to change. That maybe we can still be friends, like we always have been. No pressure, no awkwardness, just that easy, familiar connection.

I try not to dwell on how different it feels now. The crush is long gone... mostly. There’s a comfort in knowing we’re still friends, even if it feels different now. Even if it feels more like a chapter that’s winding down than one that’s still building. But we’re still here, still part of each other’s lives, just in a new way. And honestly? That’s something worth holding onto.

We’re talking about everything and nothing now, the move, Arthur's new gross habits, Monaco. The whole trip is sounds a bit surreal.

I still think about Will's invite, and I’m still not sure why. I can't go, obviously—work, timing, all that—but it’s the kind of thing I’m sure would been fun if I could go. I tell George this, all casually, just another thing in passing.

So then he asks, “How are things with Will?” The question hangs there for a second, like it’s some innocent check-in, but I can already hear the curiosity in his voice.

I shrug, taking a bite of my pasta before I answer. “Yeah, not really happening anymore. I told you it wasn’t serious,” I say it like it’s no big deal, because, honestly, it’s not. It’s just another thing that didn’t work out. Another almost.

I'm fucking lying to myself, obviously.

I’m sure he can see it on my face. Maybe he can’t, though. Maybe I’m better at hiding it than I think. Either way, I push the thought aside, pretending that I’m not bothered. But it lingers, heavy, as I stab at the pasta with my fork.

George’s expression softens. He leans back and nods slowly. “That’s shit, you know? Even when you don’t expect it to go anywhere, it still hurts when someone pulls away.”

There’s a pause as if he’s weighing his words carefully. “I guess sometimes people don’t always know how to handle things. Or maybe they just don’t know what they want.”

He gives a small, understanding smile, the kind that says he’s been there before, even if the words aren’t perfect. “But hey, you’re not alone in this. And you deserve someone who’s all in — not half here, not half gone.”

I manage a weak laugh. “Yeah, well, it was never gonna be serious anyway.”

But honestly? I thought we were getting somewhere—felt like maybe this time it was real. Guess I was just fooling myself.

George nods, taking a slow sip of wine, eyes still watching me like he actually cares. “Yeah. But sometimes the ‘never serious’ things still sting.”

And just like that, it feels a little easier—not because the situation’s changed, but because someone seems to get it. Even if it’s just George, being George.

The rest of the dinner is just... normal. The kind of night where I’m not thinking about the past, or the future, or anything that’s been hanging over my head. It feels so good to have him back, in this easy, uncomplicated way. We talk about the usual stuff, laugh at the same jokes, and for once, it feels like things are just right. For now, I’m okay with that.

That's me lying to myself again.

xxx

Taglsit: @meglouise00 @migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl @mrswillne @ravenaz

[zoe535]

What We Never Said

Chapter 3

---

The rooftop bar pulsed with music and low lights, the Dallas skyline glowing around them. The team relaxed with all different types of drinks in hand.

NaLyssa pointed her straw at Azzi. “So, you and Paige. All that fire in practice. You hate each other, or is it something else?”

The table laughed. Paige lifted her glass lazily. “Azzi just can’t help but be obsessed with me.”

“Obsessed with cooking you,” Azzi shot back, her smile sharp.

“Oh, is that what you call those bricks you’ve been laying?” Paige teased.

The banter teetered on the edge of something else. Flirting or fighting. No one could tell.

The team loved it.

Azzi loved it too (she would never admit that), until Paige’s attention slid elsewhere.

A girl. Short, brunette and wearing something that could barely be considered clothes approached their table. Confidence oozing from her.

“You’re Paige Bueckers, right? Saw your highlights. You’re even hotter in person.”

Azzi’s throat clenched.

Paige smirked, leaning back. “Yeah? 'preciate it.”

The girl brushed her hand over Paige’s arm. “You got time to grab a drink? Maybe a little one-on-one later?”

Paige flicked her eyes to Azzi briefly. Calculating.

Azzi didn’t react. Not outwardly. But something inside her bristled.

Paige gave the girl a slow smile. “Yeah. Might have time.”

Azzi’s stomach twisted, but she focused on her drink, willing herself not to care. Not to show it.

NaLyssa nudged her, grinning. “Damn, rookie. Better step up your game. She’s pulling tonight.”

Azzi forced a shrug. “Plenty of fish in the sea.”

But her grip on her glass tightened.

Paige didn’t leave with the girl, not right away. She lingered just long enough to keep Azzi on edge, then finally let the girl lead her away.

Azzi called it a night, stepping outside early, the air sharp in her lungs.

She was scrolling through her phone, debating whether to call an Uber, when Paige’s car rolled up.

The window lowered. “You good? I’ll give you a ride.”

Azzi hesitated. “Aren’t you busy?”

Paige shrugged. “Changed my mind.”

Azzi slid into the passenger seat, silence pressing in as Paige pulled into traffic.

They didn’t talk much.

But it wasn’t nothing.

The air crackled between them, thick with all the things they wouldn’t say.

Azzi stared out the window. “That girl. You into her?”

Paige’s grip on the wheel tightened for a split second. “Maybe. Why?”

Azzi shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

Silence.

Then Paige’s voice, soft, dangerous. “Why? Would it bother you?”

Azzi’s pulse stumbled. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Paige smirked. “Wasn’t flattering. Just asking.”

The rest of the drive was quiet, but the tension screamed.

Paige parked outside Azzi’s building.

Azzi unbuckled slowly. “Thanks.”

Paige’s gaze flicked to her, unreadable. “Anytime.”

Azzi hesitated. For a second, she thought maybe—maybe Paige would say something else. Maybe she would reach out, bridge the gap, tease her again, make her heart twist.

But Paige just drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and let her go.

Azzi climbed the stairs two at a time, slammed her door behind her, and leaned back against it, exhaling hard.

---

The next morning, they were both early again.

Paige leaned against the scorer’s table, bouncing the ball lazily. “Morning.”

Azzi grabbed a ball, didn’t respond.

Paige chuckled. “Still mad?”

“Not mad.”

“Jealous?”

Azzi shot a glare sharp enough to cut. “In your dreams.”

Paige moved closer. “You don’t have to hide it, Fudd.”

“There’s nothing to hide.”

Paige tossed her the ball. “Good. Let’s play.”

They spent the next hour in a heated one-on-one, the competition brutal, the score close, the sweat dripping, the touches lingering.

Paige’s defense got tight.

Azzi’s drive got reckless.

They collided under the basket, landing hard, tangled limbs and sharp breaths.

Paige’s hand pressed against Azzi’s hip to steady herself.

Neither moved.

Azzi’s heart pounded in her throat.

Paige’s eyes flicked down to Azzi’s lips.

Azzi jerked back like she’d been burned, scrambling to her feet.

“We’re done here,” she snapped, grabbing her stuff.

Paige’s voice followed her. “Scared to finish the game?”

Azzi didn’t look back. “Scared of nothing.”

But her hands were shaking.

And the worst part?

She couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if she never moved.

---

Azzi didn’t see Paige the rest of the day. Not in the gym. Not in the recovery room. Not even in the parking lot when she finally slipped out and drove home with her music cranked as loud as possible, trying to drown out thoughts she couldn’t afford to have.

But it didn’t work. Paige had settled in her head like a song stuck on repeat, playing louder the more she tried to ignore it.

She wanted to text Jose, but what would she even say?

'Hey, what does it mean if the girl you’re supposed to hate can make your skin burn with one touch?'

Yeah. That would go over well.

She threw her phone face down on the couch and didn’t pick it up for the rest of the night.

---

The next morning, she was early again, lacing her shoes with sharp, focused movements like maybe she could tie her feelings down just as tightly.

Paige showed up late this time, hair messy, still sipping her protein shake as she tossed her bag down.

Azzi tried not to look, but her eyes betrayed her.

“You always this intense before a shootaround?” Paige asked, sitting down and casually tying her shoes, as if the weight of their last collision wasn’t still hanging between them.

“Always,” Azzi lied.

Paige grinned. “Sure.”

They moved through drills with the rest of the team, but it was obvious to everyone that they were tuned into each other in a different way now.

Coach Koclanes called for split workouts that afternoon. Paige and Azzi were assigned to solo shooting reps.

Together. Again.

The gym was mostly empty, the sound of bouncing balls and squeaking sneakers echoing off the high walls.

Paige passed to Azzi without looking. “Let’s go. You miss, you run.”

Azzi set her feet, nailed the jumper. “You first.”

Paige drained hers.

Back and forth. Corner to corner. Elbow to elbow.

Paige stepped closer as the drill tightened. Her fingertips brushed Azzi’s wrist on a pass, the contact light, almost deliberate.

Azzi’s stomach flipped.

Paige handed her the ball next, a little too slowly. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Your pulse is racing.”

“You wish.”

Paige’s eyes flicked to her lips again. “Maybe.”

Azzi’s heart slammed in her chest.

She shoved the ball into Paige’s gut a little harder than necessary. “Take your shot.”

Paige didn’t back off. “I am.”

The gym felt smaller. Hotter.

Azzi’s next shot clanged off the rim. She cursed under her breath.

“Run,” Paige reminded her, smirking.

Azzi sprinted to the opposite baseline and back, cheeks burning, but not from the sprint.

Paige waited, dribbling lazily. “Thought you’d make that one.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Azzi’s breath hitched. She wasn’t sure if Paige meant the words or the heat lacing them, but she wasn’t going to ask.

“Another round,” Azzi barked, picking up her pace.

Paige followed, pushing her just a little further each time. A brush of the shoulder here. A hand lingering on a pass there.

Cautious touches.

Testing boundaries.

Azzi’s muscles ached by the end, but she barely felt them. Her body was on autopilot, her mind stuck on Paige’s grin, the way she bit her lip after a tough shot, the way she lingered just close enough to blur the lines.

When they finally called it, Paige draped a towel over her shoulders. “Want a ride again?”

Azzi hesitated. “Yeah.”

Paige’s car smelled like mint gum and cedar. The windows down, the breeze warm.

“You driving me home now?” Azzi teased, trying to sound casual.

Paige shrugged. “Unless you want to walk.”

Azzi cracked a small smile. “I’ll survive.”

The silence settled again, but it wasn’t awkward. It buzzed. Alive with the weight of unsaid things.

“You gonna text that girl back?” Azzi asked, too quickly.

Paige glanced at her. “What girl?”

“The one from the rooftop.”

“Oh.” Paige’s mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. “She was boring.”

Azzi’s heart thumped harder. “You don’t even know her.”

“I know when someone’s boring.”

“Maybe she’s exactly what you need. Someone simple.”

Paige’s jaw flexed. “You think I want simple?”

Azzi swallowed. “I think you should.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Paige stopped at a red light, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “What about you? You into simple?”

Azzi looked out the window, voice low. “Simple’s safe.”

“Sounds boring.”

Azzi’s lips curved. “Maybe I’m boring.”

“You’re not.”

Silence.

Paige’s fingers tapped again. “You like being around me?”

Azzi’s throat went dry. “Sometimes.”

Paige’s gaze flicked over, sharp. “When?”

Azzi’s pulse spiked. “When you’re not talking.”

Paige smirked, satisfied, then turned back to the road. “Guess I’ll shut up then.”

They didn’t speak for the rest of the drive, but the silence wasn’t empty.

It was packed with tension, with questions Azzi wasn’t ready to answer.

Paige pulled up to Azzi’s place again. Azzi unbuckled slowly but didn’t get out right away.

Paige’s hand drummed lightly on the steering wheel. “You want to come out with us again tonight? Team’s hitting that new spot.”

Azzi hesitated. “You going?” Paige arched a brow. “Would it matter?” Azzi pushed the door open. “I’ll think about it.”

Paige watched her go, biting her lip to fight a grin. Azzi’s phone buzzed before she even made it up the stairs.

Paige: You’d miss me if I wasn’t there.

Azzi stared at the screen, heart racing.

She didn’t text back.

But she knew Paige was right.

[thatblackstarinleo]

just like heaven snippet for you all!

I'll try to have the full chapter up on Thursday (fingers crossed 🤞), but no promises because life is a lot and this chapter… this chapter is probably gonna hurt a little. Maybe more than a little. Still haven't decided how much I wanna hurt while I write it.

But in the meantime, here's a little something to hold you over. Thank you for being patient and kind and unhinged with me always 🩵

"Since when do you read?" Leno asks, his tone flat with suspicion as he drops onto the far end of the couch.

He's got a half-crushed bag of trail mix in one hand and his phone in the other, thumb scrolling through something that clearly isn't interesting enough to hold his full attention. His socked feet find the coffee table, one heel knocking lazily against Will's shin.

Macklin doesn't look up. Doesn't react at all.

He's tucked in close on Will's side, head pressed under Will's arm, back molded to the length of his body. One of his legs is slung over Will's lap, the other curled tight against the cushions, the paperback he's been devouring balanced awkwardly on his stomach. His thumb keeps tracing the same crease in the spine over and over again.

He holds out his free hand toward Leno without a word, palm up and fingers flexing slowly, almost lazily.

Leno groans like it physically hurts him, but still dumps a handful of trail mix into Macklin's palm. Macklin immediately starts picking through it, only picking out the M&Ms, obviously.

Will watches all of it without saying a word, his own hand warm and steady under the hem of Macklin's hoodie, slow circles smoothing over the bare skin of his waist. He's been doing it for the last twenty minutes, but Mack hasn't asked him to stop, so Will doesn't plan to.

Macklin smells strongly like apples today. Fresh and sweet, with that sharp thread of mint that always hits Will right in the chest, every single time. It's stupid how fast it makes him feel calm and possessive and whole, all at once, especially when they're tangled up on the couch like this.

He's been reading more lately. Not school stuff, just this specific book. It started a few days ago, when he dragged Will into a little used bookstore in Cambridge and disappeared straight into the sports section before Will could so much as start browsing the History section.

Will had just stood there, mildly annoyed and completely endeared, while Macklin crouched in front of a dusty shelf. Eventually, he held up a dog-eared book with black-and-white cover.

"What are you even doing?" Will had asked.

"Research," Macklin had said. "If I'm gonna win the Hobey, I should at least know who Hobey Baker was."

Will had given him shit for it, because obviously. But he'd also paid for the book before Macklin could do it himself. And now here they are.

Macklin flips a page and goes still.

His eyes flick over the page in front of him, then up to Will. He doesn't move, doesn't shift, but his fingers press a little deeper into the curve of Will's thigh.

"I think Hobey Baker might've been an Omega," he says quietly.

Will blinks. "What?"

Across the couch, Leno glances up from his phone, frowning. "No, dude. He was an Alpha. Everyone knows that."

Macklin finally moves, adjusting his hold on the book and flipping it around so that Leno can see. "It doesn't say anywhere what his designation was. Not once. It just says he kept to himself, dodged crowds and interviews, wore cologne so strong his linemates complained. That sound like any Alpha to you?"

He says it evenly, but Will can feel the tension building in his scent—still mostly honey-sweet, but sharper now, a bit brittle around the edges. Defensive, almost.

Leno shrugs. "I mean, yeah, maybe. But Omegas weren't allowed in contact sports back then. Like, legally."

"Exactly," Macklin says. And this time his voice is softer, but more sure. "So if he was one, he would've had to hide it. Would've had to take suppressants, pass as something else. Just so he could skate."

Will's heart does something complicated in his chest.

He watches Macklin for a second, the way his gaze drops back to the book, then the couch cushion, like he doesn't want to look at either of them now. Like he's not sure what reaction he's about to get.

And then he says, so quiet Will barely hears it: "If I'd been born back then, I would've lied. I would've played anyway."

Will swallows, hard.

It hits him deep. Not just because he knows it's true—of course Macklin would've played anyway. Would've clawed his way onto the ice even if everything was stacked against him—but because of what it means. The kind of pressure Macklin's always been under. The fact that even now, in 2024, this is still something he has to think about.

Will doesn't say anything right away. He doesn't know how to, not in a way that would land the way Macklin needs it to. So instead, he slides his arm more securely around Macklin's waist, anchors him there. Keeps him close.

Macklin exhales slow, tension leaking from his frame.

And then he says, just above a whisper, "It's just… history gets written by Alphas. Doesn't mean they got it right."

Will presses his cheek to the top of Mack's head, closes his eyes, and breathes him in—apple mint, the warmth of his hair, the steady, quiet strength of his heart.

Instead of saying anything, he presses a slow, gentle kiss to the crown of his head. His voice is low when he finally speaks. "Who's the nerd now?"

Macklin snorts softly, looks up at him with that crooked smile—the one Will never wants to forget. "Still you."

Will grins into his hair. "Good. I'd be annoyed if you tried to steal my thing."

[harringtons-cupid]

MORE TO LOSE - CHAPTER ONE [s.h]

A/N: Reader begins with the nickname of 'Bunny' since I didn't want to use y/n. This one contains no smut, just establishing the characters before anything. Nancy is briefly featured in this fic, Reader is a little bit more wealthy than Steve.

Tagged: @jamdoughnutmagician @stevesxyellowxsweater @palmtreesx3 @deerdoedeer95 @quinnsharrington @finalmoondragon @keerygal @her-mortal-projections

Wanna be tagged? - send me an ask!

w.c: 2.3k

Bartender!Steve au!

SUMMARY: Steve meets you when he's working one night. Unaware that his life is about to change

It was June when you first met him, leaning against the wall of your local bar. You had noticed him from past visits but he had never spoken to you.

“Got a light sweetheart?” His voice emerged from the shadows.

Shrugging as he shook his lighter, even though you both knew that it makes it worse to do that. Rummaging in your small shoulder bag, you prize out your emergency lighter.

You raise the lighter up to the unlit cigarette dangling in his mouth, covering it slightly from the wind. His eyes boring onto you as you lit the cigarette immediately.

“There we go darling, you’d be lost without me” you winked at him, taking back the lighter and slipping inside.

The bar was its usual thriving self, the hot weather caused the staff to blast the AC on high. Your nipples pinched against your thin top as you made your way to the bar.

After ordering a gin and tonic with the least attractive staff member, you reached a standing table and observed the surroundings.

“Thanks for the lighter”, he whispered, making you jump.

You stared at him, a twinkle in his eye as he cracked a grin at your annoyance.

“I’m Steve” he smiled, extending his hand out to you.

You took his hand in yours, it was significantly bigger than yours. His thumb stroked the side of your wrist before you let him go. It was calloused.

He was wearing some light blue jeans and a white top with a small name tag, and his job role underlined that read 'managerial bartender', a silver chain dangled around his neck. You pointed at the name tag with a flirty smile. he wasn't your usual type.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, his eyes flickered between you and the busy bar. You examined him, his brown curls brightening each time the strobe light hit them. His long eyelashes slowly blinking as he looked at you.

“I’m Bunny” you said breaking the silence, watching as he bit his lip at the mention of your nickname.

It was a nickname that was given to you years ago, you didn't particularly like it, but no one else stuck around to give you a better one.

He leant closer, his breath hot against your skin. Beginning to speak when a small cough broke his concentration, you felt him sigh next to you.

A brunette girl was standing next to Steve; her eyes were frantically looking at your closeness. Neither you or Steve spoke to her for a second; she smiled and copied Steve by extending her hand.

“I’m Nancy,” she said, matter-of-factly. As if you were meant to know who she was.

You stared at her and Steve, as if to say “who the fuck is this bitch?”

He finally opened his mouth, speaking only to you.

“She’s my ex, she’s in here every night,” he said painfully, gazing into your eyes for a way out.

You rolled your eyes; of course you found the only attractive guy in the place who had an ex hanging off his arm. You smiled politely, downing your drink and leaning into Steve.

''When you are completely free, give me a call,'' you said suggestively, taking your favourite pen out and writing your number down.

Glancing at Nancy, you took a step closer, took the piece of card, and slid your hand between the tight clasp of his black jeans. You placed the card at the top. He looked down at you as you licked your fingers and pushed the card deeper into his jeans.

His breath shuddered at your touch, his pupils dilated as you placed your finger on his mouth with a smirk.

“Stay for a drink” he whispered, his cheeks flushed red.

“Bye Steve” you reached up to his lips and hovered over them before walking away.

You knew how to get men to chase you but you weren’t completely sure if Steve would.

For the next couple of days, you kept getting called but once you picked up the receiver they hung up. At first, you didn’t realise that it was Steve until the last call.

It was amusing to know that he was nervous to call you, wanting to keep up the tension you didn’t dial his number back.

It was a few weeks later when you saw him next, the bar was quieter than usual for a Friday night. He was leaning over the counter talking to who you could only guess was Nancy.

His body language was withdrawn as he spoke to her, obvious that he didn’t want to talk with her. So you took a breath before walking over,

“Excuse me, sir, is this woman bothering you?” You said loudly, pushing your chest out.

The moment his eyes locked onto you, his body language relaxed, and he smirked, his cheeks blushing behind the bright neon lights.

''Bunny'' he breathed, sliding his tongue across his teeth and lips.

Your nickname in his mouth gave you goosebumps. It felt horrible in everyone else's mouth, but it felt nice rolling off his tongue.

He walked with you away from Nancy; a few people disappeared to booths, leaving you both alone. His attention was directed at you, and you hated to admit when men had an effect on you. But there was something different about him.

Steve was wearing black jeans, a black top with the same chain. His badge twinkled in the light, it made you smile as you looked up at him.

''The usual?'' he asked without taking his eyes off you.

He poured out your drink with such care, taking a moment before charging you. You turned to look for 'Nancy', but thankfully for you both, she was nowhere to be seen.

''Does she hang around here often?'' you asked, taking a sip of your chilled drink.

“She leaves when she notices that I’m not going to give her what she wants.” He sadly sighed.

The bitterness of the tonic, the coldness of the ice and the sharpness of the gin tingled against your mouth. Since meeting him, the bar had become so intoxicating that you never wanted more than one drink.

If he played his cards right, you just might answer his call.

You talked with him for another two drinks, unaware that he was clocking off sooner than you expected, you hung around for him, which you never did.

Men always chased you but this didn't mean that you'd let him invite you in. All you suggested was to walk him home.

He was quiet after leaving the bar, it was as if his barrier had disappeared. So you bit your tongue and found his hand in the dark.

You weren’t usually soft or into hand holding but you felt that he needed this more than you.

Call it a feeling.

Which was rare for you; feelings were something that you hid deep inside you. Never feeling them until it consumed you.

The walk to his place wasn’t long, and the silence wasn’t awkward or boring. You watched the brief nightlifeof Hawkins pass you by.

“How does the bar thrive in a place like Hawkins?” You finally asked, breaking the silence.

His head tipped down before looking at you with a smile, his eyes moving from both eyes quickly.

“Well, sometimes it doesn’t. But other times, it’s so packed I can hardly move,” he sighed with a tired smile.

You wanted to press him more about the bar; it seemed to be an interest of his until he stopped at a small building. It was above an old record store in the middle of the town centre of Hawkins.

It was nondescript; you had gone past it many times without taking any notice of it, but now you stood in front of it. You began to look at the peeling of the red paint and the wonky “3”, a rusted gold number barely hanging on the door.

He didn't need to say the line; all the men she had been with had paused before their place. Usually, gesturing as if you weren't aware that they lived there.

''Thank you for another chill evening. Steve,'' you breathed, taking a step forward.

The warm night breeze lifted your hair; his eye softened as you were now inches away from his face. Slowly taking his face in your hands and planting a kiss on his lips.

He melted into the kiss, like they always did, but he wasn't rough or aggressive. There was no push or pull; he didn't try to move you closer to his front door.

His hands did fall onto your hips only lightly, careful. As if you'd shatter if he touched you. Steve was the one who pulled away first; his pupils were pulsating under the flickering streetlight.

You whispered 'good night' into his ear before turning away, readying yourself for the walk home.

''Bunny'' his voice was quiet; he had taken a step back. Seeming further away from you.

Your eyes tightened, hoping to yourself that he didn't ask you to stay. You couldn't sleep with him; you wouldn't.

It always ruined things with you and men, and there was something in you that couldn't do that with him. But you turned around anyway, his eyes pulling you in.

He seemed so soft around the edges that you were afraid that your jagged edges would make him bleed if he were cut.

''Come in for a coffee at least?'' he said, giving you a tight smile.

Sighing, you told yourself you wouldn't go inside, but you were definitely not fucking him.

His place was small but nice, books scattered a few vacant bookshelves. His coffee table had the ends of cigarette butts, scrap pieces of paper and pens on it.

Perching yourself on one of the leather sofas, watching as he made the coffee. Candles unlit sat in the corner, a couple of plants perched on counters and sideboards.

He had a few paintings and wall hangings, making the place seem less empty. It was homely, one of the nicer apartments you had been in.

Taking the coffee out of his hands when he passed it to you, it bellowed steam into the cool apartment. The noise from the road below vibrated against the windows as you both sat there.

You were unfamiliar with the concept of just talking to men, it was rare that you found yourself in a relationship. Apart from those very few times.

Steve was different, he seemed shyer. Not used to speaking with other women, it made you wonder how he was with Nancy. Before deciding to shake that image off.

“I should really go” you said, feeling rather disappointed.

“Well, if you give me a second. I’ll drive you” he said with a smile.

You protested against his kind offer but he won, his keys were in his hands before you could fight him anymore.

His car was parked right outside, the burgundy BMW. The leather seat were cold against your back as you sunk into the chair.

As he drove away from his small apartment, his hand slid down from the steering wheel and onto your knee. You didn’t ask him to move his hand, the radio played softly in the background.

It was nice, you felt safe around him. Nothing was expected from you as the houses and trees flew by in the window.

“You won't have to worry about Nancy again,” he sighed, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

It was obviously a big issue in his life and you hated a clingy ex but there was definitely something more there.

“Well don't push her away for my benefit” you said softly, squeezing his hand with a smile.

He didn't reply, deciding to change the subject. You wondered if he would be better at a different venue.

“I did try to call you” he squeaked, taking his eyes off the road for a second.

You found yourself laughing at what he thought was a confession, most men didn’t call and not speak.

“I know” you licked your lips as your smile widened.

His reactions were both cute and hot, seeing how flustered he got at your words and touch.

You told him to take the next left, it was down a dirt track. Your house bigger than his apartment, you guessed that it was a different tax bracket entirely but only by one.

His breath was taken away by the sight of it, people usually assumed you were lying when you tell them that you inherited the property.

The car crunched beneath the stones driveway, following the curves and bends until he arrived at the front entrance.

“It’s not mine, unfortunately sweetie” you smiled, squeezing his hand for reassurance.

Your fingers pushed down on the cool metal handle, your back turned away from him. Until you felt his hands gripping onto your shoulder,

“Wait” his voice was quiet, his eyes were tired.

You instinctively sighed, it was always at this part of night when they begged for you to let them inside.

But instead his eyes dropped to your lips, a soft expression on his face.

Fuck.

You were finding it difficult to ignore the pull towards him, from that first night that you recognised him.

He came across as cocky and arrogant but upon the few brief meetings, he was far from it.

Allowing him to pull you closer, it was the second time you had became close to his but this time you didn't pull away. His hands finding your hair, gripping onto the soft strands as his lips met yours.

You weren't one for feeling fireworks when you were kissed but you swore that something bubbled inside you as his hand slipped down your hair and onto your cheeks.

That night as you got into bed, the phone beside you rang. Letting it ring for a few moments before answering,

“Hey, sweetheart” his voice was deep and husky.

Everyone called you Bunny and nothing more but the words “sweetheart” sounded soft in his mouth.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 65 Chapter 65 | permission⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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You sat curled near the prow of the little boat, knees tucked close, chin resting on folded arms. The wood beneath you creaked and dipped with every subtle sway, the small hull cutting gently across the darkening water. Each rise and fall rocked through your bones like a lullaby you didn't want.

Above, the sky bled gold into a dusky orange, streaked with lines of muted pink that faded into purple at the edges. The sun was low now—almost gone—its dying glow turning the waves into molten bronze.

You watched it flicker across the ripples, warm light dancing against cool sea, but it felt too beautiful to look at for long.

Peisistratus stood a few feet away, one hand firm around the rudder pole, guiding the boat with quiet, practiced ease. His other hand rested on his hip, thumb tapping softly against his belt as he squinted out toward the horizon. His curls were tied back at the nape of his neck to keep them from whipping across his eyes in the wind. He looked calm. Focused. Solid in a way that made you feel both steadied and small.

Neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the slap of water against the hull and the low hush of wind weaving between the ropes. The quiet felt heavy. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to disturb the dying day.

Eventually, your gaze shifted—slow, cautious. You glanced over your shoulder, back the way you came.

Fog clung to the sea behind you, thick and silver-white, curling low around the small island barely visible in the distance.

Home. 

Ithaca.

It was almost hidden now, shrouded in mist; only the faint outline of its cliffs and cypress trees cutting through the haze. It looked unreal from here. Like a memory you weren't sure was yours to keep.

You sighed, long and low, turning away. The sound left your lips like something pulled out from your chest.

You tried not to look at the horizon ahead. Tried not to think about what waited—or didn't wait—beyond it. But the thought pressed heavy against your ribs anyway, stubborn and insistent.

Telemachus.

His name felt raw inside you. It hurt to even think it, like running your tongue along a cut.

You wondered where he was now. If he was sleeping. If he was awake, staring out at the same sea, thinking of you the way you thought of him.

Or maybe he wasn't thinking of you at all. Maybe he'd finally let the tide pull you from his heart.

Your eyes burned at the thought. You blinked hard, swallowing against the tightness crawling up your throat.

The boat continued to rock gently beneath you. The wood was rough under your palms, splintering in places where salt and sun had eaten away the varnish. You curled your fingers against it, grounding yourself in the feel of it. Real. Solid. Something to hold onto when everything else felt like water slipping through your hands.

But the boat wasn't where your mind truly was.

Because it had been nearly two weeks since your return from Olympus.

Nearly two weeks of waking each day to an empty courtyard, of walking past his quarters and seeing them shut and silent, of hugging Lady tight at night and pretending the ache in your chest wasn't growing heavier with each sunrise.

Nearly two weeks of asking.

Your mind unspooled... rewinding to the days before.

To the days of pleading.

Begging.

Every chance you got.

You'd cornered Kieran in the halls, asked him how fast a ship could be prepared. You'd whispered your plan to Lady while feeding her scraps, promising that soon you'd bring him home, that you just needed permission. You'd asked Asta if she'd heard anything from the other Bronte servants, anything at all, and even though she said no, she still squeezed your hand tight before leaving to her duties.

And every time you were given an audience with the King and Queen, you'd tried again.

Today was no different.

You were kneeling now, on the smooth stone floor of the throne room, your knees aching from how long you'd been there. Morning light spilled through the high windows, washing the room in a pale gold that made every carved column and woven tapestry glow. It should've felt beautiful. It didn't. It felt heavy.

Because this was morning audience.

The time each day when Odysseus, and sometimes Penelope beside him, opened court to the people of Ithaca. Farmers came to settle disputes over grazing land. Fishers sought advice for new boat routes. Widows asked for inheritance judgments, children wept over lost livestock, young men argued over olive tree borders.

The King listened to them all, leaning back in his great chair with one hand braced on his knee, brow furrowed in focus. Sometimes he looked tired, rubbing at his temples when the arguments grew too long. Other times, his eyes sparked with sharp command, a flicker of the old cunning that made men speak quickly and choose their words with care.

Penelope sat just beside him, her seat smaller, carved with vine patterns and inlaid with smooth bone. Her back remained straight, her fingers folded neatly in her lap, but even from here you could see the faint shadows under her eyes. How her mouth pinched at the corners every time someone raised their voice. How she leaned forward slightly whenever a woman spoke, softening her gaze, only to pull it back into polite neutrality when her husband turned toward her.

They both looked tired today.

Tired, but serious.

Because now it was you before them.

And publicly, they couldn't dismiss you. Not in front of so many eyes. Not when every head in the room had turned to watch as you rose from your place along the side wall, walked across the smooth marble, and knelt before them.

So they listened.

They listened as you spoke, as your voice trembled then steadied, as you laid out every reason why you should go.

You told them about Telemachus. About how he was out there, searching alone, each day wasted another day the gods could turn their faces or storms could swallow him whole. You spoke not of maps and currents—those were knowledge beyond you—but of him. Of the way his hands steadied yours when you faltered. Of the quiet way he listened, truly listened, when you spoke.

You told them he didn't just need rescue. He needed to know he was worth being searched for. That someone—anyone—would come for him. That he was not alone in the dark.

But most of all, you told them this: if the gods heard any mortal's prayers, they would hear yours—because you would not stop calling his name until he was found.

You spoke until your throat burned, until your knees ached from pressing into the hard stone, until your voice went hoarse with the same words you'd been saying for nearly two weeks now.

And then, silence.

You bowed your head low, chest heaving with quiet breaths, waiting for the answer you already knew. The answer that was coming anyway.

You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, watching the pale morning light pool between the tiles. You could see the hem of Penelope's gown in your periphery, ivory linen embroidered with faint gold thread, her sandals peeking out beneath it. Beside her, Odysseus shifted in his seat, the quiet creak of his throne loud in the silent hall. You could almost feel their eyes on you. Tired. Heavy. But unyielding.

Because they already knew what they would say.

And so did you.

But still—you asked.

Because you didn't know how to stop.

Because stopping would've meant giving up. Admitting defeat. Accepting that the gods, the sea, the fates themselves had won. That Telemachus would forever be out of reach from you.

And gods, you couldn't accept that. Not yet.

You stayed kneeling, eyes fixed on the pale tile floor as the silence stretched. The ache in your knees pulsed up your thighs, a deep, throbbing pain that felt distant compared to the tight knot twisting in your chest.

Then, finally, Odysseus spoke.

His voice came low and tired, rough around the edges like he hadn't slept well in days. "Enough," he said, the word heavy and final. You heard him shift in his throne, the quiet scrape of his hand rubbing down his beard. "We will speak on this again soon."

That was all.

No yes. No no. Just that. Dismissive. Vague. A promise or a delay—you couldn't tell.

Your brows pinched faintly, your lips pressing into a thin line as you lowered your gaze further. The answer—non-answer—stung sharper than you'd expected. Your hands curled against the fabric of your dress, fingers twisting in the worn linen as you forced yourself to breathe steady.

You bowed your head deeper, the motion tight and controlled. "Thank you... my king," you said softly, voice barely carrying across the echoing hall.

Then you rose. Slow. Careful. You smoothed your dress with trembling hands, your body stiff as you turned away from the throne. Your eyes burned with the threat of tears, but you blinked them back, refusing to let them fall here. Not now. Not in front of everyone.

You walked back to your place along the wall, each step feeling heavier than the last. As you neared your spot, Lysandra stepped aside to let you slip in beside her, her eyes flicking over your face with quiet worry. She didn't say anything—she never did in front of the court—but the way her mouth tightened said enough.

Beside her stood Asta, with Kieran not far behind. She reached out as you passed, her hand brushing your shoulder in a silent comfort. The touch was brief but grounding, a reminder that even if the King dismissed you, even if the gods turned away, someone still saw you. Someone still cared.

You swallowed hard, pressing your lips together as you settled back against the stone pillar, your hands folding tightly in front of you.

Not a second later, the heavy doors at the far end of the hall slammed open.

The herald stumbled in first, his breath coming in harsh pants, his cheeks flushed pink from the effort. He barely managed to catch himself before nearly falling forward, his voice cracking as he rushed to announce himself.

"Your Majesties!" he gasped, pressing a fist to his chest in salute. "Announcing—the arrival of—King Nestor's youngest son—Prince Peisistratus—"

He didn't even finish because before his words could echo to the vaulted ceiling, Peisistratus barreled through the doors behind him, moving so fast the herald had to stumble back to avoid being knocked over.

The young prince's strides were long and taut with purpose, his shoulders squared, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths as if he'd been holding them back the entire walk up the steps. His gaze was sharp, scanning the hall with an urgency that pulled every watching eye in his direction.

He walked like someone with something to say.

Something important.

And gods—your heart kicked hard in your chest when his gaze flicked across the crowd, landing briefly on you before turning forward again, focus burning hot and steady.

You felt it in your chest, tight and cold, as Peisistratus strode forward. The quiet murmur of the court fell silent under the weight of his presence. Even the king and queen sat straighter, their gazes fixed sharply on the young prince as he approached the dais.

He stopped a few paces from the throne and bowed low, his curls falling forward over his brow. When he straightened, his face was flushed with travel, his lips chapped from sea wind, but his eyes burned with urgency.

"My King. My Queen," he said, voice strong despite the slight tremble beneath it. "Forgive my unexpected arrival... and my lack of formal announcement. I came as quickly as I could. I did not wait for your summons, nor did I seek approval to dock."

He paused, inhaling once, as though bracing himself for the words he carried.

"But when word reached Pylos," he continued, his gaze flicking briefly around the silent hall before returning to Odysseus and Penelope, "when we heard that another of Ithaca's ships had been hit by the storm near the Delian coastline... I could not stay idle."

At once, whispers broke through the quiet. Soft at first—sharp breaths, hushed murmurs as those gathered turned to each other with wide eyes. You heard snippets—"Another storm?" "Which ship?" "Delian coast—gods help them—"

Penelope's hand flew up to her mouth, her eyes widening, her knuckles going white as she gripped the edge of her seat. Beside her, Odysseus straightened further, his back stiff and tense as his gaze bore into Peisistratus with sudden, razor focus.

"What are you saying, boy?" Odysseus asked, his voice low but sharp, echoing in the tense hush of the hall. "Speak clearly."

You could see the way Peisistratus' fingers twitched at his sides, how his chest rose and fell too fast, like he'd been holding these words in since he set foot on the dock.

He met Odysseus' gaze squarely, unflinching despite the fear in his eyes. "The ship... they believe... it was the one carrying Prince Telemachus."

A hush fell so thick you could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Odysseus didn't move at first. Didn't even blink. His face was carved from stone, eyes locked on the boy before him.

Then, slowly, he sat back in his throne, the wood creaking beneath him as his fingers flexed once, curling around the carved lion heads at the ends of the armrests. His jaw ticked, the muscle flickering under his beard, but his voice remained cold and steady.

"Explain," he ordered. "Every word. Now."

Your breath caught in your throat, your chest going tight and hot all at once. Your hands curled against your skirts, your nails biting into your palms as your knees threatened to buckle beneath you.

Because whatever came next... would change everything.

Peisistratus' brows pinched tight, his face scrunching faintly in confusion. You saw it—the flicker of doubt that crossed his features before he spoke again, voice low and hesitant.

"My King... my Queen..." he began, his tone dipping softer, almost apologetic. "Forgive me again. I... I thought you would have already known."

Odysseus' gaze sharpened. Penelope sucked in a shaky breath beside him, her fingers curling tight around the edge of her seat.

Peisistratus swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the force of it. He looked down at the marble floor for half a second before raising his gaze again, steadying it despite the flicker of worry in his eyes.

"I... I only learned of the storm about a week ago," he admitted quietly. "There were reports coming from the Delian coast... scattered wreckage... pieces of an Ithacan vessel washing ashore near the eastern cliffs. And..." His voice faltered, catching faintly as his lips pressed into a thin line. "...and there were a few survivors found drifting. Floating for days. Barely alive."

A beat.

He hesitated, eyes darting between the king and queen before flicking briefly over the silent crowd gathered in the throne room.

"Did... did you not know?" he asked softly, confusion knitting his brows further. "Had no word reached you yet?"

The silence that followed was so deep it felt like the entire hall had frozen.

You could hear it then—your own breathing, harsh and uneven in your chest. Around you, murmurs began to rise, faint at first, then louder as voices wove through each other.

"Telemachus..."

"Gods... could it be him?"

"The pigeons returned with their notes still attached—"

"By now, they should've been back—"

Fear. Worry. Dread. It all spilled into the hall like a rising tide, each whispered speculation sharpening the ache in your chest until you felt it pressing up into your throat.

You didn't realize you were moving until your shoulder bumped against someone's arm. Then another. You mumbled a quick apology, your eyes fixed on the dais as your feet carried you forward, weaving through the gathered crowd. You pushed past Lysandra's gentle grip, past a steward trying to pull you back, until you stood at the front of the room.

Closer to Peisistratus. Close enough to see the exhaustion in the dark smudges under his eyes. The faint sheen of salt clinging to his curls. The way his mouth twitched as he exhaled a slow, ragged sigh.

"Apparently not," he muttered under his breath, his voice quiet but edged with something bitter. Something that made your stomach twist tighter.

Then he looked up again, his gaze hardening, shoulders squaring as he prepared to speak—ready to say what none of you were ready to hear.

But he didn't wait for Odysseus' permission. Didn't wait for Penelope's quiet nod or for the herald to announce his right to speak. His voice came firm and unwavering, echoing through the silent throne room with a clarity that cut through every murmured prayer and whispered dread.

"I came here to give word to inform you that I will be departing by nightfall to begin my search for the prince."

Your breath caught in your throat.

Peisistratus paused for only half a beat before adding, his gaze flicking toward the ground then back up, voice tightening faintly, "And for Callias as well."

Your world froze.

The sound around you blurred, the echo of his words crashing against your ears like waves against stone. You felt it all drain from your chest—the fear, the grief, the helplessness—and for a second, there was only emptiness.

Then—heat.

Rising so fast it burned up your throat. Before you could even think, before you could stop yourself, your feet moved forward, a single step echoing too loud on the marble floor.

"I want to go."

The words left your mouth strong. Clear. Without tremble.

The hall fell silent. Utterly silent.

You felt every eye turn toward you, felt the crowd part slightly, people shifting back, stepping aside to clear the space between you and the dais. Even Penelope's breath catching faintly; Odysseus' eyes narrowing, not with anger, but with something sharper. Measuring. Calculating.

Peisistratus turned, his head tilting just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. For a moment—just a flicker—his lips twitched into the smallest smile. Soft. Almost sad. But then it faded. His gaze shifted forward again, his face hardening back into solemn focus, shoulders set with the unspoken promise of what came next.

And gods—you felt your heart begin to pound with something fierce and terrified all at once.

Because you knew this was it.

You had spoken your wish into the world.

And now... there was no taking it back.

For a moment, the hall remained silent. The only sound was the faint creak of Penelope shifting forward in her chair. Her face looked so tired. The shadows beneath her eyes seemed deeper in the dim morning light, her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared down at you.

"Not now," she whispered softly, her voice hoarse with exhaustion. "Please, child... go to your room."

Her gaze flicked over your shoulder then, eyes narrowing at something behind you. You felt it before you saw it—hands gripping your upper arms, firm and unyielding. You sucked in a sharp breath as the soldiers tried to pull you back, their fingers digging lightly into your skin.

"No—wait—" you gasped, yanking your arm out of their grip with a sharp twist. Your feet stumbled forward, sandals scraping loudly against the marble as you stood your ground. You lifted your chin, face taut with panic, chest heaving as tears burned hot in your eyes.

"Please," you whispered, voice cracking around the word. "Please—I have to go. I need to go. Let me—"

Your shoulders trembled as tears spilled freely down your cheeks, your vision blurring around the figures in front of you. You shook your head hard, trying to blink the wetness away.

"I-I'm sorry," you choked out, your chest hitching with the force of it. "I'm sorry but—please—please—just let me go."

Penelope's lips quivered, her eyes shining with unshed tears, but she didn't speak. She only turned her gaze away, staring down at her lap as though looking at you might break her entirely.

It was Odysseus who spoke.

His voice came curt. Sharp. Heavy with finality.

"____," he said firmly, each syllable cold and commanding. "Enough."

Your heart lurched painfully in your chest, your breath catching as his words settled over you like a slab of stone. For a second, you didn't move. Couldn't move. Your hands twitched at your sides, fingers curling weakly into the fabric of your skirt as your shoulders sagged, the last thread of defiance slipping from your spine.

Defeat washed over you, heavy and quiet.

You lowered your head, swallowing back the sob that threatened to claw up your throat. Without another word, you turned slowly on your heel. The world blurred at the edges as you moved back through the parted crowd, each step echoing too loud in the silent hall.

Lysandra and Asta stepped out from the gathered servants as you passed, their faces stricken. Asta reached for your hand first, her grip warm and tight, while Lysandra's fingers slid around your other, her thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against your knuckles.

You didn't look at either of them. You couldn't.

Because all you could see... was the horizon slipping further and further away.

The murmur of voices filled the throne room like ocean tide—soft at first, then louder, rippling across marble and flickering torchlight. You could hear Peisistratus' voice carrying above it, calm and resolute as he continued to speak with the King and Queen, outlining preparations for his journey. Every clipped word felt like another lock sliding into place, barring you from following.

The crowd parted for you as you walked, a silent hush rippling outward with each slow step. It was like the sea itself dividing around your body—people shifting aside, eyes following you, their gazes heavy with pity. Some pressed their lips into thin lines, others dropped their eyes entirely, unwilling to meet yours. You caught a few whispers slip through the hush.

"Poor girl..."

"Gods bless her heart..."

"She looks half-dead with worry..."

You kept your head high, even as the burn in your chest threatened to swallow you whole. You weren't even two feet from the dais when you heard her.

"Oh, ____~"

Andreia's voice. Sickly sweet. Poison dipped in honey.

You froze mid-step, shoulders stiffening, the breath catching sharp in your throat.

She sat nearby, draped elegantly on a cushioned bench among a small cluster of Ithaca's high lords and ladies. They surrounded her like flies around milk—nodding, murmuring polite laughter at whatever false sweetness she poured into their ears. Her hair was pinned back with gold combs, her dress a deep green that shimmered every time she tilted her chin.

For a moment, her face remained blank. Empty. But then—slowly—something shifted. A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she leaned forward slightly, her gaze locked onto yours with careful precision.

"It's okay," she crooned softly, voice drifting through the hush like incense smoke. "The gods favor those who return home, ____. The prince has many journeys under his belt."

The words slid into you like a blade pressed between ribs—slow, deliberate, knowing exactly where to hurt. Asta and Lysandra grips tightened on your hands as if to hold you upright. Your stomach twisted painfully, nausea blooming thick and heavy as her words echoed in your head.

She was still here. Still slinking through these halls like a stray cat fattened on scraps no one noticed missing.

And you—gods, you hadn't told them yet.

You should have. You should have screamed the truth into every marble wall the moment you learned it. About her schemes. Her brother. Everything.

But what good would it have done? Your eyes flickered toward Odysseus. The lines carved deep around his eyes today told of worry and sleepless nights. Penelope sat beside him, fingers twisting the folds of her gown, knuckles pale with quiet dread.

If you told them now—without proof, without Telemachus here to steady the fallout—it would be chaos.

Andreia could twist your words until they strangled you back. She'd been careful. Smart. And if she was so confident to reveal her plans to you, who's to say she's not confident enough to ensure any accusations from you would sound like jealousy, or madness, or worse... treason.

But then—her face shifted again. Just for a breath.

Satisfaction.

Satisfaction curling at the corners of her mouth like rot blooming through ripe fruit. She knew. Gods, she knew how powerless you felt.

That was it.

The final shove you needed.

Your jaw tightened. You yanked your hands free from Asta and Lysandra's grip, your feet pivoting sharply against the marble as you turned back toward the dais. Your sandals slapped hard with each step as you walked—no, marched—back through the parted sea of nobles. The hush followed you, rippling with small gasps and wide-eyed stares.

Because whatever happened next... you weren't walking away again.

Peisistratus paused mid-sentence, startled, as you moved to stand beside him. You dipped your head in a quick bow, breath coming fast but steady despite the pounding in your chest.

"My King. My Queen," you said, voice trembling at first before it steadied. "I know you told me to stay out of this. I know you've made your decision. But... but I can't."

You rose from your bow slowly, forcing yourself to stand tall as your gaze locked onto them—first Penelope, her eyes wide and rimmed with quiet sadness, then Odysseus, whose jaw was tight, his brow furrowed deep with brewing anger.

Your throat burned, but you didn't let it stop you. The words poured out of you in a rush.

"I can't stay behind while he's out there. I can't sit still in these halls, waiting. Not when he's only out there because of me—because he went to find me." Your voice cracked but you kept going, chest heaving with each breath. "If-If he's hurt, if he's lost, if something happens to him—knowing I sat here and did nothing would kill me more than any god ever could."

You swallowed hard, shoulders trembling as your hands balled into fists at your sides.

"I-I can help," you said, desperation slipping through despite your resolve. "My presence will do more good than harm. Even if you think I'm helpless, I'm not. I've survived Poseidon's ire. I've stood before Zeus himself. Gods know—" your voice rose with raw defiance, "—Apollo favors me, and perhaps... perhaps other gods do too."

A faint, unsteady laugh escaped you, bitter and sharp. "Maybe it's arrogant. Maybe it's stupid. But I'm not powerless. I won't sit here and pretend I am."

You took a shaky step forward, chest tight, eyes glistening as you met Odysseus' stare head-on. "Please," you whispered, voice breaking. "I have to do this. I have to—"

But before you could say another word, Odysseus slammed his hand down hard against the armrest of his throne.

The sharp crack echoed through the silent hall.

"I said...NO!" he snapped, his voice a whipcord of anger so sudden it made you flinch. Gone was the tired king, the weary father. His eyes burned dark and furious as they locked onto yours, and for a breath, you saw the man who once broke cities.

The hall recoiled in silent shock, nobles and servants alike bowing their heads lower, as if witnessing something they were never meant to see.

"You will stay here," he growled, his voice low and trembling with rage barely held in check. "You will remain in Ithaca. And if I have to keep you under lock and key to make that happen, gods be damned, I will."

The silence in the hall was suffocating. No one moved. No one dared to breathe.

Outside, from somewhere far in the distance, you heard it—a faint rumble. Thunder. Low and rolling across a sky still painted bright and clear with morning sun.

Penelope reached out, her hand wrapping gently around Odysseus' wrist, trying to calm him, to ground him. Her fingers pressed softly into his skin, her thumb brushing small circles against the dark veins there.

But he didn't look at her.

He kept his eyes on you, his chest rising and falling with ragged, controlled breaths. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter—but no less sharp. It cut through the thick hush of the throne room like a blade.

"Do you think this is easy for any of us?" he asked, his tone heavy with exhaustion. "Do you think we haven't been worried sick since the day you disappeared?"

His gaze flickered briefly, as if he couldn't bear to hold yours for too long. "You have no idea what it was like," he continued, his jaw tightening. "You didn't see it. You didn't see how the servants whispered behind closed doors, convinced you were dead. You didn't hear the rumors spreading like rot through these halls."

He paused, swallowing hard. His broad shoulders slumped slightly, and for the first time, he looked... tired. Just a man. A father. A king worn thin by too many years of worry.

"And Telemachus..." His voice caught, roughening as he said his son's name. "Gods, that boy... he wasn't sleeping. He wasn't eating. He would stay up every night, pacing these halls until dawn, waiting for news—any news—just to know you were alive."

Your chest tightened painfully at his words, your breath hitching as tears blurred your vision. You imagined it—Telemachus wandering the palace halls, barefoot and sleepless, calling your name into darkened courtyards where no one answered back.

Odysseus' gaze softened, the lines around his eyes deepening as he sighed. "He was as lost as you are now," he said quietly. "And when he left to find you, he did it because he couldn't stay here any longer, watching the world move on without you."

His eyes flickered to Peisistratus then, the young prince standing silent and still beside you, his jaw tense, his brow furrowed with worry.

"Peisistratus knows these seas," Odysseus said, his voice firm again. "He knows their tempers. Their hidden reefs. Their sudden storms. He will find Telemachus. And he will bring him home."

He shook his head slowly, his grip tightening around the carved armrest of his throne. "But you..." his voice softened again, so low you almost didn't hear it. "You're better off staying here, where it's safe."

For a moment, no one spoke.

The hall was silent except for the faint creak of wood beams above and the whispering hush of the sea breeze outside, slipping through the high slotted windows. Your pulse roared loud in your ears, your chest aching with each shallow breath.

Because as much as you wanted to scream at him, to argue, to fight—some small part of you understood.

He wasn't just the king right now.

He was a father, trying desperately to keep what little remained of his family safe.

But gods... It didn't make it hurt any less.

The silence that followed pressed down heavy and suffocating, like the thick air before a summer storm. You swallowed hard, trying to breathe through the ache in your chest, your eyes fixed on the floor because you couldn't bear to see the pity written across their faces.

Then—surprisingly—it was her voice that cut through the quiet.

Andreia.

She cleared her throat softly, the delicate sound carrying easily through the tense stillness. When you glanced up, she was already stepping forward from her seat among the other highborn guests, her silk robes whispering around her ankles as she moved with that practiced grace she always carried.

"If I may," she said gently, folding her hands before her as she dipped into a small, respectful bow. "Forgive my intrusion, my king, my queen."

Odysseus' eyes snapped to her, his brow furrowing with clear annoyance. He scoffed, the sound low and sharp as he leaned back in his throne.

"What could you possibly have to add here, Lady Andreia?" he asked curtly. "Your input is hardly relevant in this matter."

A small flicker of something passed over her face—irritation, maybe—but it vanished just as quickly. When she straightened, her expression was composed again, her chin lifted just slightly.

"With all due respect, my king, I believe it is."

She turned her gaze toward you then. Her green eyes swept over your slumped shoulders, your trembling hands still curled tightly in the folds of your skirt. Her lips curved faintly—something that wasn't quite a smile but not unkind either.

"Peisistratus is a skilled sailor," she continued, her tone carrying that gentle cadence she used when trying to sound diplomatic. "None here doubt his competence or his loyalty to Prince Telemachus."

Peisistratus stiffened at her words, his jaw clenching slightly, but he didn't interrupt.

Andreia turned back to the king and queen, her eyes flickering between them with careful precision. "But... are we forgetting who she is?" She gestured lightly toward you, the sleeves of her gown falling back to reveal pale, delicate wrists. "She is the Divine Liaison, is she not? The gods themselves have spoken through her voice, woven her fate into theirs. Surely... that means something, no?"

Her words rippled through the hall, murmurs stirring among the gathered lords, servants, and guards. You felt their eyes shift back to you, some curious, some uncertain, a few even nodding faintly in agreement.

Andreia pressed on, her voice growing firmer, more compelling. "If what she says is true—if Apollo truly did choose her, if the gods have favored her in any way—would it not be wise to use that favor to our advantage? Who knows what protection her presence might grant on the journey to finding Prince Telemachus... or what danger might befall it without her there."

She paused, letting her words sink in like hooks cast into still water.

"Perhaps," she finished softly, tilting her head just slightly, "her connection to Olympus will be what brings the prince home safely... and quickly."

The room fell silent again, heavier this time, the weight of her argument settling over every listening ear. Even Odysseus didn't speak immediately. His eyes narrowed at her, his jaw ticking as he considered her words—considered you.

His eyes scanned your face—slow, tired, like he was trying to read every thought racing behind your eyes.

Then, with a sharp exhale through his nose, his shoulders sagged slightly. You watched as his jaw flexed once more before he finally spoke.

"Fine," he ground out, his voice rough, each word pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. "You'll go."

Your breath hitched. For a heartbeat, you couldn't move. Then a small, shaky sigh slipped past your lips, relief flooding so hard your knees almost buckled. You caught yourself, your hands gripping your skirt tightly as your shoulders slumped forward.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze to him again.

Your eyes met across the space. And gods... your chest ached at what you saw there.

He looked so tired. Older than you remembered, shadows heavy beneath his eyes, his mouth set in a thin, grim line. But beyond the exhaustion... you saw something else flicker there. Something raw and quiet.

Fear.

Not anger. Not disappointment. Just a father—fearful he was sending another child to war he couldn't fight.

Your lips parted softly, but no words came. You only dipped your head low, whispering a faint, "Thank you," your voice cracking around the edges.

He didn't reply. He only blinked once, slow, before turning away, his shoulders heavy beneath the weight of all his choices.

You barely had time to let it settle before the sound of shouting snapped you back to the present.

Your eyes lifted quickly, blinking against the bright sun overhead as you were pulled out of the memory like surfacing from deep water.

"Hey—get out of here, feather-brain!"

Peisistratus' voice rang out sharp and annoyed.

You turned your head just in time to see him waving both arms in front of his face, scowling as a seagull flapped its wings wildly, trying to snatch a piece of jerky that was half-hanging from his lips. He snapped his teeth shut around it with a small growl, shaking his head as the bird cawed in frustration and took off again into the orange-pink sky.

"Stupid thing almost took my nose with it," he grumbled around the dried meat, shooting the seagull a glare before popping the rest into his mouth.

A small, breathless laugh broke from your chest, unsteady but real. You shook your head faintly, the echo of tears still burning behind your eyes.

Because gods... you didn't know what waited for you beyond that horizon.

But at least you weren't going alone.

Peisistratus let out a low sigh as he settled back onto the small boat's worn bench. His arms stretched wide over the edge, head tipping back until the dusky orange sky framed his messy curls like a crown. The last bite of jerky still hung from his lips as he chewed lazily, eyes falling shut with a kind of easy peace only he seemed to possess right now.

You, on the other hand, couldn't sit still.

Your fingers twisted in the edge of your tunic as you shifted on the bench opposite him, the wood creaking softly beneath your thighs. The scent of salt and brine curled through your nose with each shallow breath, mixing with the faint stink of old rope and fish that clung to the boat's belly.

Your eyes flickered out to the horizon. The sun was nearly gone now, sinking low into the waves in streaks of gold and pink and bruised purple. Beautiful, yes—but all you could see was how endless it felt. How deep.

Your stomach clenched.

Because gods... you still remembered the last time you were on these waters.

The last ship had been so much larger than this. Wide decks. Heavy hull. Thick ropes that snapped like whips when the storm hit, but at least they were there. At least that vessel had felt strong enough to stand a chance.

But this?

This boat was little more than carved wood and faith. Barely enough space for the two of you plus the supplies. It bobbed and dipped with every passing wave, the water sloshing against the sides so close it felt like it might spill in and drag you under with it.

You swallowed hard, feeling your chest tighten, your knuckles whitening where they clutched the edge of the bench.

After a long moment, you cleared your throat softly. "Peisistratus?"

He hummed in reply, not bothering to open his eyes.

"Do you... do you think we should've taken a bigger boat?" you asked, trying to keep your voice calm despite the tremor edging it. "I mean... the last time I was on the water, it was a full merchant ship and even that was getting tossed around like driftwood. This... this feels like..."

"Like a nutshell floating on the sea?" he finished for you with a lazy grin, one eye cracking open to squint at you. "Yeah, I get it."

Your brows furrowed, waiting for him to agree—waiting for him to say you were right, that maybe you should turn back and find a sturdier vessel. But instead, he just shrugged, shifting the jerky from one side of his mouth to the other.

"Nah," he said simply. "We're good."

Your mouth parted in disbelief. "Good?" you echoed. "That's... that's it?"

Peisistratus let out a snort of amusement, finally sitting up to stretch his arms high over his head until his back cracked. "Listen," he drawled, dropping his arms back down with a thump against his thighs. "Ithaca's been sending too many ships out lately. Word gets around. Merchants talk, pirates listen. Last thing we need is some bandit crew thinking Ithaca's gotten lazy with her guard and is sending out ships heavy with tribute or jewels."

He jerked his chin at the little boat beneath your feet. "Small boats like this? Less suspicion. No fat merchant hull to chase down. Just a fisher's skiff with two idiots and a crate of smoked fish. Keeps the vultures away."

You swallowed again, glancing down at the wood creaking beneath your sandals. The sea sloshed just inches away, dark and rippling, deep enough to swallow you whole if it wanted to.

"Besides," he added, flashing you a lazy grin, "I've rowed in worse."

You didn't find it comforting.

But still... you nodded faintly, forcing a shaky exhale as you curled your arms around your chest, gaze flicking out to the last bite of sun slipping behind the waves.

For a moment, the silence stretched between you, broken only by the quiet slap of water against the hull and the faint cry of gulls in the distance.

Then, as if he could sense the unease curling tight in your ribs, Peisistratus cleared his throat softly. "Hey," he said, voice lighter than before. "Don't look so doomed. I made sure this boat was blessed to max capacity before we left."

You hummed weakly at that, eyes flickering down to where the boat rocked beneath your feet. "Blessed to max capacity," you repeated with a small, tired laugh. "What... like the usual? Mumbled prayer, wasting half a cup of wine into the waves?"

At that, Peisistratus scoffed loudly, clutching his chest with one hand in mock offense. "Please," he huffed, nose wrinkling. "You Ithacans and your lazy sea offerings. A half-cup of wine barely earns you a breeze in your favor."

You raised a brow at him despite yourself. "Oh? And what does Pylos do then, mighty prince of the western shores?"

Peisistratus grinned, wide and boyish, teeth catching the last flicker of sun. "Depends," he said, leaning back on his palms. "Depends if it's just a normal trip or something bigger. Usually, we offer salted fish, barley, and a full amphora of wine—pour it straight into the tide so it carries down to the deep. Then the priests chant, drums beat, and my father—gods keep him—will stand on the cliff's edge and say the words that bind the offering."

You blinked, surprised at the depth of it. "All that... for Poseidon?"

Peisistratus shrugged, glancing out to the darkening waves with a faint smile. "Pylos is a sea kingdom. We owe him everything. Our fleets. Our trade. Our storms. Storms listen to more than just the wind."

His words settled over you like a hush, heavy with quiet knowing. For a moment, you sat there, staring at the restless horizon. The words slipped out before you could catch them, half a laugh wrapped in quiet dread.

"So... we're safe from Poseidon's petty grudge against King Odysseus, then?" you teased softly.

Peisistratus let out a bark of laughter, tipping his head back. "As long as you don't bring Telemachus aboard," he shot back with a wink.

At that, you couldn't help it. A small, real laugh tumbled from your chest, curling warm against the cold wind. You shook your head, smiling despite everything, despite the ache still lodged in your ribs.

And for a moment—just a brief, flickering moment—the boat felt a little less fragile beneath your feet.

A/N: hello babies! first--sry for dissaperiang, like i said before i work a service job so ya know, if y'all like to eat out thats where your girl grinding! but serious note--ahhhh! tried to put so much here without overwriting and still the wordcount ended up being a smooth 6k, the original was like 15k but i just broke it up so that's next chapter lolol, if i got time i'll upload it later today💕💕 anywhoo... i know yall probrably heard, but--HOLY SHIT THIS IS NOT A DRILL!! Y'all Jorge is working on a prequel to epic called "Ilium" and it'll be based on the Illiad 😩 OMG are me and @k-nayee psychics?!? but fr my sis is so hyped, cuz with the new album coming ppl may give her book a chance 😭 ngl she told me how most are just waiting till the book begans where the musical start so she lowkey just bidding her time hahahahaha... also, l finally found time to create a google doc for godly things fanart! hope it has everything and i'll try to keep it updated!! 

link: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/10gJ7k-pSL523qEmEtdCybSqutKLaGBeR?usp=drive_link

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ (email: wattywriter04@gmail.com | tumblr: winaxity-ii) also because wattpad/tumblr is being a meanie, i can't show 18+ drawings on here, even if edited 😭😭 but don't worry i shall still sing my praises! but good news! i have them available on archiveofourown (ao3) and have my account/books to where guests can see so you guys don't have to make an account ❤️❤️ also, if you haven't seen my last update/PSA i'm no longer doing personalized notes under each art i receive the way i used to do them, i'll now post them with credits, and when given the chance come back and post my thanks/what i love about them! this way, i can share my babies and also still keep grinding/writing, thx for being understanding lovelies ❤️❤️❤️

from i.love_caramel

[MC AND ANDREIA]

as an author, i try to be neutral with my characters---but GODSDAMN y'all make it hard to not just smite andreia ass 😭😭 like damn girly-pop so determined yet cruel, what happened to bein g a girl's-girls??? 😩

[MC, APOLLO, TELEMACHUS AND HERMES]

not this looking like a renaissance/greek drawing😩 cuz yeaaahhh, the covered eyes??? screams symbolism in the right way. and not lil gremlin tele mad cuz he aint make a move yet 🤣

from tadssart

[TELEMACHUS DESIGN]

he soo cute 😭😭y'all fanarts of him make me feel so bad having wrote him straight up punch and man's face in 😩like a lil sweet powdered donut with spicy jelly in the center----a scam/TRAP 😭😩

from medicinebitter

[MC DESIGN]

ooohhhh i love the hair/color aesthetic!!!

from simp_0207

[MELANION--BEFORE PUNISHMENT]

HOLD UP NOW----👀 why he kinda????SJNIWSXIAS frfr gimmie a sec.... lemme find it 😩😩 y'all he so damn fine! now i'm mad i made him suffer...  pretty privilege might be real cuz y'all looking back?? ion think it was that serious... it was just a lil stabby-stab and we survived 😩😭😭like fr! some of y'all might've been right, everyone was a lil too cruel to melanion...

[MC AND TELEMACHUS__MODERN!AU]

i'm such a bad influence, cuz the way i'd been like a devil in the ear whispering 'accidently drop the phone on the the titties'

[HERMES AND MC IN RAIN]

awww look at my bbys 😭😭😩

[FEM!DIONYSUS_THYESSA]

👀 umm...*cough cough*  i'mpansexual... *cough cough* who said that??

from adriani

[MC DESIGN]

she look so cute 😭😭 now i gotta go beat andriea ass cuz she stressing out my bby 😭

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr penguintreblemaker

[rnnsdrms]

AEGEAN HIGHS .ᐟ

SYNOPSIS ❤︎ So … you’ve finally hit it — the scariest moment of your accidentally brilliant author career: literary rock bottom. Writer’s block has come for your life. Maybe you should have seen this existential dread creeping up your life when your debut novel blew up overnight and accidentally made you famous. Is it the soul-crushing city life? The relentless noise of social media? No. It’s definitely your editor breathing down your neck, demanding the next big thing. Whatever the cause, your brain has flatlined. The blinking cursor on your Google Doc now feels like a countdown to creative death. Every attempt to write ends in existential spirals and way too much caffeine. So you do what any stressed, royalty-rich author would do: vanish. Greece sounds like the perfect place to do just that — the sun, sea, the cuisine, and absolutely no chance of running into anyone who knows your name or your book. You can be a stranger in a beautiful country … or so you thought. Because apparently, the universe — or fate or karma, or whoever’s got your file in the celestial HR department — has decided to make your life a lot harder. One by one, familiar faces from your past began to show up. And as if that wasn’t chaotic enough, your ongoing misadventures somehow attract a few new faces too. Major plot twist: they all seem to know each other. Now, you’re trapped in what was supposed to be your peaceful, healing vacation — which has rapidly mutated into not only a surreal, sun-drenched reunion tour of the men from chapters you thought you had already closed, but also a battleground for the ones who wishes to write their name down in the history of your life. So much for solitude. So much for peace. And honestly, you should have just stayed home and cried into your Google Docs page.

ᯓ★ an nsfw blue lock fanfic series(?) featuring author!reader + filthy rich soccer players in their mid to late twenties who have their own agendas to have you for themselves.

The World's No. 1 Striker aka Isagi Yoichi

cw: childhood friends, (slightly) yandere!isagi yoichi, stalker vibes, manipulation, praise kink,

You haven’t spoken to him in years — not since he decided to join the Blue Lock facility. It was like his presence vanished from the face of the Earth. The next thing you know, his face and name are suddenly everywhere: plastered across posters in public spaces and transportations, in newsfeeds, and on advertisement boards. You notice how much he has grown, and there was something in his eyes that feels different, but you can’t pinpoint what. To say you’re surprised would be an understatement. And when you accidentally bump into him during a walk through the traditional market on your holiday, you’re at a complete loss for words. He claims the encounter is “entirely” coincidental, and while his reason for being in Greece is the same as yours, what you don’t know is that Isagi Yoichi isn’t here just for sunsets and souvlaki. No… he’s got unfinished business. It’s safe to say he’s not just trying to revive a childhood friendship — not anymore. Now that he’s got you in his sights, he’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re not parted from him ever again.

The Destroyer aka Itoshi Rin

tw: the hot neighbour trope, tsundere! itoshi rin, slightly dominant! reader, enemies to lovers, slow burn, degradation kink,

If there’s one thing you have in common with Itoshi Rin, it’s that your vacation house happens to be in the same area as his childhood home. In other words, he’s your neighbor. And you’ve never liked your neighbor — despite what the old ladies in the neighborhood say about him being tall and handsome, if not “a little too intense” (not your words, obviously). With the way his cold gaze seems to judge you from across the street like he’s the district’s unofficial vibe cop, it’s hard to find a single redeeming quality. And somehow, the two of you always find new ways to spark a petty feud. It started small — your cat sneaking into his balcony at midnight, his packages constantly landing at your door instead of his — but the irritation only grew from there. This summer, you were finally free: traveling abroad, leaving the pettiness behind. No Rin. No neighbor drama. Bliss. So imagine your absolute bewilderment when you run into him in Greece — of all places. You’re convinced you’ve been cursed. And the feeling? Completely mutual. Rin isn’t exactly thrilled to see you either. And yet, despite every attempt to steer clear of each other, you and him keep colliding — like fate, or sheer spite, refuses to let you stay apart. But the worst part? The more he annoys you … the more you’re starting to think it might not be hate fueling your pent-up emotions after all.

The Soccer Prodigy aka Itoshi Sae

tw: strangers to lovers trope, love at first sight, clumsy!reader, slow burn, drunk sex, not so darkish content because this man yearns like an immortal he just needs love let’s give it to him

You’re not into soccer — not even a little. You couldn’t name a single powerhouse team if your life depended on it. So how were you supposed to know that the guy you made a stellar first impression on (which involved spilling coffee on his limited-edition, branded white shirt) turned out to be international football royalty and a walking tabloid headline: Itoshi Sae? By the time you realized who he was, it was already too late. The damage was done — to his shirt, to your reputation, and possibly to your will to live. Now, you’re far too mortified to set foot in that café again. You’ve tried writing in other places, but none of them have that perfect ambience — the sea breeze, the quiet chatter, the coffee that hits just bitter enough to feel poetic. So here you are, clinging to the hope that the Fates might spare your already cursed soul… and that Sae won’t show up there again. But this is Greece — the land of grand tragedies — and one of the greatest is this: the Fates, in their divine comedy, have apparently tied your thread of life to his. And every time you cross paths — because of course you do — you’re always in the middle of some minor disaster. You’re not sure what’s worse — that he keeps witnessing your slow descent into chaos, or that he seems to be taking interest in it. As if your astrologically doomed luck is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all week.

The Hero aka Kunigami Rensuke

tw: secret admirer's trope, senior! kunigami rensuke (a year above you), possessive behaviour

Running into Kunigami Rensuke during your vacation was not on your vacation itinerary — but maybe it should have been. Out of all the people you have come to genuinely like (note: platonically), Rensuke still holds a top-tier spot. Hard to forget the guy who helped you survive that cursed elective class back in university. But maybe it's what they call a 'blessing in disguise' because if you haven't met a charming guy like him back in university, you would have sworn off men for the rest of your life. There was literally nothing to hate about him — patient and kind and considerate — the man is literally a saint. But you were too oblivious to notice back then as to why a man of his caliber is single. You just think he's chill and kind just like that — the 'cool guy friend'. For Rensuke, it has been ages since he last spoke with you but seeing you again feels like the universe was finally in his favour. He silently makes a vow: this time, he's not leaving this archipelago without telling you how he feels. No hesitation. No more waiting around. You've always meant more to him than you knew — and now that you're within his grasp, once again, he's ready to prove it.

The Corporate Millionaire aka Mikage Reo

cw: high school exes, dubcon, manipulation

One name you swore you’d never want to hear again? Mikage Reo — your high school ex-boyfriend, now filed permanently in the archives of your emotional regret folder. Things ended, and not on good terms. But you made your peace with it. There was some small comfort in knowing the two of you had taken completely different paths — until, of course, his annoyingly perfect face started showing up on TV after he inherited the CEO position at Mikage Corporation. Still, you managed to live with it … until your so-called “wounds” rip open again when you unexpectedly spot him boarding the same cruise as you. And no, he’s not alone. Along with the emotional baggage clearly marked as “unresolved feelings”, he’s brought a friend — tall, attractive, and definitely not here to make your life easier. Originally, Reo’s plan was a chill vacation around Greece with his best friend. But now that you’re in the picture? It looks like he’s making a few edits to that itinerary — starting with trying to win you back.

The Lazy Genius aka Nagi Seishiro

tw: second male lead trope, possessive and obsessive behaviour

Now, here's one face you're not familiar with, but you've got a feeling you've seen this guy somewhere before: Reo's ever-present teammate and emotional support introvert. Nagi Seishiro didn't come to Greece by choice — he was dragged by Reo and not wanting to hear his endless complaints of how he'd be lonely and bored without him, Seishiro begrudgingly accepted his invitation. He finds no joy in going for holidays. He would rather be at home, wrapped in a blanket, playing games without looking at the clock. He expected absolutely nothing from this trip — until he met you — a pretty little thing who he knows he'll probably have no chance with. He has heard of your past history with Reo. Not to mention, who would choose someone like him? Detached, gloomy and more interested in screen than real life? But then you smiled at him. Once. Maybe twice. Maybe it's the way you call his name — so kind and gentle and caring — qualities Seishiro has yet to feel in his life. You unknowingly altered his brain chemistry, and just like any other gamers, he enjoys a hard challenge: he is going to make you his and his only.