#shade grown coffee

[magpieshrike-art]

My piece for the Caffeine Rush zine hosted by @bycmykae! I had so much fun working on this piece and getting back into traditional painting - with coffee no less - was a nice challenge.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

I LOOOVE LOVE ALL THE NPCS IN PRIME DEFENDERS!! THEYRE EACH SO UNIQUE AND COOL, WITH THE GREATEST THING YOU CAN POSSIBLY GIVE TO SUPER HEROS IN A SUPER HERO UNIVERSE: WAAACKY FUCKIN SUPER POWERS!! (MADE WITH ONLY PEN AND COLORED PENCILES, MISTAKES CORRECTED WITH PAPER N GLUE)

[mephisto-reporting]

Sorry, I Hurt You: Zayne Edition

Premise: You hurt him with your words and instantly regretted it, tearing up for the things you said, things you could not take back. But in that moment, all he sees is the love you have for him. Inspired by this request. Pairing:Reader x Zayne Note: Reader and the men are in a relationship for this fic. If you would react to this situation differently by saying you would not hurt him, you would not argue, then please know that this fic may not be for you. Life happens and different people react differently. A reader tag isnt a generalisation for this fic. Let me know if you want to be a part of my taglist. Content warning: Angst, arguments, hurt/comfort, tears.

Zayne Edition | Caleb Edition | Xavier Edition | Sylus Edition | Rafayel Edition

 Zayne had promised to meet you at 7 p.m., a rare evening carved out of his relentless schedule. But, as always, the world seemed to conspire against you.

At 6:34 p.m., your phone buzzed.

Zayne: Emergency surgery. I’ll be late. I am sorry.

The message was short and direct, like every other text you’d received when he was busy. Not that you minded, because you knew he would be indulgent when he had the time with his gifs and emoji.

You sighed, staring at the glowing screen. Of course, it wasn’t his fault—his job was important, lives depended on him. You knew that. You always knew that. But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

You: How late?

You waited, watching the little "typing…" bubble appear and disappear a few times before his reply came in.

Zayne: I’m not sure.

You: Ill wait for you, Dr. Zayne 😉

The knot in your chest tightened. You tossed your phone onto the coffee table and leaned back against the couch, staring at the clock on the wall. 7:00 p.m. came and went. By 8:30, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the room in shades of blue and gray. By 10:00, your patience was fraying.

Your thoughts spiraled. You couldn’t even remember the last time the two of you spent more than a few uninterrupted hours together. If it wasn’t the hospital, it was a conference, or research, or some far-flung medical camp in the middle of nowhere.  You understood—he wasn’t just a doctor, he was the doctor, the youngest cardiologist in Linkon City, and his work saved lives. But no amount of understanding could temper the weight of the empty hours that stretched between you tonight.  It wasn’t just tonight. This was a pattern, a cycle you’d grown used to but never quite accepted.

But waiting was a lonely affair. Life had been stressful for you, too. Work, finances, personal struggles—everything felt like it was crashing down. And now, the one person you longed to lean on, to feel close to, seemed so far away. Was it selfish to want his presence? To crave a moment of his time? You didn’t know anymore. All you knew was that you missed him. Missed you both.

By midnight, the frustration was a storm you couldn’t contain. You told yourself you’d wait but every tick of the analog clock that Zayne liked was like chalk grating against the blackboard. :00 a.m. The city outside your window was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of passing cars. 1:45 a.m. The words you wanted to say twisted in your chest, growing heavier. 2:23 a.m. The lock turned.

The sound of the lock turning startled you. Zayne stepped inside, his movements deliberate and quiet as he placed his bag down and shrugged off his coat.

“You’re awake…” he said softly, his sharp eyes flicking to you as you sat up on the couch.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice flat. “I’ve been waiting. I wanted to see you. How was the surgery?”

“It went well,” he said simply. “Complicated, but the patient stabilized.”

“That’s good,” you said, your voice tight. “Have you eaten anything?”

He shook his head. “I grabbed something at the hospital earlier. I’m fine.”

Fine. He always said that. No matter how long the day, no matter how much he’d pushed himself, it was always, I’m fine.

“Zayne…” you began, your tone already edged with the frustration simmering beneath the surface. “You’ve been on your feet for hours. You need to take care of yourself too, you know.”

“I do,” he replied, his tone even, almost dismissive. “We can talk about it tomorrow. You should get some rest.”

And there it was—the spark that lit the fire.

“Rest?” You repeated the word, your voice incredulous. “You think I can just ‘rest’ after sitting here for hours waiting for you? Do you even realize what this feels like, Zayne? It’s like I don’t even exist in your life anymore!”

His brows furrowed at your outburst, a hint of confusion on his face.

“I know your job is important,” you continued, your voice shaking. “I know what you do saves lives, and I’ve tried so hard to be understanding. But do you have any idea what it’s like to feel like you’re always second? To feel like you’re not even a priority?”

“Wait.” he interjected, his tone calm but firm. “I didn’t say you weren’t a priority—”

“No, you didn’t say it,” you interrupted, your anger flaring hotter now. “But it feels that way, Zayne. Every time you miss a dinner, every time you come home at some ungodly hour, it feels like I’m just… here. Waiting. Always waiting. Do you even realize how long it’s been since we’ve had a real conversation? Since we’ve actually spent time together?”

His brows furrowed deeper. “You know my job doesn’t exactly allow for flexibility.”

“Your job,” you spat, the words laced with bitterness. “It’s always about your job. And I get it, okay? I do. You’re saving lives, and that’s incredible. But when was the last time you asked about mine?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you didn’t give him the chance. The words poured out, sharp and unrelenting.

“Do you have any idea how lonely it’s been? I’m not even sure I’m a part of your life anymore!”

The moment the words left your mouth, you saw the shock flicker across his face. His usually stoic expression cracked, his eyes widening in disbelief.

Your heart thudded painfully as the weight of what you’d said sank in. “Zayne, I—” Your voice faltered, tears welling up. “I didn’t mean that. I swear I didn’t mean that.”

He didn’t say anything, just stood there, his silence somehow heavier than any words he could’ve spoken.

The room fell silent except for the quiet hitch of your breath. You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to stem the tears, but they came anyway, hot and unstoppable.

Your chest tightened as the tears spilled over. “I’m sorry…” you choked out, the apology tumbling from your lips. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I just… I don’t know. Everything’s been so overwhelming, and I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I know how much your work means to you, I really do. I’m just… I’m tired, Zayne.”

ZAYNE’S POV

Her words hung in the air, each one slicing deeper than the last. I’m not even sure I’m a part of your life anymore.

Was that really how she felt? Had he really been so consumed by his work that he’d made her feel this way?

He swallowed hard, guilt tightening in his chest. Of course, she was right. He’d assumed her silence meant she understood, that she was okay with the late nights and missed dates. But now, looking at her, he realized just how deeply he’d been wrong.

And then came her tears.

He’d seen people cry before—patients, families, even his colleagues. But her tears were different. They weren’t just borne of hurt; they carried guilt, love, and something raw and unfiltered. She wasn’t angry at him. She was hurting for him, even as she blamed herself. “I’m not making excuses. I just... I’ve been trying to be strong for so long, trying to understand, but tonight... I just felt... alone. I didn’t mean it. I swear. You don’t deserve to hear that from me. I love you so much, and I feel terrible for even saying something so awful.”

The anger in her voice born from exhaustion, frustration, a sense of abandonment, had shocked him, yes. But now, as her words turned to apologies, all he could see was how deeply she cared for him. Through the raw tears, through the pain and self-accusation in her voice, all he could see was how much she loved him. It was clear as day, even when she couldn’t bring herself to look at him, even as she buried her face in her hands.

Her words tumbled out in a rush, desperate, as though she needed to undo everything with an apology. She wasn’t angry anymore, no. She was so sorry, and it hurt him more than anything else could. He felt his heart crack, the guilt swirling like a blizzard, and without thinking, he moved toward her, instinct pulling him into action.

“Don’t cry...” he murmured, stepping closer. His voice was softer now, tinged with something almost fragile.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, her words tumbling over each other. “I didn’t mean it, Zayne. I swear, I didn’t mean it. I just—tonight was hard, and I—”

“Stop.” His hands came up to gently frame her face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that refused to stop. “You don’t have to apologize.” The way her shoulders shook with each sob, the desperation in her voice—it all spoke of someone who loved so fiercely that even the slightest hint of causing harm to the one she loved shattered her entirely.

“But I do,” she insisted, her voice cracking. “I was upset, but that doesn’t make it okay for me to say something like that to you. You didn’t deserve it. I’m so sorry, Zayne. I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it. I’m just… so tired, and everything feels so heavy. I know how much your work means to you. I know it’s important, but… but I said those things, and that’s not okay.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and it cut through him like a scalpel. The rawness of her pain, the way her hands shook as she tried to wipe away her tears—it gutted him. He stepped closer and gently took her hands, stilling their movement. “Stop,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Please, stop apologizing.”

But she didn’t. She kept going, as if she needed him to hear every ounce of her sorrow, every misplaced thought born from exhaustion and frustration. “Just because I’m in a bad place doesn’t mean I can take it out on you. It doesn’t make it okay to hurt you. I’m so, so sorry—”

“Enough,” Zayne said, firmer this time, his hands tightening around hers. He closed the distance between them, his forehead resting against hers. His eyes searched hers, even as his own unshed tears blurred his vision. “I hear you. And I forgive you. You don’t need to say another word. You are important to me. Do you hear me? You always have been.”

He pulled her into his arms, and for a moment, the world outside disappeared. The tension in her body melted into his embrace as he cradled her close. He felt her sobs against his chest, the dampness of her tears seeping through his shirt, and his heart ached in a way that no medical textbook could ever describe. It was a mix of regret, love, and an overwhelming need to protect the person in his arms.

When he tilted her face up to his, his thumb brushing tenderly over her cheek to catch the fresh tears, his lips found hers in a kiss that spoke the words he couldn’t say. It wasn’t rushed or hurried, but deep and deliberate—a melding of emotions. He tasted the salt of her tears, felt the softness of her lips trembling against his. His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her there as if letting go might shatter everything. It wasn’t about passion, not this time. It was a deep, desperate need to remind her, remind himself, that she was still here. That no matter how far he had drifted, they were still together.

This is how much she loves me, Zayne thought, as her lips pressed harder against his, the urgency building. This is how much she needs me. Even when she’s hurting, even when she’s angry, she still reaches for me, still tries to make things right.

In that moment, everything was stripped bare. There were no walls, no facades. Just him and her. His kiss was a vow, an apology, and a promise all at once. When he finally pulled back, his lips still ghosting over hers, he murmured, “I’ve been a fool. I am sorry too. I should have been here, with you. I should have made time for you.”

Her eyes widened slightly, confusion flickering through the tears. “Zayne—”

“All these days, I thought I was going home after work,” he continued, his voice low and weighted with emotion. “But it wasn’t home. It was just a house. This… this is home. You’re my home.”

The words hung in the air between them, raw and unfiltered. He pressed another kiss to her forehead, his hands still framing her face. “I’m taking the weekend off. No conferences, no surgeries, no calls. Just us.”

A small, shaky laugh escaped her. “You mean it?”

“I do,” he said, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles. “Even if I have to tie myself to this couch to prove it.”

She chuckled softly, and he felt the tension in her body begin to ease.

“I miss you,” he said finally, his voice breaking the stillness. “I miss us. And I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t important. You are. You’re everything.” And that was the truth. All that mattered now was her. She was his home, his heart, his everything. And he would make sure she knew that every single day.

A soft sigh of relief escaped her, and she relaxed into him, the tension in her body finally easing. And Zayne, for the first time in a long while, allowed himself to rest. He closed his eyes, listening to her heartbeat against his chest, and he knew that no matter what else life brought him, this was all he needed. This was home.

And he was never going to let her feel unimportant again.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Zayne Edition | Caleb Edition | Xavier Edition | Sylus Edition | Rafayel Edition

Taglist: @cordidy

[hanasnx]

PANTY-STEALING, PART ONE — clark kent.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: part two. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ what it says on the tin, panty stealing ノ voyeurism ノ inappropriate thoughts about reader ノ sexual content.

When you start staying with CLARK KENT, he offers up his bedroom so you have a comfortable place to sleep and some privacy. He doesn’t mind taking the couch, but you insist there’s no need. Sleeping arrangements have yet to be confirmed, so he still treats his bedroom as his own. Heavy boots creak the stairs as he climbs up until another sound drifts into his ears: the faucet of the shower, the water hitting tile, and lofty singing. Clark swallows. He enters his bedroom, intent to gather his essentials so you can be left undisturbed in his bathroom. He didn’t anticipate that the door would be ajar, your song grown in volume as light from that room spills into his. Respectfully, he averts his eyes in case he sees something he shouldn’t. The shower curtain is too sheer, and the last thing he needs is the outline of your figure burned into his retinas.

A warmth blooms in his chest, and his heart rate picks up at the sudden realization how untidy his bedroom is. You’d invited yourself in here without notice—you’d insisted everything was fine and didn’t give him time to clean. Hastily, he snatches up old clothes from around. Some that hang over his bed frame and piles on the floor, and he glances at the open slit of the bathroom to check you’re still occupied. Hopefully you can’t hear him rifling around while you’re… naked. That warmth cooks into a heat, and he breaks out in a sweat. The laundry in his arms need to go somewhere, so he brings them to his hamper, but he stops in his tracks.

A glimpse of pink flushes his cheeks a similar shade. His arms drop, clothes falling to the floor at his feet as his eyes glue to the garment in his laundry basket. Cautiously, he stoops, and a single finger slots in a fabric leg-hole, lifting it from its crumpled place like it’s radioactive. A perfect pair of lacy panties hangs pitifully from his long index. It’s something out of a movie. He clenches his jaw, blinking hard at it as if it can’t be real, furrowing his brows at the sight like it’ll disappear in thin air at any moment. Not only are they a pair of ladies underwear, but they’re used, sitting innocently atop his laundry in the hamper freshly worn. Hesitantly, he curls his finger, rounding the garment until the inner crotch shows. It glistens. A mark of unmistakable sparkle splotching and darkening the fabric where it soaked in.

Eyes widen while his breath picks up, oxygen feeling scarce as his begins to register what exactly he’s doing. A girl’s dirty panties are in his room and he’s touching them. Scolds of perversion and deviation fill his mind as he screams at his body to move—to do something.

The faucet squeaks, and the water turns off. It’s quieter, and Clark panics. It shows in his gestures, ducking his head and looking around for answers. Your singing doesn’t stop, and it masks his escape, darting swiftly out of the room using an ounce of super-speed.

You come downstairs to a fresh pot of coffee Clark put on, unbeknownst to you that he’s subconsciously apologizing. “Hi, Clark.” you beam, and only then does he notice how short your robe is. Again, he averts his eyes, only after he accidentally snuck a glance at your ass. You toe out onto the cold hardwood floor, rubbing your own upper arms to generate heat. “Woo,” You shiver, your wet hair making matters worse as your nipples pebble through the thin silk material. He bites hard into his lower lip, and then conceals it with his hand clapping over his mouth. “It’s chilly, huh?” you ask as you enter the kitchen. Clark nods vaguely, and when you pass him he’s quick to flinch back, suspending his arms as if afraid to accidentally violate you. You don’t seem to notice his adverse and intense reaction occur just outside your peripheral.

“There’s, uh, some fresh coffee.” he offers, scratching the back of his head as he wills himself to relax otherwise you’ll get wise. He retreats from the kitchen just as soon as he sees you open the cupboard, raising yourself to the tips of your toes to reach. He gulps as his eyes move before he can escape—spanning your bare legs and the glimpse of the underside of your ass. Once again he curses himself.

You retrieve a mug, and glance at him from over your shoulder with a knee-weakening smile. “Thank you,”

His lips press together, and nods again—anything to avoid saying something and making a fool of himself. Awkwardly he shoves his hands in his pockets, and visibly tenses at the familiar sensation of those panties he’d had no time to stash anywhere else other than his jeans. The pad of his thumb sticks in the tepid slick, and he can’t do anything while under your watch. It remains there, intimately feeling your discharge like some sort of creep while you rummage around in his kitchen.

It’s quiet in his head for a second. The tip of his index finger traces the little bow at the front of your panties in his pocket, and his thumb circles in your dew. Experimentally, he tests the sensations, fidgeting with the material between his fingers while he gets lost in thought.

“Cream?” you question.

Clark’s eyes nearly bug out of his head, “Hm?” he asks in disbelief—until he realizes you merely wanted to know the location of a dairy product. “Oh! Oh, um, the fridge. Top shelf.”

[freedomfireflies]

Knockout*

Summary: The one where Harry is a handsome stranger who always comes to your diner covered in bruises.

Word Count: 9.4k (jeepers, sorry!)

Content Warning: 18+, smut, slight exhibitionism, very brief violence

Your stranger is here.

He’s sitting in his favorite booth, fifth one down from the first row, directly next to the window.

He’s got his usual hoodie pulled over his head, obscuring any view of his face. His clothes are dark and seem to cover nearly every inch of his skin. His knuckles are wrapped in white gauze, but are stained with streaks of red.

And he’s looking down. Staring at the menu on the table as though he doesn’t order the exact same thing every time.

A cup of coffee – black – and a slice of pie.

He’s like clockwork. He comes in exactly five minutes after midnight, takes a seat in his booth, and orders his usual.

Then, he pays his bill, and he leaves.

You’ve grown used to him. Comfortable with the idea of his face and his voice and the strange, but unsettling presence he brings with him.

You find that it’s more unnerving when he���s not here than when he is. 

“Hi, Cherry.”

Your stranger’s voice cuts through the quiet diner and forces your attention from the mug of coffee you’re pouring. 

You glance up, finally able to see his face now that he’s lifted his head. His skin is littered with deep cuts and vicious scratches. There’s a bruise just by his eye that’s dissolving into an unsettling shade of purple and his bottom lip is split down the middle.

Even still, he’s smiling. A gentle upturn that looks almost painful given the cracked fibers and dried blood.

“Hi,” you reply softly, feeling your heart race beneath your chest as his eyes find yours. “Would you like your usual?”

Somehow, his grin gets a bit brighter. As though he’s touched by the question. “Of course,” he answers calmly, in a voice you imagine you’d recognize anywhere. It’s deep and sultry, but it crackles like lightning. Sensual in a way you can’t exactly explain. “What have you made tonight?”

“Chocolate,” you tell him, glancing back toward the counter where the pies are displayed. “With extra whipped cream.”

“Mm.” His hum is playful, and it matches the glint in his eye. “How much extra?”

“As much as you want.”

He laughs, and you swear fairies are born. “Then I will have a slice of your chocolate pie, with as much whipped cream as you’ll allow.”

You feel your cheeks warm as you nod and turn on your heel to grab his order. Setting the coffee pot down before grabbing a small plate.

Once it’s ready, you return, sliding it across the table beside his mug. “Is that all?”

“No,” he says simply, gesturing now toward the seat across from him.

And just like every other time, you feel your pulse jump. “I’m…I need to get back—”

“You don’t need to go anywhere,” he interrupts with a wry grin. “Please?”

Your lips roll into your mouth, and your heart lands in your throat. Your stranger has always been good at getting you to do what he’d like, and it seems tonight is no different. 

So, with a sigh, you glance back toward the kitchen. Checking to make sure you aren’t needed too direly before you slip off your apron and slide into the booth.

“There,” he hums, placing his arms on the table to learn forward. “S’much better, hm?”

And you can’t help but smile as you nod and glance toward your cuticles. Avoiding that vivid green that always seems to send your stomach into a frenzy. 

“How are you?” he asks next, and his voice is soft, as if attempting to draw your attention back.

Braving a glance, you lift your head, and meet his eye. “I’m all right. How are you?”

“Good. Better now.”

The flirtatious remark sends a rush of heat to your cheeks. But you don’t respond, instead reaching out your hand toward his. Allowing your fingers to dance along the gauze that’s wrapped around his knuckles. 

“It’s bad again,” you whisper, and you feel him study you. 

There’s a gentle pause. And then, “Not by much. It’s been worse.”

You suck in a quiet breath and hold it deep within your lungs. Turning his arm around in order to inspect the wounds painted near his wrist. “You promised.”

Even without seeing the full of his face, you catch his expression fall. 

“I know, Cherry,” he murmurs. “And I’m trying, I promise. S’just…not that easy.”

Your throat constricts, growing dry from the implication. “I know.”

It’s almost inaudible, but your stranger still hears it, and he sighs as he slips his fingers between yours. Pulling your focus back to him. 

“You know you don’t have to worry about me,” he says, squeezing your palm as if to cement the point. “M’gonna be okay.”

“Are you?”

He looks gutted. Ashamed of your disappointment. “It’s just something that I have to do.”

“Why?”

He considers this before shaking his head once. “I don’t know.”

It’s the same answer every time. You ask him who does this to him. Why he does this to himself. Where he goes, why he keeps going back.

But he never offers anything concrete. Just enough to keep you hoping.

He leans closer. Desperate to make you understand. “I’m gonna be all right, Cherry. I promised, didn’t I?”

“But this isn’t ‘all right,’” you argue quietly, once again studying his scars. “You hurt yourself. Or you let somebody else hurt you. And I don’t know why.”

He takes in a breath before setting it free. “I don’t know why, either. But it’s not forever. And I promised you I would be okay. So, I will be.”

You release him and pull yourself from his grasp. Creating a physical distance much like his emotional one. 

“I have to be,” he adds, and that charming smirk reappears. Popping a dimple from his cheek. “I’d miss your pies too much.”

Even if your insides have twisted, you can’t help but laugh. “I suppose they’d miss you, too.”

“Good, I would hope. Might be my second-favorite sweet thing here. Only after you.”

Again, his coy remark leaves you entranced. Hands gathering on your lap as you look out through the large window beside you. “You’re quite forward tonight.”

“M’forward every night. You just don’t notice.”

“Is that right?”

“It is. Can’t really help myself, Cherry.”

The familiar nickname feels like home. It was coined after the first night he’d come in. He’d sat in your section – this very booth – and made small talk while you served him. 

He asked for your recommendation, and you suggested one of the desserts. The pies were your specialty, and you made a new one every evening. He seemed charmed by this and ordered two slices.

That night was cherry. He ate every bite between sips of his coffee and compliments to you. Leaving nothing but crumbs once you came to collect his plate.

He told you he loved cherry pie. It was his absolute favorite. But he’d never had a pie as good as yours.

And from that night on, you became his Cherry.

He never asked for your real name, and you never offered. You supposed this was intentional. A way to protect you from whatever life he led outside the diner doors.

And in the few weeks he’s been coming back for yet another slice of your pie, you’ve learned only three things about him:

He always pays with big bills.

He drives a vintage, black ’69 Mustang.

And his name is Harry.

Anything past that you suppose isn’t yours to know. Yet despite that, you feel drawn to your stranger. Even if he only seems to exist after midnight.

“You weren’t supposed to be working tonight,” he says, calling your attention back. 

You glance away from the window just in time to see his frown. “Joshua asked me to cover a few of his shifts,” you explain. “I’ll be here through the weekend.”

“You covered him last week,” he reminds you, with just a touch of disapproval. “And a few weekends before that.”

Your stranger is right, but you merely lift a shoulder and let it fall. “I don’t mind. The extra money is nice, and the night shift is always quiet.”

“Not always,” he retorts, and you notice the pull of his eyebrows. “Not everybody is as kind as you, Cher. Not in this part of town. Or this late.”

You can’t help but smile at his need to shelter you. “I know. But Owen is here, and he makes sure to check on me from time to time.”

However, Harry’s expression seems to settle into something hard and unnerved. “And what if he gets distracted? What if he doesn’t see some loser trying to grab for you? Or talk to you? Or take advantage of you?”

His voice is rising, a gentle but obvious crescendo that turns the heads of the few patrons scattered about the diner. 

You reach for his hand once more, squeezing it hard to implore him to listen. “Then I will use my extensive training as a waitress and kick their ass.”

You can tell he doesn’t want to, but he smiles. Brushing his thumb along your wrist before looking down. “I’m only trying to protect you.”

“I know,” you whisper, dipping down in order to find his eye. “But I’m not the one who needs protecting.”

The air is charged with a sort of tension you can’t explain. He feels so close and yet so very far away. Your heart aches for your stranger, and for his scars that never heal.

“Hey,” calls a loud voice, ringing through the small diner until you and Harry both turn. You find a man sitting near the counter, wearing a camouflage baseball hat and flannel shirt. His beard is long and scruffy, and his expression is wildly annoyed. “Do you fucking work here or not? Been waiting on a refill for ten goddamn minutes.”

Feeling rather embarrassed of the way you’ve neglected the other customers and deserted your post, you quickly slide out of the booth and stand. Cheeks warm and heart racing. “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry, sir.”

You rush to check on the coffee pot near the counter, making sure that it’s hot and fresh before you approach. Then, you tip the spout into his mug, and refill his drink that’s already three-fourths of the way full.

You can see Harry watching you from his spot. A similarly irritated look behind his eye as he studies the man sitting before you.

Once the coffee has been refilled, you nod an apology, and begin to retreat.

“Not so fast,” the customer grumbles, clearing his throat as he straightens up. Forcing you to hesitate. “I want my check. And a slice of pie on the house. For my troubles.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, but you nod again. The Starlight Diner doesn’t exactly offer free pastries, and anything that a staff member has to comp comes out of the employee’s paycheck. 

Granted, one slice won’t set you back too far, but the shame will. The idea that you left a customer waiting while you chatted with a man you hardly know. It’s unprofessional and not at all how you’d like to be perceived in the workplace. As a mindless girl who merely doddles her day away. Fawning over handsome strangers and daydreaming about a life she can’t have.

“Absolutely,” you tell him, rushing to grab him a fresh piece just as Harry begins to stand from the booth. “Will that be all?”

“Don’t be stingy with the whipped cream,” he instructs. “In fact, I’d like to see you put it on in front of me. So I can make sure you aren’t trying to fuck me over.”

The blood drains from your face. You feel humiliated under the warm hue of lights strung up around the restaurant. Grabbing the can of whipped topping in a desperate attempt to please and end the interaction all together.

“Why don’t you watch your fucking tone,” Harry grits, approaching the man from his left.

But the customer merely scoffs, refusing to offer him even a disinterested glance. “Yeah, and why don’t you mind your own business?”

Suddenly, Harry’s hand smacks down onto the counter beside him, inches from his plate while the coffee inside his mug trembles.

You can’t help but jump, arm recoiling away from the pie while the entire diner grows quiet. Everybody’s attention has turned to your stranger. Watching him closely as he leans forward, and dips down to catch the man’s eye.

“Wasn’t a question,” he murmurs darkly. “You watch your fucking tone when you speak to her. Or I’ll watch it for you.”

And you can tell the older gentleman is a bit off-put by Harry’s distressing demeanor. Yet he remains rather calm, clearing his throat again before leaning back. “And what are you gonna do about it, cupcake?”

Harry’s head cocks to the side. “Would you like me to show you?”

“Harry,” you whisper, just loud enough to force his eyes to yours. “It’s okay. It’s fine.”

“Yeah, she’s fine, buttercup,” the customer snorts, spinning around to face you once more. “Now let’s go, princess. I don’t have all fucking night.”

His fingers snap together before he points toward the pie. Instructing you to continue applying the fluffy cream until you hesitantly continue.

The whipped desert sprays out of the can in a steady stream, piling higher and higher atop the pie until it begins to spill over onto the side.

Yet he doesn’t stop you. He simply nods and mutters for you to keep going. To fill the plate until he’s satisfied. 

And you know exactly why he’s doing it. Not to satiate a sweet tooth but to demean you. To force you under his cruel, sadistic stare until you fold like a house of cards.

Your stranger fumes from his place a few feet away. You can tell he’s desperate to intervene, but he obeys your look of frantic insistence. Remaining quiet while you oblige the customer’s request. 

Soon, the can runs out. The last few drops spewing from the nozzle until you’re left with nothing but air and an empty bottle.

With a hitch in your breath, you begin to withdraw your hand. He’ll have to drop this degradation act now, and you hope that he only demands the rest of his check before going about his night.

However, before you can fully retract your arm, a collection of grimy fingers dart out and curl around your wrist. Keeping you in place while the man’s eyes narrow and he hisses, “Did I say you could stop?”

But the moment his palm touches your skin, Harry is stepping forward, grabbing a fistful of his collar, and hoisting him from his seat. Then, he shoves him back against the tile wall just behind him, the connection so forceful, it knocks the gentleman’s hat askew.

The other customers, including yourself, gasp from the sudden act of violence. Watching as Harry steps up to him and sneers in his face with the vilest look of disdain you imagine you’ve ever seen.

“Don’t ever…” he seethes through deep, even breaths, “…put your fucking hands on her…again.”

And he’s terrifying. So utterly terrifying, with his busted knuckles, his cracked lip, and his bruised jaw. It’s clear he’s a threat, and the man he’s holding goes deathly pale as Harry keeps him trapped against the wall.

All he can do is nod his understanding, choosing to end the fight before it can begin while Harry – after a very long moment – finally lets him go and allows him to flee from the diner.

There’s a stillness in the café that makes your heart race. The few regulars that are left watching on with a mixture of sympathy and embarrassment. It’s not until Harry shoots them their own venomous glare that they quickly turn away and continue on with their meals.

You slump into the counter, letting the can drop to your side while the sound of a door flinging open echoes from somewhere behind you.

“The hell…is going on?” Owen calls, exiting the kitchen in order to get a better look around. He finds you first, raking his stare up and down your frame before looking to Harry. “What happened?”

“You fucking left her out here, alone,” Harry barks. “That’s what fucking happened.”

Owen’s eyebrows raise as he moves his attention to you. But you quickly side-step into Harry’s path, attempting to end another confrontation before it can begin.

“Just…a customer,” you finally answer softly, reaching for the plate in order to clear your regret away. “It’s fine. He left.”

Your boss nods once. “But he paid first, yes?”

Again, your heart sinks into your toes. Lashes fluttering when you realize his bill will be coming out of your paycheck. “He…um, no, he…he left before I could collect it—”

“Darling,” Owen sighs, and it’s heavy with disappointment, “what did we talk about?”

“I…I know. I’ll…I’ll pay for it—"

Harry’s palm suddenly smacks down onto the counter for a second time this evening. Yet now, there’s a wad of cash beneath his hand. From the looks of it, well over a hundred dollars.

“This will cover it,” he mumbles, turning his unforgiving stare to your boss. “And it’ll cover the rest of her shift, too. She’s done.”

With that, his fingers are wrapping around your upper arm before you can even wrap your head around his offering. Blinking wildly while Owen glances from the cash to you in an effort to piece together Harry’s instruction.

 But your stranger leaves you no room for questioning or bargaining. He’s pulling you out the diner door and into the dark parking lot before you can even bid your boss goodbye.

He strides between the cars before hooking a left around the building. Leading you toward the back alleyway where he normally keeps his car, the wet pavement squeaking beneath his sneakers.

 And during this fervent stalking, his fingers slide down from your upper arm and into your hand. Grasping it tightly as if to make sure he won’t lose you.

Perhaps a part of you would like to feel miffed or ashamed of what just took place, but you can’t seem to fault him for his reaction. He’s always been nothing but kind to you – even if he doesn’t always lend that kindness to others. Expressing his desire to protect you, even if he doesn’t know you.

You wonder if this need to defend is part of the reason why you’ve only ever seen him covered in scars and bruises. If he comes to the diner in the dead of night in order to watch over you. Like a guardian angel or vigilante. 

Right now, however, he disappears into the shadows, gently pulling you along with him until you see his car only a few feet away. He releases you at the same time that he releases a heavy sigh, running a hand through his dark curls as his hood is pushed down. 

“Harry…” you begin quietly, tentative of startling him.

“I’m sorry,” he says before you can even finish. “M’sorry, I lost my temper. I know.”

You watch the way he turns away from you. Bracing himself against the hood of the Mustang while dropping his head in what you only assume is remorse.

And your heart aches for him. For the gentleman that lives beneath the outlaw. “Harry,” you whisper again, stepping closer in order run your fingers down his back. Feeling the way his muscles tense before melting beneath your touch. “I’m not mad, I promise.”

“I know you don’t like it when I interfere,” he mumbles, and it’s almost swept away by the cold, early morning air. “But he fucking touched you, and I—”

“I know,” you interrupt tenderly. “I know, and I’m not mad. I’m glad you did it. I’m glad you were here.”

He hesitates, face turning toward his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You allow your chest to meet his spine. “Always feel safer with you.”

He exhales deeply, releasing something heavy before he’s turning around, and reaching for your cheeks. The soft, stained gauze slides against your skin, and his touch is firm. Keeping you in his embrace while he gazes at you warmly. 

“Are you all right, Cherry?” he asks now, thumbs sweeping beneath your eyes. “Did he hurt you?”

Your head shakes. “No. Scared me a little, but I’m okay.”

It’s clear he doesn’t like this, that familiar frown reforming as he holds you a bit tighter. “He never should have spoken to you like that. Much less put his fucking hands on you—”

“I know, but it’s okay,” you interject again, hoping to ease his stress. “I’m okay because you were here.”

And this is the only thing that seems to calm him. That familiar smile of his the perfect remedy for such a strange night. You don’t want to tell him how often this happens. Especially during the later shift. But that’s what you get for working at a 24-hour diner, and you’re starting to think this is merely part of the job.

And truth be told…you think he already knows.

His forehead meets yours, and you can’t help but grin yourself. Grateful for the comfort he provides – stranger or not.

“Speaking of which…why are you here?” you ask gingerly. “I thought you didn’t come in on my days off?”

“I don’t. But…I saw your car.”

“Oh…how?”

His smirk transforms into something coy. “I was driving by.”

“Oh, really?” you tease. “On purpose?”

The smile slips now, a more reverent look in his eye as he nods. “I like to check on you. Make sure you’re okay.”

And maybe in any other universe, this would strike you as odd. Perhaps even unsettling or disconcerting. 

But even if you don’t know him, you know him. You know his intentions have only ever been pure, and even without having much more than his name, he has always made you feel safe. 

You choose to believe in him. In the goodness of your stranger and the care he provides. Inside and out.

“You do?” you murmur, allowing your hands to rest on his chest. “How often?”

A beat. Then, “…every night.”

The alley grows quiet. Scattered streetlamps reflect off the pools of water that are sprinkled across the cement, warming the dark night with their sepia-toned beams.

And you stand there, just you and him, while the weight of the world seems to rest on his shoulders.

But instead of chastising him or asking any further questions, you push yourself up onto your tiptoes…and kiss him.

It’s not the first kiss you’ve shared, and you know, undoubtedly, that it won’t be your last. Your stranger has been stealing your kisses for weeks now.

And you suppose stealing isn’t exactly a fair comparison. After all, you’ve nearly pleaded with him to kiss you every time he’s come in. 

Not that there’s much need for begging when he’s so willing to offer them to you. Sneaking you away the moment your shift is through. Chasing you through the parking lot…pulling you into the backseat of his car.

It makes you giddy. You feel like a schoolgirl with a crush on the handsome senior. Slipping into the shadows where he waits. Letting him hold you, kiss you, touch you.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t know more than his name or what he does behind closed doors. You choose to share these special – albeit somewhat scandalous – moments with the mysterious gentleman in booth 505.

“My sweet girl,” he breathes against your lips. The wonderfully delicious nickname melting on your tongue. “Missed you.”

You want to remind him that it’s only been about two days, but you can’t. Because you missed him, too.

“And m’so sorry,” he says next, trailing his quick but fervent kisses down your neck. “So fucking sorry for being so bad. Never wanna scare you or make you anxious.”

A soft, delicate noise bleeds from your throat, and you cling to his much stronger frame as though you’re afraid you’ll simply disappear without him.

“Wanna make it up to you,” he whispers. “Will you let me, Cherry? Let me be good again?”

You nod, needing him to keep himself as close to you as he’ll allow. You want to settle him in your lungs, keep him snug inside in your chest. Against your heart.

And a large part of you just wants to keep him��always.

“Let me make it better,” he says, hands dropping to your hips in order to push you toward his car. Placing you against the door in order to trap you and deepen his kiss. “Let me be good, sweet girl. Be good for you.”

And he’s always good. Good to you, good for you. It doesn’t matter how he is with everybody else. 

“Please?” he asks again, leaning back just far enough to catch your eye. “Will you let me?”

He wants your explicit consent. Wants you to say the words before he continues, and you appreciate this stricter habit. 

“Yes,” you manage to answer, exhaling the word with the little strength you still possess. “Yes, please—”

He takes your hand before you can finish, guiding you over toward the backseat before swinging the door open and stepping aside.

“Lay down, baby,” he mumbles gently, pressing a kiss to the side of your head while guiding you in. “On your back, okay? Want you comfy.”

You do as instructed, dipping down into the vehicle before settling into the soft, leather seat. Flipping over until you can find a position you like. 

Harry is quick to follow, landing between your thighs before pulling the door shut. You both maneuver until he can hover his body above yours, keeping you beneath him as he runs a palm up the side of your leg.

His warm hand feels good against your bare skin, the dress you’re required to wear as part of your waitressing uniform bunching just at the top of your knees from the new position. But it’s like ecstasy, heating up your goose bumped skin from the nippy air outside. 

“How’s this, hm?” He squeezes your hip. “You all right, Cher?”

You rest your head against the door and nod, fingers already itching to reach for him again. “Yes, I’m okay.”

“Promise?”

“Mhm. Promise.”

The side of his mouth curls up, and it makes your stomach flutter. “Good girl. Gonna go slow, okay? Earn my forgiveness.”

He continues the lazy strokes to your thigh, falling all the way down to your ankle before going back up. It is slow, and it almost drives you mad. Because he knows what you want. And he knows just how badly you want it.

Things with Harry never go further than you. Something you’re almost tempted to find odd, but he’s a giver. That was made clear from the first time. He derives more pleasure out of your orgasms than he apparently does his own. He only ever wants to touch you, taste you, feel you. It’s never about him. 

You often wonder if there’s a deeper reason for this. If he’s denying himself release on purpose or if he’s merely terrified of getting close. And occasionally you wonder if he simply just doesn’t want to fuck you, but something tells you that’s not the case.

Maybe one day you’ll be brave enough to ask.

Tonight, however, it seems he’s still determined to put the attention on you. Long fingers gently scratching at your leg until you shiver. It makes him grin.

“Can I see you, baby?” he asks softly, letting his eyes trail beneath the hem of your dress. “See how pretty you are?”

Again, you can only whine pitifully as you motion your head up and down quickly. Wanting to succumb to his strong touch. Only feeling grounded if he’s there to hold you.

“Thank you, sweet girl,” he breathes, using his scarred hands to push your outfit up a bit higher. Revealing your quivering stomach and the delicate pair of panties around your hips. 

They’re nothing special. In fact, you imagine they’re rather embarrassing. A simple, tan fabric that does absolutely nothing to make your pussy look more desirable. 

Perhaps it’s a little silly, but you like to look nice for him. On the nights you know he might be coming to see you (which has been every night you’ve worked since you met), you tend to pick prettier pairs. 

Some with lace, some with little bows. Sweeter colors, sexier colors. Anything that might make him smile.

But you hadn’t anticipated seeing him tonight, and now, you almost want to shy away. Lashes fluttering as you look up toward the roof of his car.

But he doesn’t seem to notice. Nor does he seem to care about the color around your waist, his eyes growing wide as his attention glues to the mesmeric sight before him. Pink, bruised lips parting with wonder while he moves closer. 

“Cherry,” he exhales, the feel of his breath sweeping against your bent knee, “missed you so much. Been forever, hm?”

You nod again, braving another glance just in time to see his hand lower. And then you feel him. Feel his thumb pressing gently into the front of your underwear, just above where your clit lies.

Your entire body seems to spark to life like the flicker of a flame. And you gasp, subtly bucking up into his touch in search of more. In search of him.

He smiles. “S’it feel good, honey?”

You let out a soft breath, chest nearly caving in as you whisper, “Harry…”

He looks up, eyes flicking to yours as that coy smirk grows. “What, baby? You okay?”

Of course you’re okay. He knows you’re okay, but you’ve noticed he likes to hear you say it. He likes to know he’s making it better for you. That he’s helping, that he’s doing good.

When you don’t answer, he returns to your pussy, fingers strumming up and down your covered cunt like he’s playing an instrument. Tuning your body to his needs. 

“Can I touch you?” he asks now, dipping down to nudge his nose beneath your jaw. Pressing a soft kiss to your throat. “Wanna touch you…be good for you, Cher. Was so bad…just wanna make it better.”

He’s attempting to atone for what he did in the diner. To apologize, offer his remorse.

And even if you know he has nothing to apologize for, you can’t find it in you to deny him. Reaching up to tangle your fingers in his curls as you tug him closer. Kissing him fiercely.

He’s hard on himself. You know he is. You don’t know why. You don’t know what the cause is. But you can see the repercussions. They’re painted all over his body, and he wears them proudly. 

He curses against your mouth, and you’re reminded then of his busted lip. Instantly pulling away while you mumble an apologetic, “I’m sorry. I forgot—”

“No,” he nearly groans, slipping his other hand around the back of your neck to keep you close. “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind, I promise. I like it.”

His kisses become hard again. Anxious, desperate, and rushed. As though he needs you in order to survive. His nose knocking into yours from the way he readjusts himself. Wanting to take you deeper, really taste you. 

You’ve never been so happy in your life.

He only pulls away in order to slip your panties down your thighs, pushing them to your ankles until he can really see you.

His entire expression softens the moment his eyes find you. Filled with a certain kind of hope and indulgence as he gazes at you almost tenderly. Unable to resist reaching out and letting his finger brush down your folds. 

You make another noise, but he doesn’t notice this one. Too content to be touching you. Feeling you. Spreading you open just to watch you drip.

“So fucking good to me,” he murmurs. “You know that, sweet girl? So perfect for me. Exactly what I need and far more than I deserve.”

You aren’t sure what he means, but the implication makes you frown. Pulling on his hair a bit harder while he moves to your clit and begins to press down.

The pressure of his thumb against the more sensitive nerves leaves you breathless. Squirming beneath him from the rush of pleasure that only serves in making you needier. 

“Always so warm,” he muses quietly. Almost as if to himself. “So soft. So sweet. Can’t ever get enough of you.”

It makes your head spin the way he seems to adore you. The way he talks about your body as if he can’t believe he’s lucky enough to behold it. To feel it, to get to indulge in it. Worshiping you like you’re his religion.

He begins to rub your clit in slow, teasing circles. Kissing you once more in order to taste your whines and feed off your desperation. Wet noises fill the car. Not just from your pussy, but from his frantic kisses that echo between the foggy windows. 

It makes you shiver, loving the way he nips at your bottom lip just to leave you restless. The way he whispers your nickname before moving to your neck, pulling your skin between his teeth and smoothing over the mark with his tongue.

He goes faster. Chasing after your whimpers and the way you arch your body into his. Loving how excitable you get from only a few flicks of his thumb across your sensitive clit.

Then, he slows down. Exhaling a heavy breath as if bracing himself to edge you. Like it hurts him more than it hurts you.

And you mewl pitifully as you cling to his broader frame and tug him down into your arms. “Harry—”

“I know,” he coos, and it’s gentle the way he speaks. Sympathetic almost. “I know, sweet girl. But m’not done with you yet. Just wanna keep you a little longer. Is that okay?”

You bury your face in his neck and make another noise. Something akin to his name that gets lost in the way he curses.

“It’s okay,” he tries again, allowing you to use his body like a lifeline. “I’ve got you, baby. All right? M’right here, I’ve got you.”

He proves this by resuming his sweet torture. Circling the nerves a time or two more before moving down. Smoothing through your folds and lowering toward the pooling of arousal that waits for him. 

You hear him hum. “So precious. S’this all for me, then? Mine to play with? Mine to taste?”

You whine, “Yes, yes, yes,” as quickly as your mouth will permit, and he chuckles. 

The tip of his finger dips inside, presumably to collect everything you have to offer him before he’s lifting it toward his lips.

And you settle back against the door to watch. Enchanted by the way he places you on his tongue and sucks. His lashes fluttering and cheeks flushing from the taste.

You don’t imagine you’ll ever get used to watching him do that. After all, you’ve never been particularly…unbothered by the idea of somebody tasting you. Not even with past partners. You get too caught up in your own head. Worried about the taste, the feel, the smell.

Truth be told, most of the men you’ve been with before were never interested in you. They wanted what you could give them. And then they wanted out.

By all accounts, Harry is nothing like anyone else you’ve ever known. Not just because of the mystery that follows his persona, but because of his endless attention to you. To what you need, what makes you feel good. 

He devotes every second to making you feel like you’re God’s gift to Earth. A gift to him. Praising you for simply existing. Indulging in your taste as though you're the sweetest dessert he’s ever had.

Like now, while a deep moan reverberates from the depths of his chest. Filling the car and your ears like music, making your thighs clench around his hips.  

“S’why I call you my sweet girl, you know that?” he murmurs, sucking on his fingers until you’re sure there’s nothing left. And even then some. “So fucking sweet for me. Can’t ever get enough. Gonna get me addicted, baby. Might already have.”

The moment he takes his hand back out, you’re lifting up, and pressing your mouth to his. And you don’t even care if you can taste yourself on his tongue because all you really taste is him.

But the mixture of him, and you, and the slight tang of blood from the busted fibers of his lip is euphoric. Strange but lovely in a way you hadn’t anticipated. 

He seems to understand this despondency, growing a bit more frantic in his need to please. No longer focused on edging as he drops his fingers back to your cunt while his other hand moves for the buttons on your chest.

He pops them free one by one until your equally plain bra is revealed to him. But again, he doesn’t take notice of such things. Instead swallowing thickly at the sight of your breasts that swell behind the cups.

He kisses you again. And again, and again. Then he moves to your cheek and down your neck. Trailing his tongue toward your collarbone and along your sternum. 

You feel restless. Waiting for something – for him. You already know how magical his touch is. You already know the kind of pleasure he provides, and it nearly drives you mad to simply sit in anticipation. Stuck on his time.

Eventually he reaches your chest, lips moving for the curve of your tit before he’s making another noise and sucking into the tender flesh. Nipping at it, pulling it between hungry teeth. Smoothing over the marks with the warmth of his mouth while you reel.

Your hands disappear back into his hair. Stroking the curls almost fondly, nails lightly scratching at his scalp.

He’s always seemed to enjoy this. Instructing that you pull on him as hard as you’d like. That you tug and scratch. That you use him to inflict your pain and your pleasure. That you think of him first and foremost.   

Now is no different. He nuzzles himself further into your breasts while simultaneously sighing with contentment at the way your hand feels against his head. The way you keep him close to your heart. 

You’d keep him forever if you could.

You hardly even notice the way his finger has slipped inside. The way it strokes your delicate walls that flutter from the intrusion, tensing before relaxing in order to allow him in.

“There,” he whispers, pleased with the way your body obeys him. “S’okay. Gonna make it better. I promise.”

And you know he will.

“So tight today, baby,” he says, leaving another kiss to the swell of your chest. Open-mouthed and messy. “Has it been that long?”

You don’t know. You can’t remember the last time he touched you, although you’re almost sure it hasn’t been more than a week. The two of you have become rather insatiable for each other. Chasing after a kind of release you only seem to find within the hands of the other.

Those beautiful green eyes flitter up to yours, studying you closely. Benevolently. “Have you not been taking care of yourself, sweet girl?”

You take a moment to consider what he means before you feel your cheeks warm. Offering him nothing more than a quick shake of your head.

He frowns, brows pulling together. “Why not, hm? Thought you promised you’d try for me. Help make things better when I’m not around.”

You shrug, growing a touch embarrassed. “I know, but…it’s not the same. Don’t like it.”

“Is that right?”

Another shake. “Get bored.”

“Bored,’ he repeats, and there’s a certain glint in his eye. But instead of disappointed, he seems empathetic. “Cause it’s not the same, yeah? Your fingers too small?”

Now you nod, making a noise of agreement. 

He nods along with you, beginning to smirk. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Bet it’s just so frustrating, isn’t it? Trying to find all your sweet, little spots, but just not quite being able to reach?”

You cling to him as he stretches you a bit further. Doing everything you can’t do for yourself. Effortlessly curling his finger into that one spot until you begin to shake.

“Just like that, hm?” he mumbles, pressing another kiss to your collarbone. “S’that what you can’t find, baby? S’that what’s so achy?”

And it is. It’s so infuriatingly sore that it almost makes you cry. Wishing you could chase after that feeling until your heart gives out. 

“I bet.” More kisses to your chest. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix it, okay? Make it all better again.”

“Please?” you whimper, nails scratching down his broad back. Attempting to pull him closer. 

“Mhm.” He leans forward and brings his lips to yours now. His kiss quick but full of promise. “Always gonna take care of you.”

He begins to thrust the longer digit in and out. Slow enough to work you up but fast enough to leave you wanting more. Coaxing the muscles open before bringing a second finger into play.

The sounds of your wetness being pushed and pulled by his hand are sinful. Sending a chill down your spine and directly into your cunt.

You moan when you feel them, writhing a bit beneath his body until he has to press his leg into yours to keep you still.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he mumbles. Leaving another kiss below your jaw. “Know you can take it, baby. You always do. Don’t you?”

And even if that’s true, you aren’t opposed to the slight sting. Instead invigorated by it and the way he uses great care with you. Wanting to make sure you’re all right so he can please you the way he wants.

Yet somehow, it’s still not enough. Even with the way he curls, and pumps, and thrusts those beautiful digits into your pussy, you feel empty. Barely scratching the surface of that itch as he presses his chest to yours to calm you.

Your noises are becoming more pathetic. Your entire being heaving with the weight of promised pleasure in a way you can’t seem to understand.

His thumb presses into your clit every few minutes, attempting to guide you closer to your release, and it works. The combination making your stomach coil until you nearly see stars. Every cell in your body tightening.

“You close, Cherry?” His free hand moves for your face. Palm pressing into your jaw as the bandage on his knuckles sweeps across your cheek. “Hm? You gonna cum for me?”

And you are. You are, you are. You can almost taste it. Can feel it bubbling up from between your thighs, ready to unravel like the seams on your favorite sweater. 

“Yes,” you gasp, arching from the leather seat. “Yes, please…please don’t stop. Please—”

“Won’t stop,” he promises in a soothing tone, lips ghosting atop yours. “Never stop, I promise. M’gonna be right here until you do, okay? Go ahead. I’ve got you.”

And this is all you need. It happens suddenly and yet far too slowly. Pulling you apart from the inside out. 

You moan so loud, your chest shakes. Eyes rolling back and nails scratching down his spine as it hits you. 

Instantly, he moves his hand from your jaw to your lips. Palm pressing hard against your mouth in order to silence you as he whispers, “Shh, baby. Gotta be quiet for me, okay? It’s okay, you’re all right. Just let go—"

And you do. Allow your body to deplete itself of all energy as he works you through every goddamn second. Dragging it out as far as it’ll go. Increasing the speed of his flicks and thrusts. Pumping your orgasm out of you until it sits in his waiting hand.

“Good,” he breathes before finally removing his hand in order to kiss you quickly. Fingers squeezing the back of your neck as he brings you closer. “So fucking good, there you go. S’okay. Keep going, come on.”

And it’s so good, so wonderful. You feel like you’re floating, high up into the clouds. You decide then that he must be an angel, carrying you in his wings and setting you on a sunset.

But you’re still squirming, seemingly discontented, and he notices far too easily. “You okay, Cher?”

“More,” you whisper faintly. “More…please…”

“More,” he echoes. “My sweet girl wants more. More what, hm? What do you need?”

“More,” is all you say. Once again wiggling your hips down as if to sink his fingers in further. “More, Harry, please.”

“Oh. You want another one. Is that it?”

You nod silently, too strung-out to think in coherent sentences.

He chuckles again, kissing your other cheek before pinching your chin. “All right. Give you as many as you want, baby.”

Feeling incredibly grateful, you allow your trembling limbs to fall slack. Once again settling beneath him as he works to get you to your second.

But even as he resumes the languid but practiced thrusts of his fingers, you feel unsatiated. Eager for something else, but you aren’t sure what.

He realizes before you do. “S’not enough, is it?” he coos. “Need something bigger, don’t you?” 

That’s what it is, and you nod eagerly as your nails scratch down the sleeves of his hoodie. 

“Think you can take something bigger? Think you can take another finger, baby?”

Another nod. Faster, more fervent. Eyes pleading with him to give you anything he has to offer.

He obliges this, glancing down before lining his fingers up, and slowly slipping all three inside.

This stretch is a bit more prominent. He’s deliberately gentle, never giving you more than he assumes you can handle. 

And he watches you closely. Searching for any grimaces or winces of discomfort. 

When he finds none, he seems relieved, kissing up from your chest to your throat once more. “Good girl. There you go.”

You begin to writhe a little more ardently until he has to bring his other hand to your knee in order to press it down into the seat. Keeping you spread and still until you settle.

“Easy,” he coos gently, placing some of his weight onto your thigh. “Gonna have to be good, baby, and relax for me. Let me make you feel good, okay?”

You want to obey. You do, really. But the overstimulation and sensitivity from your first orgasm is almost too much. Making you choke on the heated air until you can hardly breathe.

“Like it when I take care of you, don’t you?” he asks you now. Licking a stripe along your jaw. “Like it when I steal you away from them?”

He’s right, you do. Perhaps you shouldn’t, but there’s something about the way he makes you feel as though you deserve more than this. As though you’re meant for more than the diner. He makes you feel invincible.

“Maybe one day I’ll take you away,” he decides. “Fucking take you from them and make you mine. Forever. For always.”

And you decide you like the sound of that.

Another moment of his strenuous torture passes before he leans back to watch. And you notice something in his face. Utter fascination and lust over the way your body bends to his will. Over the way it stretches around his fingers, the way he pulls it open.

He releases a deep, coarse groan through clenched teeth. Fixated on the way his fingers disappear into your pussy. “Taking me so well, baby. Know you’d take my cock, too, wouldn’t you?”

You whimper miserably, undone by the thought. You can’t deny that you’ve wondered what he’d feel like. All of him, stretching you open. Fucking into you while leaving you a panting mess.

You often imagine what he’s like in bed. In an actual bed and not in the backseat of his car or yours. What he might be like when he’s truly lost himself to the pleasure. Guiding his hips to yours, bending you into a hundred and one positions meant just for his indulgence. 

You wonder if he’d be just as careful as he is now. Just as devoted to you. If he’d be hard and fast or soft and slow. If he has dirty kinks, secret fantasies. If he likes the lights on or off. If he likes the bed or if he likes it up against the wall. 

You hope one day you get to find out. 

“Think you would, yeah?” he continues, sliding his digits all the way to the knuckle. The fibers of the gauze brushing against your clit. “Know you would. Be so good for me. This sweet little pussy would treat me so well, wouldn’t it?”

You nod quickly, pouting at him anxiously.

“I know,” he tuts, finally leaning back over to kiss you again. “Know you’d be such a good girl for me. Let me work you open until you could fit me…let me stretch you just right.”

You reach out for his wrist in search of something to squeeze, and it makes him chuckle. Teeth sinking into your bottom lip until you moan.

“Might take a while,” he muses. “Might take hours. Days. I’ll have to just keep you in my bed until you can fit me, hm?”

He attempts to pull away, but you chase after him. Looping an arm around his neck in order to yank him back to you. 

His smirk feels good against your lips. “M’not going anywhere, sweet girl. Just like to watch you. Bet it’d be fun to watch you take my cock, wouldn’t it? Watch it sink right into this tight little hole.”

He’s evil. Absolutely sadistic and it makes you groan against his tongue until he has to soothe you.

“I know, baby. One day,” he breathes. “I promise. M’gonna take you away and do it right. Make it worth it.”

The thrusting of his fingers becomes more poignant. Enough to drive a plethora of desperate moans from your chest as he nuzzles his nose below your jaw and simply breathes.

“Gonna worship you. Give you everything you deserve.” He sucks in a quiet inhale before dancing his lips along your throat. “Have you sit on my face until I can’t breathe.”

The image has your eyes rolling back. Even if you aren’t sure you’d ever feel comfortable doing so, you’re enamored by the idea. Of the thought of him holding onto your thighs, pressing you down to his mouth. Completely controlling you. 

“Can never breathe when I’m with you, anyway,” he whispers, and you almost don’t catch it. You wonder if you were meant to. “M’gonna do it right, sweet girl. I promise.”

And this is the vow that pulls you through to the other side. Large digits curling up into that one spot that makes your legs shake and you’re falling apart for the second time.

But he still doesn’t stop. Stroking, pressing, pumping even after the tears have begun to slip from your eye. 

“Keep going, there you go. Does it feel good? Feel so good, cumming all over my hand?”

And it does, but you can’t exactly answer. Can’t seem to do anything but cry out as you ride the wave and his fingers as though your life depends on it.

“Doing so good,” he murmurs gently, raising up to kiss you once more. Swallowing your pitiful mewling. “So fucking good, baby. M’so proud of you. Took me so well. So beautiful when you cum, Cherry, you know that? Could watch you forever.”

The sentiment makes your entire body grow warm. You’ve always wondered what you might look like when you orgasm, and truth be told, you imagine it’s not very pretty.

But to hear him say it now – so earnestly – makes your stomach wrench. Nails curling into the seat below as you lift off the leather and knock your chest into his.

He holds you as tight as he can before slowly pulling his fingers out. Relieving you from the overstimulation before putting you back in his mouth. Sucking until a string of saliva drips down his into the gauze on his knuckles. Painting it a much prettier picture than the red has.

After swelling every drop of you with a lewd groan, he finally pulls his hand out, and takes you into his arms. Kissing you through the remnants of the blissful rush.

“So good,” he says again, face burying back into your neck while stroking your thigh with his soaked fingers. “Always make me so proud.”

Your limbs tangle with his as you both slouch into the backseat. Allowing your heart beats to synchronize into one, steady rhythm. 

And once they have, you begin to grin. “Harry?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

He exhales a soft laugh before leaning back onto his knees to get a good look at you. “What for, sweet girl?”

“Just for…this, I suppose,” you mumble shyly. “For all of it. Tonight. Standing up for me and…you know, this part.”

His chuckle becomes a bit more smug. “Are you thanking me for making you cum?”

“I’m…trying. I think.”

“Hm.” His grin is playful and so damn charming as he dips back down to hover his lips near yours. “Don’t have to thank me, Cherry. Believe me. It’s my pleasure.”

His teasing remark makes you giggle, and you kiss him hard before he has the chance to leave you again.

You kiss for a while. A long while. Until you can hardly breathe, your muscles beginning to ache and your eyelids beginning to grow heavy from the lack of sleep in this early morning hour. 

It’s not until you actually yawn that Harry finally remembers to pull himself away and reach for the panties around your ankles. “Shit, it’s late, isn’t it? Know I’ve kept you longer than I should have.”

With a quick shake of your head, you push up onto your elbows. “No. I’m fine, I promise. Just…cumming makes me sleepy, I guess. And you’re so warm. It’s nice.”

This makes him smile again, and that dimple of his makes your heart ache. “You know I’d keep you in this car until the sun came up if I could.”

“I know.” Your fingers outstretch for his hoodie, tangling into the material on his stomach while he guides your underwear back up around your hips. “Maybe one day, yeah?”

His expression softens, and you almost swear you see a flash of sadness behind that sage green. “Yeah. Maybe.”

It’s quiet as you rebutton your dress and pull the hem back down. And even quieter as Harry opens the door and slips out of the car, extending his hand toward you in order to help you out as well.

But once you’ve straightened up and turned to face him, you see that something has changed. A look of longing that hadn’t been there before etched between those scarred features.

His thumb brushes just beneath your eye and then down to your lips. Tracing the lines and dips before he sighs and cradles your cheek in his palm. “Are you gonna be all right?”

You place your hand over his and squeeze. “Are you?”

Another deep breath. Heavier and more forlorn. “You know I’ll try.”

“Promise?”

His forehead meets yours, and you both still. “I promise.”

And you choose to believe him.

You say goodbye, and regretfully let him go. Shaky legs carrying you back to your car as his eyes follow you all the way. Making sure you get there safely before you take off down the road and leave him behind.

A few nights later, you’re back for your next shift. And truth be told, you’re almost excited. Because having to go so long without him feels like a form of punishment. Like your days aren’t nearly as bright without him. And neither are your nights.

You can’t help but count the seconds as you go about your evening. Unable to distract yourself with the pastries no matter how hard you try. Thoughts drifting back to those chocolate curls and that devilish smile.

When midnight strikes, you feel relieved. Releasing a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding as you grab your notepad and slip out of the kitchen. Ready to greet him in his favorite booth.

But the moment you slip past the door, you find that the diner is empty. Not a single customer to greet you as you scan the floor in search of that familiar face. Even a glimpse of his shoes or the sound of his voice.

But the booth is empty, the diner is quiet, and it’s 12:06. 

Your stranger isn’t here.

I know not too much has happened yet but we are building up to tons more smut and plot and angst and fluff, I swear!! 😭💞

Next Part:

~ Whiplash*

~ Main Masterlist

~ Blurb Masterlist

Amazing divider by @firefly-graphics! 💞

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @0nlythrowharrybeaux @hannahdressedasabanana @lovebittenbyevans @caynonmoondreams @amberbambridge

[lucifermonsii]

Barrage x M!Reader

err sub reader n dom barrage hehehe (this man needs more fic.) Reader accidentally drinks Barrage's "milk"

It was a nice day, or so you thought. After a long day of training you've grown tired and exhausted, wanting nothing more but just to go grab a glass of water— or basically any type of liquid at this point. Eventually after some reps at a pull bar in the training room you've decided to head to your little office that had a mini fridge which you've kept tucked beneath a book shelve, it was cute and convenient. To be honest every high ranked officer had a pretty nice office, and lucky for you you've just been promoted to a chief warrant officer. Talk about the perks. Upon your arrival you're met with a familiar face who seems to be sitting on your couch with his feet on your coffee table, Barrage. Typical. Sometimes you'd wish you didn't give him the keys to your office. But what could you do? He was your best friend after all. The masked man stared at you through his shades, holding a monster can in one hand as he sits there. "The fuck are you doing in my office-" You scoffed at him before closing the office door behind you, shaking your head before you headed over to your mini fridge and crouched down to see what was left behind after Barrage's looting session. A singular glass of white liquid substance— to what you assumed was milk. What was that doing in your mini fridge? "Eh, why not? I'm tired of training rookies all day.." He murmurs before taking a sip of the carbonated beverage though the fabric of his balaclava as he glances over at you through his dark shades, although you couldn't really see his eyes you could feel his gaze upon you. The very gaze you've grown used to over the years. Your eyes lingers on the glass of milk for a moment too long, contemplating whether it was one of Barrage's trick or just a drink he kept for you. You've known this man long enough to know he isn't one to trust. Knowing his usual cheeky antics and tricks. "Barrage, why's there a glass of milk in my fridge?" You asked as you look over at him, now standing properly with the glass of milk in your hand as you waited for his answer. His gaze lingers on yours for a while before he answers. "Hm? Saved it for you, know you'd get thirsty.." Was all he said before looking forward and finishing off his beverage with a swig and placing the empty aluminum can on the coffee table before getting up and stretching, groaning in the process before his arms fell back to his sides. "Alright then.." You said slowly, gently swirling the glass in your hand as the white substance swirls in the glass slowly. It was unusually thick and a bit transparent for a milk, but what else can you drink after he finished your whole stock? So without a second thought you began to drink it. "I wasn't done talking." He says as he heads over to you, seeing as you've already chugged the whole glass and wiped off the access on your lips using your hands. "What is it..? The fuck did you do." You replied sternly as you furrowed your eyebrows at him, face slightly grimacing at the slightly thick liquid you had just swallowed down your throat. Turning around to look at him face to face. You weren't short no, in fact both of you are the same height— Is what you say knowing that he's just an inch taller. "It's not just any milk— its my milk." The male grins smugly before breaking into laughter, clutching his stomach as strings of giggles and snickers left his mouth uncontrollably. You on the other hand was absolutely disgusted. Eyebrows furrowed in disbelief as you stared at him, baffled and straight up speechless before your eyes glanced back at the now empty glass of semen in your hand. "BARRAGE WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?" You shouted at him, face flushed with embarrassment as your mind came to realize what you had done— Coughing, trying to get the liquid out of your throat was no use now since it had been fully digested. ⋆⭒˚.⋆ "you're so fucking disgusting.."

You hissed at him, pink tinted your cheeks as you kept a firm tone and your guards up— although you knew the whole experience had you aroused, the damn pervert you call your best friend made you drink his semen? God damn you were a sick person for enjoying it.. "your flushed face tells me other wise.." Was all he mused before letting go of your jaw to dip his thumb into the corner of your mouth, smearing the thick white liquid from your mouth to the corner of your lips. Grinning to see that you still had some of it inside to indulge in the salty taste. "hm, who's the pervert now?" he says before wiping it off on your cheek and lifted his balaclava just above his nose to give you a kiss. Dragging the tip of his tongue along your bottom lip to gain entrance, to which you eagerly complied. Gaze hazed as he hums into the kiss, pushing you further against the wall as one of his hands found their way beneath the fabric of your shirt, his rough, calloused fingers drags their way along your toned— muscular physique as they found their way to the dip of your hip, keeping a grip there as his other hand made it's way to grip the side of your chest— slightly squeezing onto the soft, firm flesh before pulling away from the kiss. Staring down at you through half lidded eyes through his dark shades. "fuck you." You grumbled back to him as you gripped onto his waist, pulling him further more against your body as you kissed him again. This time a bit more gentle than before. Tongues intertwined with one another as both of his hands slipped beneath the fabric of your shirt and slide your shirt up until it reached above your chest, exposing your tone torso to him as his thumbs were on your pecs— flicking over your nipples as his other hand went to grab the side of your waist, his whole arm around it as he deepens the kiss further. Grinding against you with no shame while your hands held him by his back. "now, be a good boy and turn around for me yeah sweetheart?" he whispered ever so sweetly into your ear as he pulled away from the kiss. God damn it. ⋆⭒˚.⋆ slow lewd claps of skin slapping against skin fills your office as he had your legs parted, pants long pooling at your ankles as his grith slowly pushes in and out of your tight heat with ease. Soft, hushed grunt and whimpers escapes your lips as he pries your thighs further apart while he had you pushed against the wall. One hand on the front of your thigh that meets the groin and the muscle as his other hand cupped one of your pecs— squeezing it every so often to have you hushed. "you're doin' so good baby.. all for me hm?" he muses against your neck, his warm breath fanning over it with every grunt and sigh escapes his lips while he fucked you ever so gently. Feeling his member stretch you out as the tip grazes your sweet spot with each thrust, your own cock standing hard and erect helplessly as the leaking tip stains the wallpaper walls of your own office. "god damn you're so tight.. squeezing around my cock like there's no tomorrow huh? don't be greedy now, we have all night.." (i reached the words limit)

[imreidswifey]

A Glossy Secret

Summary: Dr. Spencer Reid walks into the BAU, oblivious to the fact that his lips are faintly shimmering with pink lip gloss from a quick goodbye kiss with Y/n that morning. His colleagues immediately notice, and what starts as a normal day quickly turns into a day of teasing and speculation about Reid’s mysterious romantic life. Meanwhile, Y/n, realizing the mistake from her smudged lip gloss at her own workplace, calls to warn him—only to discover it’s far too late.

A/n: this was so fun to make. Hope you enjoy. Please make any request that you have.

Warnings:

Fluff: This story is lighthearted, filled with teasing and affectionate humor.

Embarrassment/Secondhand Embarrassment: Expect Reid to endure some awkward moments (but nothing mean-spirited).

Mentions of romantic relationships: Focused on Reid and Y/n’s relationship, though nothing explicit.

Mild workplace humor: Includes playful banter among coworkers.

———————————————————————————

It was a peaceful morning at the BAU, the type of lull before a storm that Spencer Reid had grown accustomed to over the years. He walked into the bullpen, completely immersed in the book he was balancing precariously on his hand—a dense tome on quantum mechanics. His usual messenger bag bumped against his hip, and his unkempt hair, slightly more unruly than usual, fell into his eyes.

“Morning, Pretty Boy,” Derek Morgan called out from his desk, lifting a steaming mug of coffee to his lips.

“Good morning, Reid!” Penelope Garcia chirped from her corner, her bright outfit sparkling under the fluorescent lights.

“Morning,” JJ added with a warm smile as she walked in behind him.

“Morning,” Reid mumbled absently, his eyes still glued to the page in front of him. He made his way to his desk and dropped his bag beside his chair. Completely unaware of the amused glances being exchanged around the room, he continued reading, occasionally flipping a page or jotting down a note in the margins.

Morgan’s sharp eyes were the first to notice. He leaned back in his chair, squinting at Reid. Something wasn’t quite right. He tilted his head, trying to put his finger on it. Then it hit him.

“Reid…” Morgan started, a smirk spreading across his face.

Reid hummed in response, not looking up.

“You trying out a new look or something?” Morgan asked, setting his coffee down with an exaggeratedly casual motion.

Reid blinked, finally tearing his eyes from his book. “What are you talking about?”

Morgan pointed to his own lips. “That little shimmer you’ve got going on there. Pretty bold choice for you, genius.”

“What shimmer?” Reid frowned, running the back of his hand across his mouth. He glanced down at his hand, confused when he didn’t see anything unusual.

Emily Prentiss, overhearing the exchange, made her way over with her arms crossed. “Oh my god, is that… lip gloss?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief and amusement.

“Lip gloss?” Reid repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Hotch stepped out of his office, his brows raised in a rare moment of curiosity. Rossi wandered in from the break room, holding a bagel and clearly enjoying the spectacle. Even JJ leaned against her desk, an entertained smile playing on her lips.

“You’ve got some color, Reid,” Prentiss teased, leaning closer to inspect. “Nice shade of pink. Who’s the lucky one?”

Reid’s eyes widened in horror as he began to frantically search for something reflective. “I don’t—I wasn’t—this must be some kind of mistake—”

“Sure it is,” JJ said with a wink. “Come on, Reid, you’re among friends. Spill it.”

As the teasing escalated, Reid’s phone buzzed on his desk. Grateful for the distraction, he snatched it up without checking the caller ID. “Hello?” he said, his voice unusually high-pitched.

On the other end, Y/n’s voice came through, slightly out of breath and clearly frazzled. “Spencer! Oh my god, I just looked in the mirror at work. My lip gloss… it smudged on you when we kissed goodbye this morning! I’m so sorry—I didn’t even realize until now.”

Reid closed his eyes, groaning quietly. “Y/n, you’re a little late with that warning.”

There was a pause. Then Y/n gasped. “They noticed, didn’t they?”

Reid glanced up at his team, who were now openly laughing, their earlier teasing turning into full-blown amusement. Morgan leaned back in his chair, shaking his head and chuckling. Prentiss was grinning like she’d just found the juiciest piece of gossip, and Garcia was typing something furiously, no doubt documenting the moment for posterity.

“Oh, they noticed,” Reid said dryly.

On the other end of the line, Y/n burst into laughter. “Oh no. I’m so sorry! Should I send flowers? Chocolate? A resignation letter?”

Reid sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You owe me dinner.”

“Done,” Y/n said, still laughing. “Good luck with them. Love you.”

Reid hung up and set his phone down, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks as he prepared for the inevitable onslaught of questions.

“So…” Garcia said, perching on the edge of his desk with a mischievous glint in her eye. “When do we get to meet the mystery person responsible for this fabulous makeover?”

Reid’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “Can we just… focus on the casework, please?”

“No casework yet,” Rossi said, biting into his bagel. “So we’ve got time. Spill it, lover boy.”

“I’m not—there’s nothing to spill!” Reid stammered, his voice cracking slightly.

“Reid,” Morgan said, leaning forward with a grin. “You’ve got a secret girlfriend, don’t you? How long were you planning on keeping this from us?”

“I don’t have a secret girlfriend,” Reid muttered.

“Secret boyfriend, then?” Garcia asked, waggling her eyebrows.

“Not helping, Garcia,” Reid said, his tone flat.

Despite his protests, the team continued their good-natured teasing. Reid buried his face in a case file, silently vowing to never leave the house again without checking a mirror. But as much as he tried to hide it, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips, the memory of Y/n’s laughter warming his embarrassment.

“Hey, Reid,” Prentiss said, her tone softening slightly. “For what it’s worth, we’re happy for you. Whoever they are, they’ve got good taste.”

Reid glanced up, his blush still firmly in place. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

The teasing didn’t stop, of course, but it was moments like this that reminded him how lucky he was to have his team—his family. Even if they were relentless about his accidental lip gloss incident.

———————————————————————————

Part 2?

Hope you Enjoyed!

[kiwriteswords]

hear me out, hear me out... is it possible to get shy!reader x bearded!hotch?????????????

Shades of Stubble

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Shy Female Reader||Word Count: 3k

Tags/Warnings: No use of Y/N, canon-typical themes, shy reader, teasing team, teenage Jack, bearded Hotch, post-season 10/11 with no Mr. Scratch, reader has a crush

Sypnosis: When Aaron Hotchner returns to the BAU sporting a beard after a rare week off, it draws more attention than he expects—especially from you, the shy but perceptive team member whose lingering glances reveal more than you realize.

Aaron Hotchner didn’t often take full advantage of the rare breaks the team received, but this time, a solid week away from the BAU had given him time to unwind—if that’s what growing a beard counted as. Normally, his morning routine was methodical, almost meditative—a quick splash of cold water to wake himself up, followed by lathering shaving cream across his jaw and carefully dragging the razor along the angles of his face. It was a task he’d repeated every day without fail, a ritual that helped him maintain the sharp, controlled image he knew his role required.

But when the break started, the razor stayed on the sink. The first morning, he told himself he’d get to it later. By the second, he rationalized that there was no harm in skipping a day or two. By the third, a faint shadow of stubble had appeared, and he caught himself in the mirror, running a hand along his jawline, curious. It wasn’t like the full beard he’d grown out during his time in Pakistan—this was something new, something... untethered. For once, he wasn’t adhering to his usual strict standards, and there was a quiet freedom in that.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d chosen to let it stay. Maybe it was exhaustion—seven days free of the ever-present weight of the BAU felt like both a luxury and an anomaly. Or maybe it was a small rebellion against the routine that so often defined his life. This was about as rebellious as he got these days, maybe a silent nod to his pre-boarding school days, but nonetheless. He didn’t have to answer to anyone for a week, and he didn’t have to fit into the box of Aaron Hotchner, Supervisory Special Agent. He could just exist.

By the time the week ended, the beard had grown in enough to draw attention, though he hadn’t considered how it might be received by the team—or anyone else, for that matter. It wasn’t a decision he put much thought into, at least not until he walked into the bullpen on Monday morning.

The reaction was immediate, though not unwelcome. JJ’s playful quip cut through the usual hum of activity, and heads turned in his direction. He caught Rossi’s amused smirk, Morgan’s raised brow, and—most notably—your wide-eyed, stunned expression. For the first time in years, Aaron Hotchner felt a little... self-conscious. But it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

JJ’s voice rang out across the room with playful familiarity. "It's baaaack!"

Heads turned, but Hotch’s gaze landed on you. You were seated at your desk, a pen in your hand paused mid-air, as if frozen in the act of jotting something down. Your eyes widened when they met his, and though you tried to look back at your work, Hotch caught the way your cheeks flushed, betraying your reaction.

It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed you looking at him like that—soft glances quickly averted, the occasional stammer when he addressed you directly. He’d always assumed you were shy by nature, but there was something about the way you reacted to him in particular that stirred a feeling he hadn’t wanted to examine too closely. Not until now.

He crossed the bullpen, nodding a silent acknowledgment to JJ, who grinned knowingly and sipped her coffee. As he passed your desk, he noticed your gaze dart up to him again, only to quickly drop back to your notes. Your pen moved, but the faint smile tugging at your lips told him you weren’t really focused.

“Good morning,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet bubble you seemed to have surrounded yourself with.

Your head shot up, your eyes meeting his again before flickering to the beard and back. “G-Good morning, Hotch.”

There it was—that hesitation, that barely there crack in your voice. You managed a small smile, but your hands fidgeted with the pen, betraying your nerves.

He nodded, letting the moment linger just a second longer than usual. “I hope you had a good week.”

“I did,” you replied quickly, almost too quickly, before glancing away. “Did you?”

“I did.” His lips twitched in a barely-there smile. “It’s rare to have so much time off. I’ll see you in the meeting room.”

With that, he moved on, climbing the stairs to his office, though he couldn’t resist glancing back once. You were still sitting there, staring blankly at your notebook, one hand pressed against your cheek as though trying to will away the blush.

The day moved forward with its usual rhythm—briefings, paperwork, follow-ups on ongoing cases. But throughout it all, Hotch found himself hyper-aware of your presence. The way your gaze flickered toward him whenever you thought he wasn’t looking. The way your voice softened when you addressed him. And, of course, the way your blush deepened whenever someone—namely Morgan—commented on the beard.

“Looking rugged, Hotch,” Morgan said during lunch, his grin teasing as always. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Hotch replied simply, though he couldn’t help noticing you sneaking a glance at him from across the table. He decided not to meet your eyes this time, sensing you’d only shrink further into yourself if he did.

By the end of the day, Hotch found himself in the bullpen again, finishing a conversation with Rossi. As the older man walked away, he turned to see you standing by your desk, gathering your things for the evening. You glanced up and froze when you realized he was watching you.

“Heading out?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” you replied, clutching your bag tightly. “I, uh... just finishing up.”

“Good.” He paused, then added, “I’ve noticed you’ve been very focused today. I appreciate that.”

Your eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he thought you might not respond. Then you nodded quickly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

He didn’t miss the way your gaze lingered on his face—on the beard—before you ducked your head again, clearly embarrassed by your own boldness. He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of amusement—and something else, something warmer, deeper—at your reaction.

“Have a good night,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

“You too,” you replied, finally looking at him again. And this time, there was a tiny smile on your lips—shy, but genuine.

As you walked away, Hotch stood there for a moment, watching you go. He didn’t usually dwell on personal matters, but for the first time in a long time, he found himself thinking about something—or rather, someone—other than the job.

Hotch lingered in the bullpen after you left, his gaze fixed on the space you had occupied only moments before. The quiet hum of the office around him faded into the background as his thoughts drifted. You had always been reserved—soft-spoken, diligent, and almost painfully shy in his presence—but tonight had felt different. The way your cheeks had flushed when you glanced at him, the way your voice trembled ever so slightly when you said, “Good night,” lingered in his mind like a melody he couldn’t shake.

He wasn’t oblivious to the way you avoided his gaze during meetings or the nervous energy that seemed to bubble to the surface whenever he was near. At first, he chalked it up to his position, assuming you were simply wary of interacting with your boss. But over time, he began to notice the subtler details—the way your focus seemed to falter when he entered the room, the way your lips pressed together in a shy smile whenever he acknowledged you. He couldn’t deny that your reactions had begun to stir something within him.

With a sigh, Hotch headed up to his office, closing the door behind him. The mirror by his coat rack caught his eye, and he approached it, scrutinizing his reflection. The beard, now fully grown, had transformed his appearance in ways he hadn’t anticipated. It softened the sharpness of his jawline, gave him an edge that felt rugged and unpolished. It reminded him of a different time—a different man—but also felt like a small reclamation of his identity beyond the suit and title.

He ran a hand over the coarse hair, considering whether it was time to shave it off. His routine had always been a source of stability in his chaotic life, and the beard felt like an indulgence he wasn’t sure he could afford to keep. Yet, as he stood there, the image of your wide-eyed gaze flashed through his mind. The way your blush deepened when JJ’s comment drew attention to him. The tiny, shy smile you offered as you said goodnight.

A warmth spread through him, surprising in its intensity. He’d seen countless reactions to his decisions over the years—respect, defiance, admiration—but the unfiltered awe in your eyes when you looked at him tonight was something else entirely. It wasn’t about the beard, he realized, not really. It was about you, and the thought that he might have been the reason for that smile, fleeting as it was.

Hotch turned away from the mirror and sat at his desk, leaning back in his chair. The thought of shaving the beard felt distant now, almost trivial. He knew he would eventually, but for now, he decided to keep it—if only to see if he could coax another smile from you.

And maybe, just maybe, to hear your voice tremble in that sweet, shy way one more time.

Aaron Hotchner stood in his bathroom, razor in hand, staring at his reflection. The beard was staying—for now—but it was time to bring it under control. He wasn’t the type to let his appearance slip too far, and even if the beard was uncharacteristic for him, it didn’t have to be unruly. With steady hands, he trimmed the edges, shaping it neatly to suit his features. The coarse sound of the trimmer filled the quiet bathroom as he worked methodically, the precision calming in a way that reminded him of his usual shaving routine.

When he was satisfied, he stepped back to examine the results. The beard was tidier now, the lines clean and deliberate. It still felt like a small rebellion against the rigidity of his usual image, but it was a rebellion on his terms.

Jack’s voice cut through his thoughts from the hallway. “You’re keeping it?”

Hotch turned to see his son leaning against the doorframe, a teasing grin on his teenage face. Jack had grown so much, taller now, his voice deeper, but the playful light in his eyes hadn’t changed.

“For now,” Hotch replied, setting the trimmer down. “Why? You don’t like it?”

Jack shrugged, feigning disinterest. “I mean, it’s fine. Just... you look like you’re trying to be cool or something.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, amused. “Trying to be cool?”

“Yeah,” Jack teased, crossing his arms. “Like, what’s next? Leather jackets?”

Hotch chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I’ll stick to suits, thanks.”

“Good call,” Jack said, grinning as he walked away. “But don’t blame me if people start calling you ‘Hotch the hipster.’”

Hotch rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips as he grabbed a towel and cleaned up.

The next morning at the BAU, the beard caught its usual share of attention. You were the first to notice when Hotch walked into the bullpen, your eyes flickering up from your desk. As usual, you tried to hide your reaction, but Hotch caught the way your gaze lingered on him before you quickly looked back at your screen. He felt a small, unfamiliar pang of satisfaction.

Throughout the day, it became a pattern. Your eyes would drift toward him when you thought he wasn’t looking, and Hotch found himself hyper-aware of your presence. You seemed more flustered than usual, fumbling over your words when he asked you a question during a meeting and avoiding his gaze entirely when Morgan teased him about the beard.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that Rossi made his move. The two of them were standing by the coffee machine when the older man gave Hotch a knowing look.

“So,” Rossi began, casually stirring his coffee. “You’re keeping the beard.”

“For now,” Hotch replied, taking a sip from his own mug.

Rossi smirked, his tone light but unmistakably teasing. “I think someone likes it.”

Hotch frowned slightly. “Jack? He’s made his opinion very clear.”

“I wasn’t talking about Jack.” Rossi’s smirk widened as he nodded toward the bullpen, where you were seated at your desk, your gaze darting toward Hotch once again before you quickly turned your attention back to your papers.

Hotch raised an eyebrow, his expression carefully neutral, but the slight twitch of his lips betrayed him. “I think you’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Rossi chuckled, leaning back against the counter. “You might want to pay attention, Aaron. She’s not as subtle as she thinks.”

Hotch glanced toward you once more. You were chewing on the end of your pen, deep in concentration, oblivious to the conversation happening just feet away.

He turned back to Rossi, shaking his head. “Let it go, Dave.”

“Sure, sure,” Rossi said, his tone dripping with false innocence as he pushed off the counter. “But for what it’s worth, I think the beard suits you. Clearly, I’m not the only one.”

Hotch didn’t reply, but as Rossi walked away, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but part of him was glad he’d decided to keep the beard. If nothing else, it gave him one more reason to notice the way your cheeks flushed and your gaze lingered just a little too long.

Hotch was used to reading people—it was part of his job. He could pick apart the smallest details in someone's behavior, uncovering motives and intentions hidden beneath the surface. But when it came to you, he had learned to tread carefully. You were quiet, meticulous, and hardworking, but there was a guardedness about you that he respected, even if he didn’t entirely understand it.

The subtle glances, the flushed cheeks, the way your voice softened when speaking to him—it had all been easy to dismiss as shyness. But lately, he’d begun to wonder if there was more to it. Rossi’s teasing hadn’t helped, planting a seed of curiosity that grew every time your gaze lingered on him just a second too long.

The revelation, however, came unexpectedly, in the middle of a case briefing.

The team was gathered in the conference room, the case details spread across the table. Hotch was at the head of the room, presenting the profile, when he asked a question about the unsub’s potential targets. You were the one who answered, your voice steady but quiet, offering an insight that made the rest of the team nod in agreement.

“Good observation,” Hotch said, his tone even but sincere. “That could narrow down the list.”

Your eyes darted to him, and for a moment, there it was again—that slight hesitation, the way your gaze lingered on his face before you quickly looked down. It was subtle, but it wasn’t lost on him.

What followed, however, wasn’t subtle at all.

“Careful, Hotch,” Morgan said with a grin, leaning back in his chair. “Keep praising her like that, and she’s gonna think she’s your favorite.”

The comment drew a few chuckles, but your reaction was what caught Hotch’s attention. You froze, your cheeks turning a deep shade of red as you fumbled with the pen in your hand.

“I—uh—I didn’t...” you stammered, your words trailing off as you avoided everyone’s gaze, especially his.

JJ, ever the empathetic one, tried to steer the conversation back to the case, but Morgan wasn’t done. “I’m just saying,” he added, his grin widening, “you don’t see him handing out compliments like that to the rest of us.”

“Enough,” Hotch said, his tone firm but not harsh, cutting off the teasing. He could see how uncomfortable you were, your shoulders tense as you kept your eyes glued to the table.

The meeting wrapped up shortly after, and as the team dispersed, Hotch stayed behind, watching as you gathered your things with hurried precision. He could see the embarrassment still etched on your face, the way you avoided looking at him as you moved toward the door.

“Wait,” he said, his voice stopping you in your tracks. You froze, gripping the edge of the file folder in your hands as he stepped closer.

“Sir?” you asked, your voice quiet but steady.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said, his tone softer now. “Morgan’s comments—”

“They were just jokes,” you interrupted, though your cheeks were still flushed. “It’s fine.”

Hotch studied you for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. He could see the tension in your posture, the way your grip on the folder tightened. And then, as if unable to hold it in any longer, you blurted out, “It’s not his fault. It’s mine.”

That caught him off guard. “What do you mean?”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering to the door as if debating whether to make a run for it. But then you took a deep breath, your voice trembling slightly as you said, “I—it’s nothing. I just... I know I’m not subtle. I’ve been trying, but...”

You trailed off, your words hanging in the air between you. Hotch felt his chest tighten, the weight of what you weren’t saying suddenly very clear.

“I see,” he said finally, his voice quiet but steady. “You don’t need to apologize.”

You looked up at him then, your eyes wide and uncertain. “I’m not making this weird, am I? I don’t want to... I mean, I know you’re my boss, and I shouldn’t—”

“Stop,” Hotch interrupted gently, his tone firm but kind. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the tension in the room thick but not unpleasant. Hotch could see the vulnerability in your expression, the way you seemed torn between fleeing and staying rooted in place.

“Thank you,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hotch nodded, stepping back to give you space. “Take the rest of the day if you need it.”

You shook your head quickly, a small, shy smile appearing despite your obvious embarrassment. “I’m okay. I just... I’ll try to be more professional.”

“There’s nothing unprofessional about being yourself,” Hotch replied, his voice calm and measured. “Let me know if you need anything.”

With that, you nodded, clutching your folder tightly as you slipped out of the room. Hotch watched you go, his thoughts swirling as the door clicked shut behind you.

For a man who prided himself on being able to read people, the realization of your feelings hit him like a revelation he hadn’t seen coming. And yet, as he stood there in the empty conference room, he couldn’t deny the warmth spreading through him at the thought.

Aaron Hotchner lingered in the empty conference room after you left, the soft click of the door echoing in the silence. He was rarely caught off guard, but your words—and the vulnerability behind them—had shaken something loose within him. You hadn’t outright said the words, but the implication was clear. And now that it was out in the open, he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed the signs before.

He sat down, his fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the table as he let himself think about it—about you. The way you’d look up at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, the way your cheeks flushed whenever he praised your work, the way you stumbled over your words in meetings but always managed to recover with a thoughtful, intelligent point.

And then there was his reaction to it all. How his gaze would linger on you longer than it should. How your shy smile had a way of softening the edges of his day. How, against his better judgment, he found himself looking forward to the moments you shared, no matter how brief or inconsequential they might have seemed.

He sighed, leaning back in the chair. He’d spent so long guarding himself, compartmentalizing his emotions to stay focused on the job. But with you, those walls had started to crack, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Your presence had a way of grounding him, reminding him that there was still room for warmth and connection in his life.

Later that evening, Hotch was in his office, going over the case files, when a knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Come in,” he called, expecting one of the team.

Instead, it was you. You stepped inside hesitantly, your file folder clutched to your chest like a shield. “I just wanted to apologize,” you said softly, not meeting his eyes. “Again. For earlier.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Hotch said, his tone gentle as he set the file aside. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering to his before darting away again. “I just—I don’t want to make things uncomfortable for you.”

Hotch stood and rounded the desk, leaning against the edge of it as he regarded you carefully. “You haven’t made me uncomfortable. If anything, I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

That made you look up, confusion flickering across your face. “What? Why?”

“Because I’ve noticed,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I’ve noticed the way you look at me. The way you try to hide it. And I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to make you feel self-conscious. But I also didn’t want to admit to myself that I’ve been doing the same thing.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes widening as his words sank in. “You... what?”

Hotch offered a small, almost hesitant smile. “I’ve been trying to ignore it. To convince myself that it’s unprofessional or impractical. But the truth is, I feel it too.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of his confession hanging in the air between you. He could see the disbelief in your expression, the way you seemed to be processing his words in real time.

“I don’t know where this goes,” Hotch continued, his tone careful but sincere. “But I do know that I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t feel something when I do.”

You stared at him, your grip on the file loosening slightly. “I didn’t think... I mean, I never thought you’d...”

“I know,” he said gently. “I haven’t exactly made it easy to tell.”

A small, tentative smile broke across your face, and Hotch felt a warmth spread through him at the sight. It was as if some unspoken weight had lifted, leaving room for something lighter, something brighter.

“I guess we’re both bad at this,” you said softly, your voice carrying a hint of shy humor.

Hotch chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Maybe. But we can figure it out.”

You nodded, the tension in your shoulders easing as your smile grew. “Okay.”

For the first time in a long time, Aaron Hotchner allowed himself to feel the full weight of hope, the possibility of something beyond the job, beyond the walls he’d built around himself. And as he watched you leave his office, your steps lighter than before, he couldn’t help but think that this—whatever it was—might just be worth the risk.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

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[harryssyndrome]

Hoax | h.s

summery: “don’t want no other shade blue but you. No other sadness in the world would do…”

based off this request. Thank you so much anon for this idea, this was so fun writing and I hope it’s something you were looking for. I tried to be as angsty as possible with a blend of cutesy sweet, hope it’s a perfect mix. Let me know in the comments? [thank you! mwah mwah mwah 💋]

Posted on: November 26th, 2024. I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO COPY OR TRANSLATE MY WORK IN ANY PLATFORM. Like, comment & reblog are appreciated 💓Italics are past memories. Hope you lovelies enjoy this little big piece.

wc: 6.6k (oops🤭) || Masterlist 🤍

Tag-List: @fruity-harry @angeldavis777 @wheredidmyeyesgo @cherryloveshs | TAGLIST IS OPEN! || REQUESTS ARE OPEN!! 💌

The morning had started just like any other, the sun streaming in through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow over everything, but YN barely noticed. She sat at the counter, her hands curled around a coffee mug, its warmth barely a match for the cold ache building inside her. The apartment felt empty, despite the soft hum of the city just outside the window. She could feel the weight of the silence pressing down on her, a silence that had grown more oppressive over the past few weeks.

Harry had been on tour for what seemed like forever now, and their communication had dwindled. What had once been late-night calls and stolen moments between sound checks had turned into rushed, distracted conversations, where he was either too busy or too tired to give her his full attention. YN had always known the demands of his career, had always been willing to share him with the world, but it was starting to feel like he was slipping further away from her.

She had tried to be understanding, tried to remind herself that this was just a phase—that he was only gone for a while, and they would find their way back to each other. But today felt different. Something in the air was charged with tension, a sense of dread that hung around her like a cloud. Harry had promised to call her during his break between rehearsals, and as the minutes ticked by, that sense of unease only grew. She hadn’t heard from him, not even a text to explain why.

When the phone finally rang, she grabbed it with an anxious breath, hoping for the reassurance she so desperately needed.

“Hey, babe,” Harry’s voice crackled through the phone, distant and strained. There was a tiredness in his voice that made her heart ache even more.

“Hi,” she replied softly, trying to keep her tone light, but the worry slipped out anyway. “I was starting to wonder if you forgot about me.”

Harry didn’t immediately answer, and YN could feel him shifting on the other end, perhaps looking for the right words, or maybe just gathering the energy to engage with her. “I didn’t forget,” he said after a beat, his voice uncharacteristically flat. “It’s just… things are hectic right now. You know how it is.”

YN frowned, her fingers tightening around her mug. She knew how it was. She knew that Harry’s tour schedule was demanding, that he barely had time to breathe, let alone talk to her. But it was different now. It had been different for weeks, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“I get it, Harry,” she said softly, trying to keep the frustration from her voice. “But it feels like we haven’t really talked in days. I feel like I’m losing you.”

The words hung in the air between them, thick with unspoken emotions. She didn’t want to say it. She didn’t want to accuse him of pulling away, but she couldn’t ignore what was happening anymore. She missed him. She missed the way they used to connect, how they’d stay up all night talking about their dreams and fears, how they’d laugh until their stomachs ached. Now, it felt like all they did was talk about logistics and time zones. She wanted more than that.

Harry let out a heavy sigh, and for a moment, she thought he was going to apologize, that he would offer the comfort she so desperately needed. But instead, his voice grew colder, his words sharper. “You miss me? Maybe you miss the version of me that you had before all of this. But I’m not the same person anymore, YNN. I’m just tired. Tired of feeling like I’m constantly being pulled in a million directions.”

Her heart sank at his words, the finality in them hitting her harder than she had expected. “What does that mean?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s words came out in a rush, almost like he couldn’t stop them, as if they were coming from a place deeper than he intended. “It means that I don’t have the energy for this right now. I don’t have the energy to keep pretending that everything is fine when it’s not. And maybe I’m just tired of pretending that you’re not asking for more than I can give. Maybe I need space. Maybe we both need space.”

The words stabbed her. She felt them deep in her chest, each one like a dagger, twisting further with every breath. “Space?” she echoed, barely able to form the word, the hurt creeping into her voice despite her best efforts to hold it back. “I’m not asking for space, Harry. I’m just asking for you. For the person you promised me you’d always be.”

Harry didn’t respond right away, and when he did, his voice was tight, defensive. “Maybe that person isn’t here anymore, YNN. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to say.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. YN could hear the faint rustling of something on his end of the phone, the noise of people moving in the background, but it didn’t matter. The emptiness between them felt so loud, so unbearable. The connection that once held them together was fraying, thread by thread.

She swallowed hard, the tears welling in her eyes. “Fine,” she said, her voice breaking as she spoke. “If that’s how you feel, then I guess I’ll leave.”

The words came out before she could stop them, and she immediately regretted them. But the damage was done. The silence that followed was deafening, and the weight of Harry’s absence felt so heavy, so crushing, that she could barely breathe. The person she loved, the person she had given everything to, had just told her he was done. He was tired of her.

Before she could say another word, she ended the call. The click of the phone disconnecting felt like the final nail in the coffin, sealing whatever it was that they had left.

YN sat there for a long moment, staring at the phone in her hand as if it were some foreign object. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Her mind was numb, her thoughts tangled in confusion and hurt. The apartment, their shared space, felt so small now. It felt suffocating. Every corner of the place was a reminder of everything that had once been good, everything that was now falling apart.

Tears blurred her vision as she stood up from the counter. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know where to go. But she couldn’t stay there. Not with him, not with the words he had just said. The love they had built felt like ashes, and she couldn’t breathe in the smoke any longer.

She started packing her things, her movements automatic, like she was on autopilot. Her hands shook as she threw clothes into a bag, not caring if they matched or if they were folded neatly. Nothing mattered in that moment except the urgent need to get away from the place that had once been home. She ignored the phone buzzing with messages, messages from Harry, apologizing, pleading with her to call him back. She couldn’t. Not yet. Not after the things he had said.

When she finished packing, she grabbed her bags and walked out the door. The apartment felt even emptier as she closed the door behind her. There were no more goodbyes, no more promises. Just the echo of his hurtful words ringing in her ears.

YN drove to her parents’ house in a daze, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had happened, about how quickly their love had unraveled. She needed space to think. To breathe. To figure out how to move on from this. But deep down, she knew it wasn’t that simple.

It wasn’t just a fight. It was something deeper. Something that couldn’t be fixed with apologies.

When she pulled into the driveway, she didn’t feel the relief she thought she would. Instead, the silence that had followed her from their apartment seemed to follow her here. Even the familiar sight of her childhood home didn’t offer the comfort it once had. It all felt distant. Empty. Just like her heart.

She stepped out of the car, closing the door behind her with a soft click. As she walked up to the front door, her phone buzzed again. She ignored it. She couldn’t bear to look at it. She couldn’t bear to see his name flashing on the screen. The man she loved had just shattered her heart into a million pieces, and she didn’t know how to pick them up.

The night had been a blur for Harry. The anger, the disappointment, the gnawing guilt in his chest from the argument with YN—it was all too much to bear. In the solitude of his hotel room, far from her, he drowned out the pain with alcohol. He knew he had messed up, knew he had hurt her with his words, but the overwhelming pressure of being on tour, the constant demand of being a public figure, and the exhaustion had driven him to the brink. He had never intended for it to escalate the way it did, but in his drunken haze, it all came crashing down.

Somewhere between the blurry shots and the endless stream of drinks, he found himself in a bar, surrounded by strangers, feeling more alone than he had in a long time. His phone was buzzing on the table, the screen lighting up with YN’s name flashing, but he didn’t pick it up. The coldness in his heart had become too unbearable, and he pushed her away instead of confronting the hurt he had caused. He just wanted the world to stop spinning for a moment. He wanted to forget everything that had gone wrong.

And that was when Emily Ratajkowski had walked in.

They had known each other for years, casually friendly in the way celebrities often are when their circles overlap. Emily, ever the charmer, had greeted Harry with a friendly smile. They sat and talked, their conversation casual at first, just the usual small talk about work and life. But Harry, caught in his haze of regret, had let his guard down. The more they talked, the more the words flowed. In some strange way, it felt easy to talk to her—like she was a stranger he could confide in, someone who didn’t carry the same weight of their past, the years of intimacy and history he shared with YN.

It didn’t take long before the alcohol took its toll. Emily’s laughter had filled the air, and Harry had found himself leaning closer, her presence soothing in a way that made him forget the ache in his chest. Before he knew it, they were kissing. His mind screamed for him to stop, to think about YN, to remember everything he stood to lose. But in that moment, he didn’t. The guilt had been smothered by the fleeting comfort of the kiss, the escape from his spiraling thoughts.

He didn’t remember much after that. The night blurred into incoherence, a jumble of laughter, flashes, and fleeting touches. Harry woke up the next morning, disoriented and groggy, the light filtering through the hotel room window far too bright. His phone was buzzing incessantly, and his stomach churned when he saw the series of missed calls and messages from YN. The weight of it all hit him like a wave, and for a moment, he just sat there, trying to piece together the fragments of his memories.

Then, his phone lit up with an alert—a notification from a gossip website, and his heart dropped into his stomach. There, in front of him, were pictures of him and Emily Ratajkowski, the kind of photos Harry had spent years avoiding. They were kissing, their lips pressed together, captured in a moment of reckless abandon that Harry didn’t even fully remember. The headline was cruel: Harry Styles and Emily Ratajkowski—A New Romance in the Making?

His throat tightened as he scrolled through the photos, his mind racing. He didn’t remember kissing her. He didn’t remember anything about that night except the overwhelming sense of regret that now gripped him. He had ruined everything. The fragile thread holding him together seemed to snap in that moment. He had lost YN, and now the media would make sure the world knew it. His personal life was on full display, and all he could think about was how much he had fucked it all up.

Desperation began to rise in his chest, and without thinking, he began sending text after text to YN, each one filled with apologies, regret, and pleas for her to talk to him. But she didn’t answer. The silence on the other end was deafening.

Meanwhile, YN was in her parents’ house, sitting in the living room with the muted glow of the television casting long shadows across the room. The house, once a place of comfort and warmth, now felt suffocating. Her mother had been quiet ever since YN arrived, sensing the heavy tension in the air. She tried to comfort her daughter, offering tea, but YN couldn’t bring herself to care. The weight of the argument, of the harsh words Harry had said, sat heavily in her chest, gnawing at her.

But when the photos surfaced—when she saw Harry with Emily, their lips locked, the headlines flashing across her phone—her world shattered all over again. The room spun around her, and she felt like she was suffocating. The love she had poured into her relationship with Harry now felt like a cruel joke. She had trusted him. She had believed in him. And now this—this betrayal was too much to bear.

Tears blurred her vision, and she quickly turned away from her phone. Her mother noticed the change in her expression and asked softly, “YN, what’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“I can’t do this,” YN whispered, choking on her tears. “I can’t keep doing this. I thought he loved me… but now… now I don’t know who he is anymore. It didn’t even take him a night to move on?”

Her mother hugged her tightly, murmuring comforting words, but YN couldn’t hear them. The pain of what she had seen—the public humiliation of it all—felt like a physical weight on her chest. She needed to get away. She needed to clear her head.

“I’m going for a walk,” she said, her voice distant, as if she were speaking to herself rather than her mother.

Her mother nodded, understanding the need for space, and watched as YN stepped outside, the cool evening air wrapping around her like a blanket.

The lake stretched out before her, calm and unbothered by the storm raging inside her. Its surface shimmered faintly under the overcast sky, the golden light of the fading afternoon barely breaking through the thick clouds. The familiar sight of it— the way the trees reflected on the water, the distant sound of birds, the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore-should have brought YN the comfort she was seeking. But all it did was make her chest tighten with a suffocating ache.

She had always come to this place for solace, even as a child. The lake by her parents' house was her sanctuary, a space where the noise of the world couldn't touch her. But now, as she stood there, arms wrapped tightly around herself against the crisp autumn air, the silence was deafening. It wasn't peace she found here today. It was the echo of memories she had desperately tried to bury since she walked out of the home she had once shared with Harry.

Her boots crunched softly against the earth as she made her way closer to the water's edge, the damp grass soaking the hem of her dress. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the faintest scent of pine and earth. But YN didn't notice. Her mind was far away, replaying a reel of memories she wished she could turn off. No matter how much she tried to focus on the present, her past with Harry came rushing back to her, vivid and bittersweet.

She crouched down near the shore, her fingertips brushing against the cool surface of the water. As ripples spread outward, her thoughts drifted to another time, another version of herself-a happier one. She closed her eyes, and it all came rushing back as if she were still there.

It had been a summer evening, the sun setting in brilliant hues of orange and pink.

Harry had been sitting on the dock, legs stretched out, his feet just barely skimming the water. YN had been lying beside him, her head resting on his thigh as they shared a bottle of wine they had stolen from her parents' pantry. The lake had been their escape that summer, a place where the chaos of Harry's career and the pressures of the world seemed to melt away.

"This place is magic," Harry had murmured, running his fingers absentmindedly through her hair. His voice had been low, almost reverent, as he looked out at the water.

YN had tilted her head to glance up at him, a smile tugging at her lips. "You always say that," she teased. "But you're not wrong."

He grinned, his dimple deepening as he looked down at her. "It's true, though. Don't you feel it? It's like... time stops here. Like nothing bad can touch us."

She had laughed softly, the sound blending with the gentle rustle of the trees.

"That's what l've always loved about this place. It's quiet. Peaceful. Away from everything."

Harry had hummed in agreement, his gaze softening as he studied her. "One day, YNN... one day l'd love to settle down somewhere like this. Away from the noise. Just us."

Her breath had caught at his words, her heart skipping a beat. "Just us?" she'd asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Well," he'd added, his lips twitching into a playful smile, "maybe not just us. I'm thinking a couple of little ones running around, maybe a dog... or two."

YN's heart skipped at his words, her stomach flipping in that way it always did when he hinted at their future. She laughed, nudging him playfully. "Little ones, huh? You planning on starting a family with me already, Styles?"

Harry grinned, his dimple showing as he leaned closer, the teasing glint in his eyes softening into something deeper. "Why not? I mean it, YNN. I'd love that. A house by the lake. Waking up every morning with you by my side. Teaching our kids how to fish or swim or whatever it is people do out here. It sounds perfect."

Her breath caught as she looked at him, the sincerity in his words tugging at something deep within her. "It does," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "It sounds perfect."

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her cheek. "You're perfect," he murmured, and before she could respond, he leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips.

The world had faded away then, leaving only the two of them, wrapped in a bubble of love and possibility.

“I wouldn’t want anything less than forever when it comes to you.”

His words had settled into her heart like a warm glow, and she had leaned in to kiss him, the taste of wine still lingering on his lips. In that moment, with the sun setting and the world quiet around them, she had believed him. She had believed in forever.

YN blinked, the memory dissolving as the present came crashing back. The lake was still, the air cold, and Harry wasn't there. Her chest ached as she stared at the dock, the image of them sitting there overlaying the reality of its emptiness. She could almost hear his laughter, feel his hand in hers, but it was all in her mind.

The betrayal burned anew, the image of him with Emily flashing behind her eyes.

How could he have said those things, painted that picture of their future, and then so carelessly let it all fall apart? How could he kiss someone else after everything they had shared?

How had they gone from that to this? How had the man who once promised her forever ended up kissing someone else? The image of Harry and Emily flashed in her mind again, sharper this time, and her stomach twisted. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, trying to hold together the pieces of her heart that felt like they were falling apart.

The lake, once her sanctuary, now felt like a cruel reminder of everything she had lost. The life she had envisioned with Harry-the house by the lake, the little ones running around, the forever they had dreamed of-felt like a distant, unattainable dream. And yet, no matter how much she wanted to hate him, to shut him out completely, her heart wouldn't let her. She still loved him, even now, even after everything.

YN sank down onto the grass, her knees pulled to her chest, tears streaming freely now. She thought of the countless nights they had spent talking about their dreams, their plans. The way Harry had once made her feel so safe, so sure of their love. And now, it all felt like a cruel joke, a dream turned nightmare.

"Why, Harry?" she whispered into the stillness. "Why did you have to ruin everything?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered, as the sun dipped lower on the horizon.

She let herself cry then, the sobs wracking her body as she finally allowed herself to feel the full weight of her heartbreak. The lake bore silent witness to her pain, its surface rippling gently as if trying to offer her some semblance of comfort.

The lake, once her sanctuary, now felt like a graveyard for their love.

When she returned to the house, her heart felt heavy, each step laden with the weight of everything she was feeling. But it wasn't the emptiness of the house that grabbed her attention; it was the faint sound-the small, deliberate taps against the window. At first, she thought it was the rain playing tricks on her, the gentle taps against the glass. But when she heard it again-sharp and insistent-her breath caught in her throat.

Her mind didn't even have time to process it fully. She spun toward the window, her heart pounding in her chest. And there he was.

Harry.

He stood in the pouring rain, his face pale, his hair clinging to his skin. His clothes were soaked through, and his hands trembled slightly as he threw small pebbles at the window, as if trying to wake her from a nightmare she couldn't escape. She stood frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do. Was this real? Was this the same man who had hurt her so badly?

But then, she saw it in his eyes-the desperation. The raw vulnerability. The silent plea for forgiveness that spoke louder than words ever could. He was standing there, drenched, with nothing left to lose. He was a broken man, and in that moment, she could see that he knew he had ruined everything.

Before she could stop herself, she ran to the down to the front door, threw it open, and without thinking, rushed outside into the rain.

The rain fell in torrents, its relentless downpour drowning out all sound except for the beat of water against the ground. Harry stood before YN, drenched, his eyes wide with desperate urgency, a look of raw pain etched into every line of his face. His clothes clung to his body, soaked through, but it was nothing compared to the turmoil inside of him.

“YN…” His voice broke, as if the weight of her name was too much to bear. His hand reached out shakily, desperate to bridge the gap between them, but she pulled away slightly. He flinched, not from her rejection, but from the weight of his own guilt that seemed to pull him lower with every passing second.

“I—” He took a breath, trying to steady himself, but his words tumbled out in a frantic rush. “I never meant for it to be this way. I never meant to hurt you, YNN. I swear, I never thought—God, I was so drunk, so damn stupid. I don’t even remember what happened, but I know I messed up. I know I messed everything up.”

YN’s heart clenched painfully in her chest. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him how much he had hurt her, how much his words still stung like a constant ache in her soul. But instead, she stood there, her breath coming in ragged bursts, staring at him as he trembled in the rain. She wasn’t sure whether it was the cold of the storm or the pain inside him that made him shudder, but it was impossible to ignore the depth of his regret.

“You do remember, Harry,” she finally spoke, her voice shaking but strong. “You remember everything, even if you don’t remember that moment. You remember the things you said to me. You remember how you treated me. How you—” She stopped herself, not wanting to continue with the painful words. But the memory of his cutting tone, his dismissive words, echoed in her mind, taunting her, making her question everything they had ever shared. “I trusted you. I loved you. And you—you broke me.”

Harry’s eyes welled with unshed tears as he took a step toward her, this time not caring if she pulled away. He was beyond caring about the rain, beyond caring about anything except for the woman standing before him, the one person who had always been his everything.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, and she could see the raw vulnerability in his eyes. “I know I broke you. And that’s the worst part of it. I never wanted to hurt you. Not in a million years. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you, YNN. You’re it for me, you always have been.” He reached for her again, but this time she didn’t pull away. His fingers brushed against hers, a tentative touch, as if he were afraid she might vanish the moment he let go.

“But I let my stupid insecurities, my stupid mistakes, cloud everything,” he continued, his voice cracking. “I’ve never been more scared of losing someone than I am of losing you, and I couldn’t see that until now. I couldn’t see that you are the one I need. That it’s not the fame, it’s not the tour, it’s not anyone or anything else—it’s you, YN. You’re the only thing that matters.”

The words hung in the air like fragile threads, each one trembling with a rawness that made YN’s heart ache in ways she didn’t think possible. The anger, the hurt—it was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but now there was something else too: hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t all lost.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. She wanted to push him away, wanted to shout at him for what he had done, but when she looked at him—really looked at him—there was something so devastatingly human about him, standing there, shaking in the rain. He was broken, but there was sincerity in his apology, a plea that reached her heart in ways his words never had before.

“You don’t even understand what you’ve done to me, Harry,” she said, her voice quivering as she took a step back. “You think it’s just about what happened with her, with Emily? It’s not. It’s about everything that led up to that moment. It’s about the words you said to me, the way you dismissed everything we had, everything I gave you. It’s about how you made me feel like I wasn’t enough.”

Harry closed his eyes, a silent tear slipping down his cheek. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way, YNN. I never wanted you to feel like you weren’t enough. You’re everything to me. I’ve been an idiot, and I know I’ve hurt you, but please… don’t let this be the end for us. I can’t lose you. I just can’t… live without you. I can’t.”

The storm raged around them, but the silence between them felt deafening, thick with the weight of everything unsaid, everything unresolved. YN could feel the anger still bubbling inside her, but she also felt the pull of something deeper—the love she had for him, the love that she had thought was gone, but now seemed to flicker in her chest like a fragile flame.

She wanted to stay angry, to hold onto the hurt, but something inside her was giving way.

“Harry, I…” Her voice faltered, the words catching in her throat as her chest tightened painfully. “I don’t know if I can forgive you right now. I need time. I need space to figure this out.” She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes as the tears finally spilled over, mingling with the rain. “I don’t know if I can go back to who we were. You hurt me too much.”

He stepped forward again, his hand reaching for her, trembling with the force of his desperation. “Please, YN. I’ll do anything. I’ll give you all the space you need. I’ll be patient, I swear. I’ll wait as long as it takes. But don’t walk away from me. Please.”

She didn’t respond immediately. The storm had drowned out every thought, every hesitation in her mind, but there was still one thing she knew for certain: she couldn’t let him go. Not yet. She wasn’t ready. Not when her heart was still so tangled up in him, so unable to let go of the person he had once been to her.

“I need time,” she repeated softly, her voice barely audible against the pounding rain. “I need to think, Harry. Please, just… just go inside. I can’t—” She couldn’t finish the sentence, not without breaking apart completely.

Harry nodded, his face a picture of heartbreaking understanding. His heart was in pieces, but he was willing to wait, willing to do whatever it took to prove that he could make things right. Without another word, he turned toward the house, slowly, unwilling to leave her in the storm but knowing that he had to respect her need for space.

YN watched him go, her heart heavy in her chest, torn between love and hurt, between forgiveness and anger. The rain continued to pour, and as she stood there, feeling the cold seep into her bones, she wondered if they would ever find their way back to each other—or if this was the beginning of the end.

The night had felt like an eternity. Each minute stretched on, filled with haunting thoughts and the pounding rhythm of YNs heart. Her mind was tangled in knots, the anger still burning bright, but beneath it all, there was an undercurrent of something she couldn’t deny: the love she still had for Harry. It was the kind of love that had once felt so pure, so easy, but now felt fractured, jagged, like trying to hold onto a shattered glass piece that was bleeding into her heart.

She hadn’t been able to sleep. The past few days, the pain, the betrayal, the anger—it all swirled together in a mess that made her restless. Harry’s words from the night before—the desperate, raw apology—replayed over and over again in her mind, like a broken record. And yet, each time she thought of it, the hurt crept back in. She had tried to push it away, tried to convince herself that she could ignore it, but the reality was that she couldn’t. Not when the memories of their love, of their happy moments, still clung to her like the scent of his cologne.

But it wasn’t just the hurt she was feeling. There was something else, something deeper, something that felt too real to ignore. She couldn’t escape the way her heart still responded to Harry, no matter how hard she tried.

As the morning light began to filter through the windows, YN could no longer stay in the silence of her room. She had to see him. She had to confront everything that had happened and, maybe—just maybe—find a way to heal. But even as the desire to see him grew stronger, there was still that gnawing uncertainty. Could she really trust him again? Could she really forgive him for what had happened?

The house was quiet as she made her way down the stairs, the soft creak of the wooden steps echoing in the otherwise still air. The soft hum of the morning felt foreign against the heaviness that weighed on her shoulders, but she ignored it, pushing forward. When she stepped outside, the cold hit her like a rush, but it was nothing compared to the chill in her heart.

The lake was quiet, still as glass, the air thick with the faint scent of damp earth and fresh water. And there, sitting on the grass at the edge of the lake, was Harry. His posture was slumped, his shoulders drooped, as though the weight of the world was resting on him. The sight of him in this state, so broken and vulnerable, pulled at her heart in ways she couldn’t explain.

He looked so small, so lost.

For a moment, YN stood there, watching him. She wasn’t sure what to do, what to say. But as she watched him, she realized that she couldn’t stay away. Not anymore. She had to speak. She had to let him know how much he had hurt her, but also how much she still cared, despite everything.

Her footsteps were quiet on the soft earth as she made her way toward him. Harry didn’t look up immediately, but she could see the slight twitch of his head as if he felt her presence. His face was blank, his eyes staring out at the water, but there was something in the way he held himself that spoke volumes.

YN stopped just a few feet away, standing still as the silence stretched between them. For what felt like an eternity, neither of them spoke. The tension was thick, palpable, like a heavy fog.

Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore. The silence, the uncertainty. She had to break it.

“I don’t even know where to start, Harry,” she said, her voice trembling just slightly as she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to protect herself from the rawness of the moment. “You hurt me. You really hurt me. And I don’t know if I can ever forget what you said to me. What you did to us.”

Harry flinched, as if each word she spoke cut through him. He finally lifted his head, his red-rimmed eyes meeting hers. There was guilt in those eyes, raw and undeniable. His voice came out barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry, YNN. I’m so sorry. I can’t even begin to explain how much I regret everything. I was angry, and I was drunk, and I didn’t—” He cut himself off, his hands shaking as he clenched them into fists at his sides. “I never meant to hurt you. Not like that. You’re everything to me, YNN. You always have been.”

YN took a deep breath, her chest tight with the conflicting emotions. She wanted to stay angry, to protect herself from the pain he’d caused, but she couldn’t deny that his words, his remorse, were hitting something deep inside her. It wasn’t enough to erase the hurt, but it was a start. She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw how broken he was. He was a man who had made a mistake, but he was also a man who still cared for her.

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I don’t want to live in the hurt and the anger. I want to move past this, but I need to know that you’ll never do this again. I need to know that you’re willing to fight for us.”

Harry’s eyes welled up, the emotion overwhelming him. He reached out then, taking her hand gently, almost like he was afraid she might pull away. “I swear to you, YNN. I’ll fight for us. I’ll fight for you. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right. I’ll spend every single day proving to you that you’re worth more than anything, more than the stupid mistakes I’ve made. You mean everything to me.”

YN’s breath caught in her throat. It was impossible to ignore the depth of his words, the rawness in his voice. But it wasn’t just the words that got to her; it was the sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability that he rarely showed anyone, let alone her.

She stepped closer to him, her heart pounding as she tried to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside her. She had been so angry, so broken, but looking at him now, she realized that she couldn’t just walk away.

“I want to believe you, Harry,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I really do. But I need time. I need time to heal, to trust you again.”

Harry’s face softened, relief flooding through him. “I understand. Take all the time you need. I’ll be here, every step of the way. I’ll prove to you that I’m worth it. That we’re worth it.”

And in that moment, everything felt a little bit clearer. The storm inside her had not fully subsided, but the clouds were beginning to part, and the sun was starting to peek through. She stepped closer, closing the distance between them, and in one slow, careful motion, she placed her hand on his chest. The steady beat of his heart under her palm was a reminder of how much he still cared.

“I’m willing to try,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m willing to try if you promise me that you’ll never let me go again.”

Harry’s eyes shone with tears, and he pulled her into his arms, his hands cupping her face gently as he kissed her forehead, his lips brushing softly over her skin. “I promise you, YNN. I’ll never let you go. You’re my everything. I love you.”

YN closed her eyes, letting his words wash over her. She hadn’t been sure if she could forgive him, if she could ever move past the hurt. But standing here in his arms, feeling his heart beat against hers, she realized that love wasn’t always easy. It wasn’t always simple. But it was worth fighting for.

“I love you too,” she whispered back, her voice trembling with emotion.

And as they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world around them felt a little less heavy, a little less uncertain. The future was still unclear, but for the first time in a long time, they both had hope.

They’ll be alright.

[ghcstao3]

it takes an embarrassingly long time for soap to notice ghost’s irises are two different colours.

for a while now, he’d been operating under the assumption that they were both brown—it was true enough that the colour was dark, though maybe some of his perception was marred by the fact of often only seeing ghost in low lighting and with a mask to shade his eyes. so it’s not soap’s fault, not really.

but he does still stop in his tracks when a proper, direct stream of sunlight briefly drapes over ghost’s face one early morning during an op, just as the sun was rising. he does still have the breath stolen from his lungs when he sees that his assumptions were wrong—at least in part.

because one iris is brown—it’s deep and rich like freshly-brewed coffee, flecked with a honey gold like tiger’s eye. it’s warm in spite of ghost, and anything but dull.

the other, however, is a mellow sort of green, hazel in that dark lighting soap had grown so used to. but with the sun in ghost’s eyes, even for such a short time, reveals it to be almost forest-like, the vibrant foliage to match the sturdy trunk and roots.

together, ghost’s gaze is mesmerizing. and now knowing the truth about their colour, soap thinks he really sees it no, no matter when or where. he sees the subtle difference from afar, in the dark; the stark contrast in the light. soap thinks ghost’s eyes are beautiful. lovely.

now he just needs to figure out a way to get to admire them from up close.

[inkedinshadows]

Under the Summer Sun

Pairing: Azriel x Summer Court!reader

Summary: Azriel's mate takes him on a little vacation in the Summer Court, where she introduces him to a shocking tradition of her home court.

Warnings: none

Word count: 3.5k

A/N: I have one thing to say about this one, and it's that I had no idea where I was going when I started writing. I had a general idea, and that was it. Everything else came to me thanks to little sleep, lot of coffee, too many classes, and missing summer. This fic is really silly and I have no idea how it became this long tbh

@azrielappreciationweek

Azriel had been to the Summer Court many times, but never on vacation. He had gone on missions, of course, and to check in with his informants stationed there. Then there was that one time with his family, which had resulted in a wrecked building and Cassian's consequent ban. The last time he'd been here, it was to defend Adriata against Hybern.

And now, he was here with you. Somehow, you had managed to convince him to take a whole week off. Maybe it had something to do with you batting your long lashes at him, knowing he could never say no when you looked so cute. Or perhaps it was because you had already talked to Rhys, who had agreed that his brother needed some time to relax.

Either way, Azriel was glad you had convinced him. You were staying in your family's vacation house in a little town south of Adriata. The first day was spent in bed, cuddling and making love, getting up only to eat—as you had done years ago after accepting the mating bond. On the second day, you showed him the town and the places where you had grown up. But today would be a surprise. You had refused to tell him exactly what you'd be doing, claiming only that it was a common custom in the Summer Court.

“Are you ready, my love?”

Your voice came from behind the bathroom door, and Azriel glanced at his reflection in the mirror one last time. His half-naked self stared back. You had given him a simple piece of clothing to put on, and you’d been very clear about wearing only that.

Azriel was confused.

It looked like underwear, but it was too long, reaching his mid-thigh, and it was a bit looser around his legs. The deep blue fabric was unusual—soft yet a bit thicker than his regular underwear, and elastic. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but he didn’t understand why you wanted him to wear such a thing. It wasn’t alluring or anything like that. At least, he didn’t think it was.

With a sigh, he opened the door. “Sweetheart, I’m not sure—”

His words died on his tongue as his eyes settled on you. Standing in the center of the bedroom, you were wearing a new set of lingerie he had never seen before. The fabric seemed similar to the one he was wearing, but yours was a shade of cerulean blue that complemented your dark skin. It hugged your curves perfectly, tight enough to cover yet revealing in all the right ways.

“So?” you asked with a smile, spinning around so he could see you even better. “What do you think?”

Azriel closed the distance between you in two long strides, and his hands immediately found your exposed waist.

“You're breathtaking, my love,” he murmured, his eyes scanning you from head to toe. He could never get enough of you—your smooth skin, your soft body, your scent. And whenever you surprised him with something like this, his head felt as if it were spinning.

“I'm glad you like it.” You looked down at your body, brushing your fingertips over the hem of your bra. Azriel wanted to kiss the spot where the fabric met your skin. “It's been years since I last got to wear one of these.”

He had to suppress his rising desire to focus on your words. He frowned at the hint of melancholy that laced your tone. “What do you mean? You can wear it whenever you want.” His fingers pressed slightly into your flesh as he leaned down to whisper directly in your ear. “You look ravishing, sweetheart.”

He felt your body react to his words and touch as it always did—relaxing in his hold, leaning imperceptibly closer. But there was a playful smile on your lips when you asked, “What do you think this is, Az?”

Azriel's frown deepened. “New underwear?”

You hummed, amusement glinting in your eyes. But instead of answering, you slipped out of his grasp. “Let me take a good look at you.”

He grew more confused by the second. You studied him, eyes focused on what looked more like short pants than boxers. Yet there was no hint of desire on your face. Your gaze didn't roam over his body with that intensity that made heat bloom in his lower stomach. You didn't bite your bottom lip, didn't reach out to touch the bare muscles of his chest, and your breath didn't catch as it always did when you wanted him.

“You look so handsome,” you said eventually. Your gaze finally met his, and your amused smile widened at his confusion. “We can go now.”

Azriel blinked, but you were already heading for the door, grabbing a bag from the floor on your way out.

He immediately trailed after you, following you downstairs. His shadows swarmed around him, flying over to tangle in the ends of your hair as if trying to coax an answer out of you. But even they couldn't read minds, and you didn't offer an explanation.

“Go where?” he questioned, watching you put your slippers on. What did you even need shoes for?

“The beach,” you answered, as if it were obvious.

Azriel just stared at you. He was waiting for a punchline or a joke, because surely you couldn't be serious. But when you arched a brow, that smirk still playing on your lips, he realized you weren't joking.

“What do you mean?” he asked then.

“This is not underwear, Az,” you finally explained in an amused tone. “They're swimsuits. Mine's called a bikini, and yours are swim trunks.” You lifted the bag in your hand as if to prove your point. “I have beach towels. We're going to the beach.”

He gaped at you. “You really mean to tell me you want to go outside wearing…” He glanced down at himself, then at you. “Just this?” he finished.

“That's exactly what I'm telling you.” You shrugged, as if the thought of walking around with just a scrap of clothing didn't bother you at all.

“There's no way you're going out dressed like that,” he said firmly. “You're basically naked.”

“I'm not naked!” You sounded outraged, but he could see you were trying not to laugh. “I'm wearing a bikini.”

Azriel crossed his arms. He had never once told you what you could or couldn't wear, and he didn't want to start now. But a revealing dress or a plunging neckline were different from… this. The thought of everyone seeing you with nothing more than two small pieces of fabric made his jaw clench.

“How is it any different from going out wearing underwear?” he pressed.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, falling silent for a moment. “I don't know,” you mumbled. “It's just socially acceptable here to go to the beach like this.”

He thought he was getting through to you, that he just needed to push a bit more and then you'd see how inappropriate it was. Instead, you stood straighter again and adjusted the bag on your shoulder.

“Come on, Az,” you said, your voice low and inviting. “It'll be fun. I've done this a thousand times already. I promise you, it's totally normal here.”

Azriel knew what you were doing. You thought that if you used that tone, if you batted your lashes and looked at him with your big doe eyes, he would cave. Normally, he would. He could hardly say no to you. But he couldn't stand the thought of someone else seeing his mate clad only in underwear. Bikini. Whatever it was called.

“Y/N, that's not the point. I—”

Before he could finish, your lips curled into a mischievous smirk, and you suddenly turned and bolted out the front door before he could catch you.

Cursing under his breath, Azriel quickly slipped on his shoes and followed you outside, not caring about his own underdressed state.

You hadn't gone far, not with those slippers that made running nearly impossible. He caught up to you just as you turned the corner, his hand grabbing your arm, his shadows swirling around both of you to hide your indecent state.

You stopped in your tracks and pointed to the beach just at the end of the short street. “Look,” you said simply.

Azriel did, and his eyes widened at what was probably one of the most shocking sights he'd ever seen.

There weren't many people, but you were right. Everyone—males and females, High Fae or lesser faeries, even the few children—was wearing the so-called swimsuits. And no one paid anyone else a second glance. Everyone minded their own business, either lying on towels or swimming. Some of the children were playing in the sand.

His shadows dimmed under the sunlight, halting their swirling around your bodies and disappearing completely soon after.

“Is it really that normal here?” he asked, a hint of surprise still in his voice. His gaze slowly returned to you.

“This is the Summer Court, Az,” you replied with a chuckle. “What kind of people would we be if we didn't enjoy our sea in this heat?” You took his hand, giving it a gentle tug to make him follow as you began walking again. “Come on. You're a big Illyrian. Don't tell me you're shy.”

Despite his lingering shock, Azriel couldn't help the smile spreading across his face. “It's not that.”

He had never had a problem with nakedness. He'd seen plenty over the centuries, enough not to be bothered by it. It was the idea of willingly wearing nothing more than underwear—and he wouldn't let you convince him that it was anything other than that—and going out in public. More specifically, it was the idea of his beautiful mate going out in public like that. It was a sight usually reserved just for him, and he didn't want to share it with anyone.

“Fine.” You playfully rolled your eyes. “If someone looks at me the wrong way, you can bash his teeth out. Is that better?”

He knew you were joking, but the fact that you were aware of his concern and the way you dismissed it so lightheartedly actually helped him relax.

“It is, yes,” he confirmed, only half-joking. He wouldn't actually do it unless it was an extreme situation, and he knew you could hold your own without his help, but still. He couldn't suppress the protective—and possessive, if he was being honest—streak that was only emphasized by your bond.

“See, this is why I didn't tell you what we'd be doing today,” you teased. You had reached the beach now, and you led him to an empty spot away from the others before letting go of his hand. “Because you wouldn't have agreed.”

Azriel couldn't deny that you were right. It would have taken a lot of convincing and persuasion to get him to agree to this.

Or maybe just your smile.

You took off your slippers and buried your bare feet in the white sand, wiggling your toes through the grains. You breathed in the scent of sea and salt in the air, your eyes closed. And the soft, fond smile that graced your lips as you reconnected with your homeland court made him fall in love with you all over again. It was a smile he’d do anything to see, and Azriel made a mental note to bring you to the Summer Court more often.

He followed your lead and slipped off his shoes. The sand was warm under his soles, and the morning sun heated his tanned skin. He even spread his wings a little, basking in the sensation.

“So, what do we do now?” he asked after a moment.

Your eyes opened, and you crouched down to open the bag you’d dropped on the ground. “Now we set the towels down,” you answered, pulling one out and handing it to him. “It’s probably too small for you, but I don’t have a beach towel for overgrown bats, so…”

Azriel shook his head, used to your endless teasing. You chuckled softly, and after you both placed your towels on the sand—his was, indeed, too small—you took his hand again, walking backward toward the shore and pulling him along.

“Now we go swimming,” you declared, then paused, a small frown creasing your brow. “You do know how to swim, right?”

It was Azriel’s turn to chuckle. “Of course I can swim, sweetheart. I just don’t remember the last time I had to.”

“Well, then,” you said with a smile, rising on your toes to kiss him, “let’s go make some memories.”

Without waiting for a response, you ran into the ocean with a delighted squeal and dove in, water splashing around you. Azriel didn’t move immediately, and simply watched as you emerged, eyes bright and smile wide.

You were the picture of joy.

The last time he had seen you this happy was probably at your mating ceremony, when you had appeared in that stunning teal and gold dress, looking like a vision. And now, as you stood in the water, Azriel was suddenly grateful you had brought him here. Droplets trickled down your body, your brown skin glistening in the sunlight as you moved your wet hair out of your face.

You beckoned him with a hand, and his feet moved of their own accord, guiding him toward you. He inhaled sharply as the cold water reached his thighs, sloshing around his wings. He didn't know how you could look so at ease when he was shivering, but you were in your element after all, while he was completely out of his.

“Aw,” you cooed as he reached you. “Is my little bat cold?”

Azriel grimaced, his tone playful as he pulled you closer. “First you call me an overgrown bat, and now I’m a little one?”

Your wet body pressed against his still-dry chest, and your hair dripped water onto his tattooed skin as you looked up at him. “Well, yes,” you confirmed, stating it as if it were an obvious fact. “Illyrians are overgrown bats, but you’re my little bat.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “You know I’m a head taller than you, right? I’m not little.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but then you closed it without saying a word. Azriel could see the wheels turning in your head as you stepped away from him, a mischievous grin spreading across your face.

“What is it?” he asked, knowing that expression all too well. “What did you just think?”

“There's this thing my father always did when I was a child,” you explained. “I loved it, and now I want you to do it too.”

After all the crazy ideas you'd hit him with over the years—this beach day being the latest—Azriel wasn't sure he wanted to know what you were talking about now, but he still lifted a brow. “And said thing is…?”

Your smile widened. “Throw me in the water.”

Azriel frowned. He must have heard that wrong. “What?”

But you nodded enthusiastically, grabbing his hands and placing them on your hips. “Pick me up and throw me in the water. You're strong enough to do it, c'mon.”

His fingers tightened on your hips, but he still wasn't convinced. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you love me and I asked nicely?” you tried, batting your lashes at him.

Azriel chuckled. “I do love you, but you did not ask nicely.” He pulled you closer, his fingers brushing the hem of your panties. Gods, it still felt like underwear to him, and all he wanted was to take them off. “You ordered me to do it.”

You laughed with him. “Sorry about that.” Pulling him down, you pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Love of my life, my mate, my everything, will you please be so kind as to use your beautiful, strong muscles to pick me up and throw me in the water? It's fun, and I’d really appreciate it.”

He knew you were teasing, but his heartbeat quickened with every word of flattery, even after all these years. “You are unbelievable,” he mumbled, stealing another kiss.

Though he still didn't understand how it could be fun, and wasn’t sure if he even liked the idea, his hands slid up to your waist. He lifted you effortlessly, water cascading off your body as he hoisted you out of the ocean. He hesitated for a moment, but when he saw your excited smile, he threw you back into the water, expecting you to twist midair and gracefully dive in. You had the agility and flexibility for it. He knew you could do it.

But you didn’t.

You let yourself plummet straight into the ocean, your laughter swallowed by the water as you plunged in, splashing it all around. The water was so clear he could see you sink for a moment before you kicked your legs and emerged, grinning from ear to ear.

Azriel stopped questioning whether it was fun or not. It didn't matter if it was childish and silly. After all, he still had snowball fights with his brothers.

All that mattered was the joy written on your face, and as he made his way over to you, he found himself wishing he had a place like this—somewhere he cherished returning to, a place filled with memories of a happy childhood.

“You probably think I'm crazy,” you said as you treaded water. He could still touch the seabed here, but it was now too deep for you.

“A little,” he admitted with a smile. “But as long as it makes you happy, love.”

You looped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer as his hands found their way back to your hips. Pressing your body against his, you rubbed the tip of your nose against his. “There’s something else that would make me happy right now,” you murmured, gazing into his eyes.

Azriel’s smile widened as he leaned in for a kiss, but before he knew it, you had pulled him under the surface. He had adjusted to the water’s temperature by now, but the sudden, full submersion still made him shiver. His first instinct was to break the surface and take a deep breath—something he would have done already if only you had told him what you were planning. Before he could, though, you used your magic to create a bubble of oxygen around the two of you, allowing him to breathe.

“So drowning your mate is what makes you happy?” he asked skeptically.

“Sorry about that,” you chuckled, eyes glinting with mischief. “But the surprise on your face was priceless.”

Azriel lifted a brow, readjusting his wings. It had been so long since the last time he was underwater that it took a moment to remember how to position them properly, preventing himself from floating back up.

You laughed, your hair swirling around you like a shimmering, silver crown inside the bubble.

“No, but it was fun,” you answered. You cupped his face, kicking your feet to swim just a little closer to him. “What would really make me happy is something I’ve always wanted to do, but I need to let the bubble disappear. I promise I’ll summon it again as soon as we’re done.”

Azriel frowned slightly, but he had an idea of what you wanted to do. He could only hope he was right, because he had a feeling you wouldn’t explain it if he asked.

He nodded, and with that, you called back your magic. Water rushed around you again, but this time he inhaled deeply before it was too late. And then you proved his suspicions correct.

You pulled him in for a kiss, and he tasted the salty water on your lips. His hands settled gently on the sides of your neck, keeping you close. As you both kicked your legs to stay submerged, Azriel understood why you wanted to do this. It felt intimate, like you were the only two beings in the entire ocean.

It reminded him of the way kissing you felt when he was flying with you cradled in his arms—the world faded away, shrinking until nothing existed but the two of you.

It lasted only a few seconds, but when you parted, both of you were smiling. As promised, you summoned another bubble as soon as your lips left his.

“That was nice,” he murmured, his voice soft.

“Good, because we’ll definitely do it again.” You stole another quick kiss before pointing toward the endless expanse of the ocean. “I want to go swimming. Do you want to come or would you rather head back to the beach?”

Azriel shook his head. “No, I want to come with you.”

“Perfect.” Your smile widened, and you gestured for him to follow as you turned around. “Then I want to show you the reef.”

He couldn’t help but smile to himself as he tucked his wings in tightly, kicking his legs to keep up with you. Never in his long life had he imagined that he’d one day find himself swimming in the Summer Court, wearing little more than a piece of underwear. But life with you was always full of surprises, and he had no doubt this wouldn’t be the last.

General taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @aaahhh0127 @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch

Azriel Week: @fourthwing4ever

[leesromanova]

dust collected on my pinned up hair

pairing: natasha x reader

warnings: angst, hurt reader, happy/hurt/guilty nat, idk they're both hurting, marrige, cursing, self-criticism, lots of feelings. (i’m sorry)

synopsis: you go on your usual coffee run and bump into your ex, who if it wasn’t for the mutual break up, would have been the one.

a/n: i love angst lol. blame my over active imagination and taylor swift. thank you all for continuing to support and read my works <3

to put y’all in the mood i recommend listening to ↴

The line seemed endless. Bodies upon, bodies of caffeine addicts waiting to be serviced.

The energy of a busy New York coffee shop at 8am was truly a sight to see for any newbie to the city—thank god, you were accustomed to the rude grogginess of the baristas and the lines to wait for your wanted—no, needed, yet still overpriced coffee.

You hear the door open again as a small bell atop of the frame is triggered by the entering customer. The chill breeze of the city winter rips through the space, making you shiver and wrap your coat around yourself a bit tighter. Cool air creeping through the fibers of the winter coat you were sporting made you need that coffee a bit more urgently.

“Next in line!” the line moved as you pulled out your phone and took a step forward. You scroll through your notifications, looking for anything you had missed in your previous peak, before feeling a tap on your shoulder. Your first reaction is to look up with a rather hostile look in your eyes at whoever intruded your non-social, pre-caffeine headspace.

“Natasha?” your eyebrows crinkle at the sight of the woman in front of you. Her smile genuine as she looks down at you.

“Hi, stranger” she says, the raspy voice bringing back memories of a not-so-forgotten time in your past. She moves her arm around you to pull you into a side hug, you accept it—a bit stiffly and pull away, taking in her appearance.

She looked professional yet still casual and comfortable, a combination that always suited her quite well—at least the version you had gotten to know in your past. Her red locks in a neat braid that swept across her head and onto her shoulder, a few framing strands left out on the sides. Her eyes were more worn on the sides—the start of crows feet present besides her lashes.

Her eyes were the same, still the same shade of captivating green.

“How are you? How have you been?” she asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. Her voice coming out a bit rougher than how you remembered. Maybe it was caused by the cold air or, maybe it was just the other way the few years had affected her.

You look down and pocket your phone, “I’ve been okay, just y’know…holding up,” you watch as the person ahead of you steps forward, prompting the both of you to move up and fill the gap. You shift to the side, and make room for the redhead to stand beside you. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, stirring up memories of the past.

“How about you? What have you been up to, besides finding ways to cut-in-line at random coffee shops?” she lets out a huff of air as she turns to look at you “I was leaving when saw you…so I decided I should come and say hi," she looks at you with an amused expression.

you smile and hum in acceptance, letting her continue. She takes a breath before starting, "I've been okay—for the most part. Just trying to keep up with what life throws at me." She smiles and puts her hands in her pockets. You wonder if they were just as rough as how you remembered, or if they’d grown more calloused with time.

"Are you cold?" you ask, still looking at her now-concealed hands. She turns to look at you, you meet her eyes, and she lifts a brow "I've told you before how we Russians don't get cold," she says before continuing "that’s something you should've remembered." her voice carries as the last words enter your ears and without thinking you respond.

"I remember lots of things."

You feel the energy around you both change as the words leave your lips and you cringe as you watch her body visibly stiffen. Your brutally honest word choice must’ve reminded her of the reason why it had been so long since the two of you spoke.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Sometime in the past 2 years

“Natasha… I just can’t do this anymore.” The words choke in your throat as you pace in front of her in the living room of your shared apartment. Every step you take feels like it’s pulling you further from everything you once wanted, but you can't stop yourself. You can barely breathe, the emotion inside you holding your lungs down. Your eyes move to look at Natasha, and everything inside you screams to hold on.

“I’ve always been here for you,” you continue, voice cracking. “Always. I kept waiting, hoping you’d open up to me, just like I did for you, bare an-and vulnerable.” Your voice cracks making you take a steadying breath before continuing, pointing a shaking finger toward her. “I put my heart on the line, expecting the same... but I never got it. And when you finally did open up... I was there. I loved you through the dark days, the lonely nights. I stayed, Natasha. I stayed through everything, and I'd do it all again in a heartbeat.” Your words spill out like a dam breaking, but the anger, the frustration, the heartbreak—none of it makes the pain go away.

You want to somehow make it work, to find the missing piece that would make her open up fully. You wanted this to work more than anything. But the hard truth is, you don’t know just how much more you can keep giving without receiving the same in return. You’ve poured so much of yourself into this relationship—your love, your patience, your vulnerability—but now it feels like you’re just…empty. Every night you lie awake, hoping that tomorrow will be the day she finally opens up to you the way you’ve been opening up to her, and every day feels like another unanswered question, an in-life purgatory you can’t escape.

Your fingernails find their way into the flesh of your palms, the sharpness grounding you, but it doesn’t help.

Her heart tears in two as she watches you like this, feeling like a failure. She feels it deep inside—your hurt, your exhaustion, the years of unspoken emotions—and she knows, with crushing certainty, that no matter how much she loves you, she can’t undo the damage. You’re the one person who has always been there, who’s loved her unconditionally, who’s been so patient, so willing to fight for the relationship. She’s failed you. It wasn’t enough. Nothing she did was enough. She loved you—God, she loved you so much—but somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to give you the one thing you needed most: her whole heart. Every single time you reached out, she recoiled, afraid that if she gave you more of herself, she’d lose herself in the process. She knew loving you would mean taking the risk of loosing herself within the beauty that was to love just as hard as you did. 

She doesn’t know how to love you the way you need.

She lifts her head, eyes red, blurry with unshed tears, and glances at your hands, fingers still digging into your skin like you're trying to hold yourself together, as the nails cut through the layers of flesh on your palms. The pieces of yourself feeling like they're falling through your fingers like water. She hurts seeing you like this, she knew you did it to feel control in moments where you felt that control slip away—she’d had been trying to help you stop it, to show you that hurting yourself wouldn't heal anything, but now, she feels just as lost. She feels herself drowning in guilt. 

She’s the one who’s made you feel like this, hasn’t she? 

A warm, trembling hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you out of the darkness of your thoughts along with herself–trying to claw her way out of her guilt. Her touch is gentle, almost too gentle, as if she’s afraid you’ll break if she holds on too tight. She guides your fingers away from your skin, but the ache in your chest only deepens. She’s trying to fix you–to help you, not acknowledging that she needed it as well. And neither of you knew how to do it.

What’s the hell is wrong with me? 

The question cuts deeper than anything she’s ever felt. 

Why can’t I just give her what she needs? 

I love her. 

I love her so much. 

Why isn’t that enough?

“I feel horrible,” she whispers, her voice thick with tears. When you meet her eyes, they’re filled with more pain than you’ve ever seen in them. It tears through you. You wanted to help her, to make her feel loved and safe, but all you've done is hurt her. You've made her feel like she's failing, like she’s not enough, and the guilt is suffocating. She wants to tell you how much she loves you, wants to apologize, to make it better, but she knows deep down that no amount of apologies can fix the damage done. 

You swallow, but your throat is tight, your chest heavier than it’s ever been. "You’re right. You always did the right things. You said the right words. You showed me you loved me, but… I couldn’t see it. I didn’t feel it the way I needed to, and I hate myself for that. I hate that I couldn't be enough for you, Natasha." Your voice breaks at the end, a sound that rips through you, as if you're breaking apart inside. Not enough for her to give you her all. “I’m so sorry. So sorry for making you feel like you weren’t enough.” Making her feel like she hadn’t been giving you enough because she couldn’t give you want you wanted—craved. The sudden realization makes you heave as you reel about you both hurting each other unwillingly—how could something so good turn into something so hurtful?

The weight of your own apology hangs in the air, suffocating, because you don't know how to fix this anymore. You don’t know how to make her stop feeling like she’s a failure when all she’s ever done is try. 

Her heart shatters as you speak. She sees the pure hurt in your eyes, feels the way you’re pulling away from her. it crushes her to know she's the one that hurt you, the one that made you feel as if you weren't enough. Every word you say is a reminder that she’s failed. She’s tried so hard to be the person you need, to show you how much she loves you, but every time she’s gotten close to letting herself go the crippling fear of falling too deep holding her back. 

“I wish I could change,” she says, voice barely audible, but you hear the depth of her regret in every word. She places her hand over her heart, almost as if trying to stop the pulsating ache there. “I don’t want you to suffer with my shit anymore. I don’t want to drag you through this anymore… but I don’t know how to fix me.” She looks at you, her tears falling freely now. “I hate that I can't give you everything you need. I hate that I couldn't be the person you deserved."

You feel every ounce of her guilt like a physical blow, and it’s suffocating. You wish there was something you could say to make her feel better, but the truth is, you're not sure if you even deserve to make her feel better right now. You've failed her too, in so many ways.

Maybe I’m not enough for her. Maybe I never was. 

The thought stings, like a shock against your skin. You can’t help but feel that maybe you’ve failed, that you’re the real reason things fell apart, not Natasha. But as you look at the redhead, her guilt hanging heavy in the air, you realize there’s not just one person to blame, there’s not only one person responsible for this. You’ve both been afraid. Afraid of fully trusting, of letting the walls down completely, of letting each other in.

And now? Now, it feels like it’s too late.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” she says, her voice cracking. “You deserve so much better than me. You deserve someone who can love you with everything they have, without holding back... and I’m not her. I can't be that person." Her eyes search yours, desperate for some sign, some glimmer of hope, but all she finds is a reflection of her own pain.

Staring at her tear-streaked face, the realization hits you like a punch to the gut: it’s not going to happen. It’s not because you haven’t tried, and it’s not because she doesn’t love you—she does, so much, and you can see it in her eyes. But love isn’t enough. 

I can’t keep waiting for something that’s never going to come. 

I can’t keep hurting like this. 

You’re shaking now, but it’s not from anger. It’s from the unbearable truth that lingers in the space between you. The love you had, the connection you both tried so hard  to hold onto, is slipping away, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

“I think…” you can barely get the words out, but they’re there, hanging in the air like the inevitable. "I think you’re right." Your voice cracks, your heart shattering with the weight of those words. You’ve known for so long, deep down, that this was coming. The back and forth, the exhaustion, the constant battle to make her open up, to make her let you in—it was destroying both of you, and it would never change. The months of fighting—wanting her to open up, to show you the real her, nothing was working as it should be. You had been fighting against something inevitable.

You run your thumb over her knuckles, trying to find comfort in the familiar motion, but it feels hollow now. “We’ve tried, Natalia,” you whisper, your heart breaking with every syllable. “We’ve tried to make this work, but I can’t keep pretending it’s going to be okay. I don’t want to hurt you anymore. I don’t want you to hurt for me anymore.”

Her tears fall harder now, as if the weight of your decision has broken something inside of her. You both sit there, silently, broken and exhausted from a love that was never enough. Neither of you knows how to fix what’s been destroyed. As she looks at you, so broken, so utterly lost, she feels like she’s watching her own heart crack in two.

You both sit in silence as the sounds of the city bleed into the apartment and circle the two of you.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

“Next!” the barista’s tired voice carries through the space of the café, and makes you both turn to reach the counter. Your cheeks warm and tinged a shade of red at your earlier admission.

“Uh, can I get an iced blond vanilla late, with an extra pump of vanilla, and sweet foam with Carmel drizzle on top?” you order and look over at the redhead who was diligently staring at the side of your face.

She wondered how you hadn’t changed. Time seemed to have left you untouched. While she felt it’s weight etched into her face and mind—you were still the same. With the same coffee order, at the same coffee shop, the same you.

“W-would you like anything?” you ask, stuttering at the gaze she held.

“I’m okay,” she turns to the barista, “That’ll be all.” she completes your order out of habit as you pull out your card to pay.

the barista asks for your name and you both utter a thanks to the young woman, who doesn’t return the pleasantry as you both walk off to the side. The silence, between you both not unwanted, but definitely heightening your anxiety at the unexpected meeting.

You were not dressed to be seeing your ex at a coffee shop.

“Would you like to sit?” you clear your throat and ask, finding a table with two chairs. She smiles and looks at her watch. “Yeah—yeah, I got enough time” she says, sitting down beside you and looking out at the busy streets of the city that never sleeps.

She loved it here, her time in other continents and cities made her realize just how at home the city lights and sirens made her feel, just how at home the people in her life made her feel.

The light of the rising sun reflects off of the glass windows of tall buildings and illuminate her face. Her nose had stayed the same, the feature being something you loved about her even if she said she hated it from time to time. She turns and catches you staring. You to look away and clear your throat as she smiles warmly. She always liked that about you, so attentive to everyone around you.

Stop staring. You mentally kicked yourself for being caught.

“Y’know…you still order your coffee as if you hate the taste of it.” she teases, her hands motioning to the receipt that outlined the specific order you gave. A smile grows as you turn to look at her and laugh softly at her face of accusation. “I swear, you get the sugariest thing on the menu.” she continues, making you laugh a little louder.

Your laugh was the same–she noticed, your smile the same, but your eyes now held a few winkles at the sides as the joy spread over your face. She smiles at you then and leans back in the uncushioned, tall stool.

You roll your eyes and remove your gloves, “hey, before you tease just know you traumatized me with your coffee order,” she looks at you questioningly, making you lean in “Nat, you order a black coffee with like two sugars and call that a coffee order.” she laughs, her cheeks tinting a wonderful shade of red as she answers “It’s a legitimate coffee order y/n, that’s why they make me pay and why I made you try it.” her voice raspy as ever as it leaves her lips. “Oh yeah, trust me I know. I can still feel it on my taste buds and recoil every time I think about it.” she looks at your now very serious expression with a raised brow, and you both break into a shared cackle.

As the laughter settles, you both look at each other. Familiarity and warmth returning to your veins, you missed her. Sure, it had been more than enough time for you to get over her, but you never truly did. Everyone told you it was time to move on, but you never did, hoping, praying, manifesting that maybe one day you could fix things and reunite with the love of your life.

You went out with people, met other singles, dated—but no one made you feel what she did.

"So, how’s work?" you ask, your fingers nervously fiddling with the paper wrapping of a straw that was left on the table by some other customer. She glances down at your hands, noticing how your nails are no longer bitten or ragged, your palms free of the crescent-shaped marks that used to linger there. She smiles softly, noticing how you'd managed to break those anxious habits.

"It’s been good," she replies, her voice warm. "We got some new teammates in—I'm sure you saw it on the news." She looks into your eyes, smiling as she sees the familiar focus in your gaze. That hadn't changed either.

You nod and smile back, leaning in as she continues. "One of them is named Wanda. She's brilliant—you'd love her. Amazing sense of humor, and the best style. I know you’ve always been into fashion."

You chuckle softly, the memory of how you used to carefully pick out your outfits coming back. "That’s nice. So, you and her are close?" you ask, your voice lighter than you feel. It's easy to fall back into the rhythm with her. Conversations with her never felt draining, never like you were just filling silence. At least, it didn’t, not before everything went wrong.

"Yeah," she says, smiling shyly, but her eyes drop to her hands. And that's when you see it. The ring.

The world seems to blur for a moment as your eyes lock onto the silver band adorning her finger. Simple, yet undeniably there. Your mind races, struggling to catch up, focusing on the details—an engraving, some flowers, maybe lilies? You remember how she always loved those.

The sound of her voice cuts through your thoughts. "Y/N?"

You snap back to reality, but it feels like your heart is still racing. You blink, meeting her gaze. The concern in her eyes is unmistakable, but it's not for you. She's moved on.

“Order for y/n!” the barista yells, and you turn, smiling tightly at Nat before getting up to retrieve your coffee.

God, how had you not seen it before? Was it always there? How long ago did she become so open? So willing to let someone in, that she’d actually gotten married?

The questions hit you like a wave, crashing over your mind with unbeatable force.

You make yourself look away, desperate to regain control of your thoughts. You tuck some hair behind your ear, trying to ground yourself, and take a long sip of your cold drink, the ice crunching between your teeth. It does nothing to ease the nausea building in your stomach.

“I—uh, I was looking at your wedding band,” you mutter, feeling the words slip out awkwardly. Your gaze drifts back to her fingers, the ring glinting in the sunlight. She follows your stare, quietly adjusting her hand, almost as if she’s waiting for this moment to land.

“Oh, um… yeah," she clears her throat, her voice sounding a little tighter than before. "Me and Wanda... we, uh... I proposed a few months ago,” she adds, looking down at the ring, tracing the engravings with her fingers. Finally, she meets your eyes, and for a brief second, it feels like everything you thought you knew about her is slipping away. This wasn’t the Natasha who used to laugh at your bad jokes, or the one who whispered your name in the quiet of your shared apartment, the one who whispered sweet nothings in your ear as you laid naked in bed after you’d had sex. No, this was a version of her you did not know.

“Oh.” The word barely leaves your mouth as you nod slowly, but it’s enough to echo in the silence between you two. It’s all you can manage, the word feeling too small, insignificant.

What else could you say?

You want to bury your face in your hands.

God, Y/N, think of something better. Say something better.

The words feel hollow, useless, as they form in your mind. The words don’t feel like your own. They feel forced, clumsy, like you’re trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping through your fingers. You hate how it feels. You hate how she feels like a stranger to you now, someone you don’t know anymore, someone who has moved on without you.

"Congratulations," you finally say, the words coming out flat, lifeless. Your smile feels too tight, too forced. You can feel it pulling at the corners of your lips as your body instinctively turns inward, the discomfort sharp and heavy.

Congratulations? Are you fucking serious?

She notices, of course—how could she not? Her eyes flicker with concern, watching as your posture shifts, your guard rising. But it’s too late. You’re already pulling away.

What the hell did I just say?

The self-criticism is almost suffocating.

Congratulations?

You want to slap your forehead, but you settle for simply glancing up at her. Her gaze is locked onto you now, intense and unwavering. It’s like she’s trying to reach you through the growing distance between you two, but you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve lost her... that you never really had her.

The sound of the coffee shop fade as your own internal dialogue takes over, mocking you.

You’re pathetic, it whispers.

You haven’t moved on.

You never really let go.

You glance around the coffee shop. There’s a woman in the corner smiling at her boyfriend—no husband, the wedding ring sparkling as she holds his cheek, a group of tourists chatting loudly about going to watch some play on Broadway, someone in the backline swiping through their phone, you can see the TikTok home screen from your place in the corner of the café.

But you can’t hear them. All you hear is the hollow beat of your own heart, pounding painfully in your chest, as if it knows that this moment is the end of something—something you still thought was possible.

It feels like you’re drowning, surrounded by noise, by life moving forward, while you’re stuck here in this tiny moment, unable to breathe.

Her eyes flicker with concern, noticing how your posture shifts, how you stiffen at the words that should have felt normal, casual. But they don’t. They can’t.

There’s nothing casual about this.

Nothing normal.

Not when your heart is bleeding under the weight of a past you can’t shake, a future you never thought you’d face.

You try to steady yourself, but you can feel the walls you’ve built around your emotions crumbling.

She’s married, Y/N. She’s married. Get over it.

But you can’t.

You feel a pang of guilt. Natasha’s gaze is warm, but there’s an ache in her eyes too—something that makes your heart hurt in a different way. She’s trying. She’s not the woman you left behind. But then again, neither are you. Neither is she.

Her hand rests, trembling, on the table now. She wants to reach out to you, but she’s scared of pushing too hard. You can see it in her eyes—she’s uncertain. She’s terrified of what you might say. Terrified of making it worse. Her fingertips brush against the edge of the table, hesitant, before pulling away. She’s probably wondering if she’s done the right thing. Wondering if she was wrong to move on, to make this decision without you, without this—whatever you two were. She watches you, her gaze softening as if she wants to comfort you, but she doesn’t know how. She doesn’t even know where to begin. She could try to reach for you, but she knows it might make things worse.

"Are you okay?" Natasha asks softly, her voice trembling slightly. She’s staring at you now, as if trying to understand what’s happening inside your head, but you don’t have an answer for her. You don’t even have an answer for yourself.

The silence stretches between you two, heavy with unspoken words, as the noise of the coffee shop crashes around you both, a stark reminder that the world keeps moving. And in it, Natasha is moving forward, and you... you’re left behind.

She regrets it. She regrets this—this distance. This moment. She wants to take it all back. To fix this. To fix you. But she can’t.

The weight of the regret hits her, and she breathes out a slow, steadying breath, her hand trembling on the table. She can feel it too, the unbearable tension between you both, the space that feels like a chasm even though you’re only inches apart.

But you—you’re the one who’s drowning, trying to keep your head above the weight of the memory and the feeling that you were never enough.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, almost too quietly to hear. “I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted you to feel like this.” Her voice cracks, and she looks away for a second, almost as if she can’t stand seeing you like this, can’t bear the thought of how much she’s hurt you.

But the truth is, she’s already lost you.

And she’s the one who will never be able to move on.

Her words cut deeper than she knows, because you can’t help but wonder—does she really not know? Has she been so caught up in her own life that she hasn’t seen how much this is tearing you apart? Or is it just that she’s moved on, and this is all just… a part of the past to her?

The thought makes your chest tighten. Your breath feels shallow, and you find yourself squeezing your cold drink harder, trying to steady the storm inside. You swallow, but it feels like there’s a lump lodged in your throat, blocking any response. You want to scream, to tell her everything, to make her understand how much it hurts to see her here, happy, with someone else. But the words are gone—lost in the space between your need to cry and the reality of the life she’s chosen without you.

“Why?” The word slips out before you can stop it, raw and desperate and hurt. You didn’t mean to ask it—didn’t want to ask it—but you can’t help it. You need to know.

Natasha’s heart aches at the sound of your voice, the fragility in it. For a moment, she feels as though the floor beneath her might give way. She had hoped—hoped—that you would be okay. That this wouldn’t hurt so much. But the pain is evident, like a raw wound, and it’s impossible to ignore.

Her face crumbles for a moment, and she looks away, as if she’s searching for the right words, for something that might make this hurt less. But there are no words that can make this better. No words that can undo the last few years.

she feels a lump in her throat, the wounds she'd covered, gashes shed mended, all coming undone in this moment.

“I don’t know,” Natasha whispers. “I really don’t know. I thought I could give you what you needed, but… I couldn’t. And I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed me to be.”

Her voice cracks as she says it, and she feels herself breaking inside. She knows you’re hurting, but she’s not sure what she can do to make this right. She had tried—tried so hard—to be what you needed, but she failed. And it kills her that she couldn’t give you the love and stability you deserved. The love she thought she could offer, the love that now feels so distant and ungraspable.

Your heart aches. It’s a contradiction, isn’t it? The way she sounds so guilty, and yet you know deep down that she’s not really sorry for her life—she’s sorry for the fact that she hurt you in the process of living it.

Her words feel hollow to her, and as they leave her lips, she wonders if she’s just prolonging the pain for both of you. She swallows hard, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her ring again. It’s such a small, insignificant gesture, but in this moment, it feels like the biggest thing in the world. It feels like a symbol of everything she’s lost. A symbol of a promise she made to someone else, a promise she can’t go back on.

She wants to reach for you again, but she knows better now. She knows that you’ve already made up your mind—that you’ve already closed the door on what could have been. The door that used to swing open so easily for her, but now only feels heavy and locked.

You look at her, your gaze raw, and for a second, you think you might say something else. You might beg her to take it all back. To come back. But you know you can’t. You know you have to let this go. You feel a deep ache in your chest as you realize that this is the end. The finality of it settles in, and you can’t hold on any longer.

Instead, you take a shaky breath and pull back from the table, your hands folding into your lap as you gather yourself. It’s almost like you’re physically trying to close yourself off, to shield the part of you that still hopes and longs for something that no longer exists.

“Maybe... maybe you were never what I needed either,” you mutter quietly, more to yourself than to her. The words taste bitter on your tongue, and you wish you could take them back as soon as they leave. But it’s true. Somewhere along the way, you lost her. And maybe, just maybe, you lost yourself in the process.

The words hit Natasha like a slap, but it’s the truth. She’s never been able to give you what you needed, and that realization settles like stone in her stomach. She opens her mouth as if she’s going to say something—something to fix it, to undo the damage—but the words die in her throat. They would only make things worse, only deepen the wound between you both.

She doesn’t speak. She can’t. She just watches you, helpless, as you turn away from her, the finality of your departure cutting into her chest like a knife.

You shake your head, unable to meet her gaze. The tears you’ve been holding back for so long feel close now, threatening to spill over. You can’t let them. You won’t. Not here, not in front of her, not when everything feels like it’s already slipping through your fingers.

“I should go,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. It’s not a demand, it’s not even a decision—it’s just the only thing you can bring yourself to say. You push your chair back, standing up slowly, feeling like your legs might give out beneath you. You feel empty, but in a way, that emptiness is almost worse than the pain.

Her eyes follow you, and Natasha doesn’t try to stop you. She doesn’t ask you to stay. Her hands are folded in her lap, and she’s left with the sense that, somehow, she’s failed you, failed the both of you. She doesn’t think she could stand to watch you walk away again. The understanding in her eyes is quiet, gentle. She knows this is the end.

As you turn to walk away, you hear her raspy voice one last time. “Y/N… I still care about you.”

You stop for a moment, the weight of her words pressing down on you. You want to say something back—anything—but you know it wouldn’t change things. It wouldn’t fix anything.

You don’t respond. Instead, you walk. One foot in front of the other as you push open the door of the coffee shop, the cold New York air hitting your face like a slap. It’s sharp, biting, but somehow, it’s exactly what you need. You step into the busy street, the noise and the rush of people washing over you, but all you can hear is the silence of her absence. Is this it? You think. It has to be.

You keep walking, trying to put one foot in front of the other, but every step feels heavier than the last. You don’t know how you’re supposed to move forward—to move past her. You don’t know if you ever will.

After all, it’s never over.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

a/n: YAYY!! i was so excited to start writing this fic, it’s my drafts since October so i’m happy it’s finally out. i hope you all liked it! it was my first time writing angst and i’m very proud of it, if you guys have any constructive criticism pls give it politely:)

ps: i’m excited to see everyone’s reactions to it, please do share how you feel afterwards <3

[1343401]

captive desires - chapter one

pairing: hybrid bts x reader

status: ongoing

word count: 11.6 k

warnings: depictions of violence, death, family trauma, mentions of blood, yandere-ish, hybrids

prev | next | m.list

the café smelled of roasted barley tea and fresh pastries, the warm scent lingering in the air even as the evening rush had long passed. outside, the rain drizzled softly against the pavement, dampening the neon glow of signs stacked high along the streets of seonggyeong. inside, haneul no ame had settled into a quiet hum of conversation, the kind that came when exhaustion set in but no one was quite ready to go home yet.

myah wiped down the counter with slow, absent minded strokes, eyes flickering toward the last few customers scattered throughout the space.

a businessman sat hunched over his laptop near the corner, an untouched cup of coffee beside him. he hadn’t looked up once since he came in, his fingers moving tirelessly across the keyboard, dark circles carved beneath his eyes.

by the window, an elderly woman cradled a ceramic cup between her hands, her gaze fixed on the street outside. her ears twitched ever so slightly, a sign of her hybrid nature, soft gray fur peeking out from beneath the folds of her knit hat. every so often, her tail, long and wispy like a squirrel’s, curled and uncurled beside her chair.

a young couple occupied the booth closest to the entrance. the man was human, his suit slightly wrinkled, his tie loosened at the collar. his date, however, was not.

the woman sitting across from him had fox-like ears, their tips dyed a deep red, the same shade as the streaks in her hair. her tail, sleek and well-groomed, curled around her side, draping over her lap. they were talking quietly, the human man leaning in, whispering something that made her laugh, sharp teeth flashing.

even now, myah could see the way people watched them.

it was subtle, just a quick glance, a barely-there shift in posture, as if to pretend they weren’t staring at all. but it was enough.

some habits were impossible to shake.

myah had grown up with hybrids. they were a normal part of life, integrated into society, working jobs, going to school, eating at the same restaurants as everyone else. and yet, things still weren’t quite equal.

some species of hybrids had more privileges than others. fox and domestic cat hybrids, for example, were considered “acceptable.” they had a certain charm, an elegance that made them easy to market, easy to tolerate. they could get jobs, live normal lives so long as they didn’t make themselves too noticeable.

others weren’t so lucky.

her gaze flickered to the table near the entrance, where a wolf hybrid sat alone.

he was young, probably around her age, maybe a little older, but he carried himself with a quiet wariness that made him seem far older. his dark hair was damp from the rain, his clothes plain but clean. his ears, tufted and pointed, were pressed flat against his head, as if to make himself smaller.

he had been nursing the same cup of tea for over an hour now, barely taking a sip.

a group of human customers had been sitting at a nearby table earlier. they’d left about fifteen minutes ago, but myah still remembered the way they had whispered amongst themselves, shooting glances at the wolf hybrid when they thought he wasn’t looking.

“can’t believe they just let them in anywhere now,” one of them had muttered.

“it’s disgusting,” another had agreed. “they belong in the wild, not in cafés like this.”

the hybrid had said nothing. hadn’t even looked in their direction. just kept his head down, staring into his tea as if he couldn’t hear a word of it.

but myah knew he could.

everyone had heard them.

myah had wanted to say something, but what good would it have done? the whispers would never stop. not really. they would have just found another place to talk, another way to make sure hybrids knew exactly where they stood.

so she had done the only thing she could.

she had walked over to their table with a practiced smile, cleared their plates a little too fast, and “accidentally” spilled the remains of someone’s iced coffee onto their coats.

“oops,” she had said, not even pretending to be sorry.

the look on their faces had been satisfying, at least.

now, the café was quiet again, save for the sound of rain against the windows and the occasional clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

the wolf hybrid finally moved, setting his cup down gently before pushing himself to his feet.

he hesitated, then walked up to the counter, stopping a careful distance away from myah. his movements were slow, deliberate, as if to ensure he wasn’t perceived as a threat.

“excuse me,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “may i have the bill?”

myah nodded, keying in the total before handing him the receipt.

“you don’t have to rush,” she said, offering a small smile. “it’s still raining pretty hard out there.”

he glanced toward the window, watching the rain streak against the glass.

“…thank you,” he murmured, taking the receipt.

he slid a few bills across the counter.

too much.

myah frowned, pushing some of the change back toward him. “this is more than—”

“keep it,” he interrupted, his expression unreadable.

she hesitated, but nodded.

as he turned to leave, the door swung open, and a pair of men stepped inside.

they were human, tall and broad-shouldered, their suits slightly damp from the rain. their presence shifted the atmosphere immediately, the warmth of the café turning cold, heavy.

one of them spotted the wolf hybrid instantly.

“well, well,” he drawled, stepping forward. “fancy seeing you here.”

the hybrid went rigid.

the other man smirked, nudging his companion. “didn’t think mutts like you could afford places like this.”

myah’s grip tightened around the rag in her hand.

the hybrid didn’t respond. just lowered his gaze, shoulders tense.

“we were just leaving,” he said flatly.

one of the men stepped closer, blocking his path.

“no need to rush,” he said, voice mocking. “we just wanna talk.”

myah didn’t think.

she moved around the counter before she could stop herself.

“is there a problem here?” she asked, her voice sharp.

the two men turned to her, eyebrows raised.

“no problem at all,” one of them said, flashing a too-smooth smile. “we were just catching up with an old friend.”

myah crossed her arms. “he doesn’t seem too interested in talking.”

there was a beat of silence.

then, the first man chuckled, shaking his head.

“relax,” he said. “we’re just leaving.”

he clapped the hybrid on the shoulder, hard enough to make him flinch, then turned and walked out the door.

his companion lingered for a moment longer, eyes flicking toward myah.

then, with a quiet scoff, he followed.

the bell chimed softly as the door swung shut behind them.

the café felt still again.

myah exhaled slowly, turning back to the hybrid.

“you okay?” she asked.

he didn’t answer right away. then, slowly, he nodded.

“…thank you,” he said, his voice quieter than before.

he left without another word.

myah watched as he disappeared into the rain, his figure swallowed by the mist and city lights.

her hands were still trembling.

the rain hadn’t let up since the sun set, steady droplets tapping against the café’s large front windows, streaking down the glass in uneven rivulets. outside, the streetlights cast a soft, golden glow onto the wet pavement, reflecting neon signs from the surrounding shops. the occasional car passed, tires splashing through puddles, sending mist curling up into the night air.

inside, haneul no ame was winding down, the once-bustling café now quiet, save for the distant hum of the espresso machine and the soft clatter of dishes as myah stacked them behind the counter. the air smelled of coffee and sweet red bean, lingering even as the last of the customers trickled out into the damp night.

she pulled off her apron with a sigh, shaking out her stiff shoulders before reaching for the closed sign. the bell above the door jingled softly as she flipped it, the sign swaying slightly in the dim light.

behind her, kai was already clearing tables, long sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he wiped down the wood with smooth, practiced motions. his tail flicked once behind him before curling around his waist, his fox-like ears twitching slightly at the sound of a car horn outside.

“finally,” myah muttered, running a hand through her hair. “felt like today was never gonna end.”

kai let out a low chuckle, tossing a damp rag over his shoulder. “you say that every shift.”

“yeah, and i mean it every shift.”

he snorted but didn’t argue, instead moving toward a nearby table where an empty cup sat abandoned, a half-melted ice cube floating in the dregs of a forgotten drink. he picked it up, inspecting the lipstick stain on the rim before shaking his head.

“you ever notice how people look at me like i might bite?”

myah glanced up from where she was wiping down the counter, brow raised. “do you bite?”

kai grinned, all sharp teeth and mischief. “only if they deserve it.”

she rolled her eyes. “you’re so dramatic.”

“i’m serious,” he said, tossing the rag onto the table with a little too much force. “it’s like they don’t even try to hide it. the staring. the way they tense up when i walk by.”

myah thought back to earlier in the evening, the way a woman had hesitated before handing kai her order, fingers twitching as if deciding whether or not to let her hand brush his when he reached for the cup.

“i don’t know,” she said carefully. “i don’t think they mean anything by it.”

kai let out a short, humorless laugh. “you would think that.”

her gaze snapped to him. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he didn’t look at her, just kept stacking chairs, movements deliberate, controlled. “you don’t get it,” he said simply. “you’ve never had someone cross the street just to avoid you.”

myah opened her mouth, then closed it.

she had nothing to say to that.

because he was right.

instead, she grabbed the broom from the back corner and started sweeping near the register, letting the rhythmic swish of the bristles fill the silence.

kai moved behind the counter, reaching for a cloth to wipe down the espresso machine. “that fox hybrid from earlier,” he said, almost casually. “the one with the human guy.”

myah frowned, thinking back to the couple that had sat near the entrance. “what about them?”

kai leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “you think it’ll last?”

she hesitated. “i mean… they looked happy.”

kai scoffed. “for now.”

myah frowned. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he shrugged. “humans like that always leave.”

his voice was quiet, but there was a weight behind it, something bitter that made myah shift uncomfortably.

“you say that like you’ve seen it happen,” she said after a moment.

kai’s ears twitched. “i have.”

his tone left no room for argument.

silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. outside, the rain continued to fall, soft and endless.

myah turned back to sweeping, but she felt the shift in the air, the way something unspoken had settled between them.

it wasn’t like she could blame kai for being bitter. hybrids weren’t exactly treated with kindness. sure, they could get jobs, go to school, exist in public spaces, but that didn’t mean they were wanted there.

a movement outside caught her eye.

a man walked past the window, coat pulled tight around himself to shield against the cold. as he passed, his gaze flickered toward the café, toward kai, who was still leaning against the counter.

his expression barely changed, just the slightest wrinkle of his nose, the briefest flicker of disdain before he turned away.

kai’s tail flicked sharply.

“prick,” he muttered under his breath.

myah heard him but said nothing.

what was there to say?

instead, she set the broom aside and grabbed a rag, moving to wipe down the espresso machine.

“you taking the train home?” kai asked, leaning against the counter as he dried the last of the mugs. his ears twitched slightly, always alert, even when he tried to play it off like he wasn’t.

myah grabbed her bag from the back, adjusting the strap over her shoulder. “yeah, as long as it’s still running on time. the rain’s been messing with the schedule lately.”

kai scoffed. “figures. humans build a whole train system, but a little water and suddenly it’s useless.”

she rolled her eyes, shoving his arm playfully as she moved past him. “not all of us have built-in weather tracking, you know.”

his tail flicked, a half-smirk playing on his lips, but he didn’t argue. instead, his expression shifted, something more serious settling into the lines of his face.

“i don’t like you walking alone this late,” he said, voice quieter now. “especially not with how things have been lately.”

she frowned, tugging her coat tighter around her body. “kai, i walk home at this time almost every night.”

he clicked his tongue, tossing the rag onto the counter. “doesn’t mean it’s safe. you know hybrids have been disappearing, right?”

she blinked. “what?”

his jaw tightened. “it’s been happening for a while now. some just vanish. no reports, no investigations. no one cares enough to look.”

her stomach twisted, but she tried to keep her voice light. “kai, i’m not a hybrid.”

“doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “you’re still out here alone.”

something about the way he said it made her pause. there was something deeper in his voice. something unsettled.

“you’re really worried about me?” she asked, tilting her head.

he scoffed. “obviously. you’re helpless.”

she laughed, shoving him again, but he caught her wrist this time, his grip firm but not rough.

“seriously, myah,” he murmured. “just be careful.”

there was something in his eyes she couldn’t quite place.

after a beat, he let go, stepping back.

she exhaled, offering him a small smile. “i’ll be fine. i’ll text you when i get home, okay?”

he didn’t look satisfied, but he nodded. “yeah. you better.”

she nudged the door open, the bell chiming softly as the cool night air wrapped around her.

“see you tomorrow, kai.”

he gave her a lazy wave, but his ears were still twitching, still listening.

“yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “don’t get eaten.”

she snorted, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

the rain had slowed to a mist, clinging to her skin in a way that made her shiver. the streets were quieter now, though the distant buzz of traffic hummed in the background.

she passed a row of shuttered shops, their signs dimmed for the night, before nearing the upscale part of town where restaurants and bars were still alive with soft jazz music and murmured conversation.

she was mid-step when she heard it.

thud.

a body hitting pavement.

her head snapped to the side just in time to see a figure stumble forward, nearly falling face-first into the street.

a hybrid.

his hair was dark and unkempt, sticking to his forehead from the damp air. fluffy golden ears flickered against his head, low and tense. his shirt was torn, one of the sleeves barely hanging on, and there was a fresh bruise blooming along his jaw.

the bouncer, built like a damn wall, stood in the doorway, arms crossed, looking down at him like something scraped off the bottom of his shoe.

“no mutts allowed,” the man sneered.

myah froze.

the hybrid pushed himself up slowly, hands trembling slightly as he wiped at his mouth. for a second, it looked like he might say something, might fight back, but then his shoulders sagged. his tail flicked once, tense, before curling behind his legs.

he didn’t argue. didn’t growl.

he just looked tired.

a few people had stopped to watch, some lingering near the restaurant’s entrance, others glancing over from across the street. but no one did anything.

no one said a word.

myah’s heart pounded. she felt her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag.

say something.

but to who?

the bouncer, who clearly didn’t care? the hybrid, who clearly didn’t want to fight? the silent bystanders, who clearly weren’t going to help?

for the briefest moment, his gaze flicked up and met hers.

his eyes were dark. tired, resigned. but beneath it all, just a flicker of something else. something sharp.

anger.

not at her. not really.

at everything.

then, just as quickly, he looked away.

he dusted himself off, shaking out his limbs like he was used to this, like it had happened before and would happen again, and without another word, he turned and walked off down the street.

myah’s breath felt stuck in her throat.

above her, a digital billboard flickered to life, bathing the sidewalk in a pale blue glow.

STOP HYBRID ABUSE. CALL 1-800—

the text glitched, cutting in and out before the screen flickered and went dark.

the irony hit her like a fist to the gut.

she swallowed, her grip tightening on her bag as she forced her feet to move again.

why does no one care?

the night air felt colder now.

her thoughts buzzed as she walked, unsettled and restless, the image of the hybrid’s bruised face burned into the back of her mind.

why do i feel like i should care more than i do?

the night air clung to myah’s skin, a lingering chill settling in her bones as she walked the quiet streets toward home. the city was alive behind her. the hum of distant traffic, neon lights flickering in alleyways, laughter spilling from bars and restaurants, but here, in the quieter residential district, the world felt smaller.

comfortable.

safe.

she climbed the short steps to her apartment building, the warmth of home just beyond the door. her fingers were stiff from the cold as she fumbled with her keys, but the second she cracked the door open, a blur of movement slammed into her.

“myah!”

the impact nearly knocked the breath from her lungs.

warm arms wrapped around her, a familiar scent of lavender and something soft filling her senses before she was all but engulfed.

“you’re late,” came the muffled complaint against her shoulder.

“i texted you,” myah wheezed, laughing despite herself.

“doesn’t count,” jisun grumbled, tightening her hold.

her roommate was always like this—clingy, affectionate, practically glued to myah whenever she was around. it was just who she was, but there was a certain desperation in the way she held on sometimes, like she was scared myah would disappear if she let go.

tonight was one of those nights.

“jesus, jisun, let her breathe,” a drier voice called from the living room.

chae-eun.

unbothered, jisun only nuzzled closer, her rabbit ears twitching slightly against myah’s cheek.

“you smell like the outside,” she muttered, nose scrunching.

myah snorted, finally managing to pry her way free enough to take off her coat. “i was outside.”

“i don’t like it.”

“not my fault.”

“mm.”

instead of letting go completely, jisun just shifted, looping an arm around myah’s waist as if to keep her tethered.

chae-eun finally emerged from the kitchen, cradling a mug of tea in her hands. unlike jisun, she wasn’t the type to launch into hugs the second someone walked through the door. her affection was quieter, offered through knowing glances, careful words, and the occasional cup of tea set in front of you without a word.

her dark hair was pulled into a lazy bun, eyes sharp as she studied myah.

“you’re late,” she echoed jisun’s earlier complaint, though with significantly less drama.

“long shift,” myah explained, leaning into jisun’s hold despite herself. “plus, the trains were delayed again.”

chae-eun hummed like she wasn’t quite convinced.

“hurry up and sit,” jisun insisted, already pulling myah toward the couch. “you need to warm up.”

“i can make my own tea, you know.”

“you can, but you won’t,” jisun shot back, pushing myah down onto the cushions. “so stay here. i’ll do it.”

myah didn’t fight it. she never really did. there was no winning against jisun when she got like this.

chae-eun exhaled, taking the seat across from her, studying her over the rim of her mug.

“…what happened?”

myah blinked. “what do you mean?”

“you look off.”

too observant for her own good, as always.

before myah could come up with a deflection, jisun returned, practically plopping herself down into myah’s lap as she pressed a warm mug into her hands.

“spill,” she demanded, fluffy rabbit tail flicking behind her.

myah sighed. “it’s nothing, really.”

chae-eun raised a brow. jisun poked her cheek.

“…i saw a hybrid get thrown out of a bar,” myah admitted after a beat.

silence.

chae-eun’s expression didn’t change, but myah saw the way her fingers subtly tightened around her mug.

jisun, however, visibly bristled, ears flattening against her head.

“thrown out?” she echoed. “like literally?”

myah nodded. “a bouncer tossed him onto the pavement. called him a mutt.”

jisun’s hands clenched at the hem of myah’s sleeve.

“i hate people,” she muttered.

chae-eun exhaled, rubbing at her temple. “i assume no one did anything?”

myah swallowed. “yeah.”

“and you?”

the question hung between them.

jisun shifted slightly next to her, her golden-brown eyes locking onto myah’s.

expecting something.

waiting.

“…i didn’t do anything either.”

the weight of her own words settled heavily in her chest.

jisun’s grip on her tightened.

“good,” chae-eun said, her voice quiet but firm.

myah blinked. “what?”

“you couldn’t have done anything,” she explained simply. “it wouldn’t have helped.”

jisun huffed, pressing closer to myah, like she could protect her from something that had already happened.

“doesn’t mean it’s okay,” she grumbled.

“it’s not,” chae-eun agreed. “but it’s not something she could have stopped.”

“she could have—”

“what? started an argument? gotten herself thrown out too?”

jisun made a frustrated noise, burying her face in myah’s shoulder.

myah sighed, resting her chin against the top of jisun’s head, rubbing slow, absentminded circles against her back.

the room settled into silence.

uncomfortable. heavy.

the only sounds were the soft ticking of the clock and the distant hum of the city outside.

then—

“…this is depressing,” jisun mumbled.

myah huffed a laugh. “yeah, well.”

jisun suddenly sat up, eyes bright. “let’s eat something.”

chae-eun snorted. “you just ate.”

“and?”

“you’re like a bottomless pit.”

“and you’re a hater.”

“i’m a realist.”

jisun waved her off, already scrolling through her phone. “whatever. i’m ordering something.”

myah shook her head. “what are you even craving?”

“ramen.”

“you always want ramen.”

“because it’s good.”

chae-eun sighed but pulled out her own phone. “i’ll order from that place near the station.”

jisun beamed, all previous frustration seemingly forgotten.

she turned to myah, eyes soft again, expression unreadable as she reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind myah’s ear.

“you’re warm now,” she murmured, almost to herself.

myah’s breath caught.

she swallowed. looked away.

“yeah,” she murmured back. “thanks.”

jisun just smiled, squeezing her hand before shifting again, pressing herself snugly against myah’s side.

and just like that, the world outside didn’t feel so big.

not the city.

not the problems.

not the weight in her chest.

just this.

her home.

her people.

and tonight, that was enough.

steam curled from the ramen cups, carrying the rich, savory scent of broth and spices through the apartment. the three of them sat cross-legged on the floor, the coffee table cluttered with their makeshift dinner, plastic bowls, chopsticks, side dishes chae-eun had pulled from the fridge.

jisun had already dug in, slurping up noodles with an unapologetic enthusiasm that made myah laugh.

“slow down,” chae-eun deadpanned, stirring her broth. “no one’s gonna steal it from you.”

“you don’t know that,” jisun shot back, pointing her chopsticks at her like a weapon. “you could betray me at any moment.”

chae-eun rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her tea. “you’re ridiculous.”

“and you’re jealous of my food.”

“i ordered it.”

“exactly.”

myah snorted, picking at her own noodles, content to just listen. moments like this. the easy back and forth, the warmth of companionship, they were her favorite.

“okay,” jisun said through a mouthful of noodles, “what are we watching?”

chae-eun hummed, reaching for the remote. “i vote action.”

jisun groaned. “we always watch action.”

“because action is good.”

“because you have a crush on every female lead with a sword.”

“and?”

jisun turned to myah, pouting. “tell her we should watch a romance.”

“not this again,” myah muttered, hiding a smile.

this was routine. every time they had a movie night, it turned into a battle—jisun always pushing for a romcom, chae-eun gunning for something dark and brooding, and myah left somewhere in the middle, playing mediator.

tonight was no different.

“chae-eun,” myah started patiently, “we watched something with explosions last time.”

“and it was great.”

“jisun,” myah continued, “the last time we let you pick, you made us watch that three hour slow burn that barely had a plot.”

jisun gasped, offended. “it was cinema.”

“it was painful.”

jisun crossed her arms. “fine. compromise.”

“compromise?”

she nodded firmly. “a romcom with action.”

chae-eun gave her a flat look. “you mean, like, a spy movie with romance?”

“exactly.”

chae-eun exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. “…fine.”

jisun cheered.

myah just shook her head, amused as she leaned back against the couch, ramen bowl balanced in her lap.

they settled in, scrolling through options until jisun pointed at a title that had both high-speed chases and lingering romantic stares.

“that one.”

“looks tolerable,” chae-eun admitted.

“it looks cute,” myah agreed, reaching for the remote.

but just as she was about to hit play, her phone buzzed.

the sound cut through the easy atmosphere, making her pause.

she almost ignored it.

almost.

but something about it, the way it rang just a little too insistently, the way a small pit formed in her stomach before she even checked the screen, made her hesitate.

when she finally glanced down, her chest tightened.

kai.

he rarely called. texts? sure. but a call, especially this late?

a bad feeling settled in her gut.

“who is it?” jisun asked, peering over her shoulder.

“kai.”

chae-eun and jisun exchanged a look.

“answer it,” chae-eun said simply.

myah did.

the second she put the phone to her ear, she could hear it. kai’s breathing, rough and uneven, the distant sounds of something loud in the background.

“kai?”

a pause.

then—

“myah.”

his voice was low. tense.

off.

immediately, she sat up, heart pounding. “what’s wrong?”

jisun frowned at her tone, ears twitching.

kai exhaled sharply, like he was deciding how much to say.

then, in a voice quieter than she’d ever heard from him—

“…where are you right now?”

her blood ran cold.

kai’s voice was quiet, but there was an urgency beneath it, something edged in warning.

myah sat up straighter, gripping the phone tighter. “i’m at home, what’s going on?”

jisun and chae-eun immediately noticed the shift in her tone. jisun leaned in, placing a hand on myah’s knee, her grip firm. chae-eun muted the tv, brows furrowing.

kai didn’t respond right away.

instead, there was the sound of him exhaling sharply, the distant murmur of voices in the background, and then

“you didn’t take the train home, right?”

her stomach dropped.

“no,” she said slowly. “i walked.”

a long pause.

“good.”

jisun’s ears twitched. chae-eun stiffened beside her.

something wasn’t right.

“kai,” myah tried again, voice lower. “what happened?”

kai inhaled, then let it out in a controlled breath.

“there was...” he stopped, changed his mind. “...some kind of fight near the station. a bad one. hybrids got involved.”

jisun’s grip on myah’s knee tightened.

chae-eun muttered a quiet curse.

hybrids got involved.

that never ended well.

“is everyone okay?” myah asked.

kai hesitated. “depends who you ask.”

myah’s throat went dry.

“kai—”

“look, i just—” he cut himself off, exhaling roughly. “just be careful, okay? don’t go out tonight. don’t answer the door if you’re not expecting someone. and if anything feels off call me. immediately.”

his voice was sharp, almost commanding, but beneath it was something else. something that sounded a little too close to fear.

jisun’s tail flicked. “what aren’t you telling us?”

kai must’ve heard her, because he sighed, frustrated.

“just promise me, okay?”

myah hesitated.

jisun and chae-eun were watching her, their expressions unreadable, but their tension said enough.

“…okay,” she said finally. “i promise.”

kai was silent for a moment.

then, quietly

“good.”

the line clicked dead.

silence settled over the apartment, thick and heavy.

jisun was the first to move, standing up and pacing. her ears were flat, tail flicking sharply. “i don’t like this.”

“me neither,” chae-eun muttered.

myah swallowed, locking her phone and setting it on the table. “you don’t think,” she stopped, rephrased. “you don’t think it was just a random fight?”

chae-eun exhaled, running a hand through her hair.

“it’s never just random, myah.”

jisun folded her arms, voice quieter. “you should stay in my room tonight.”

myah blinked. “what?”

jisun turned to face her fully, expression serious. “just in case. you sleep too deep. if something happens, you won’t hear it.”

myah almost argued, but then she saw the way jisun’s hands clenched at her sides, the way her shoulders were tense, and she realized this wasn’t just overprotectiveness.

jisun was worried.

they both were.

and if they were worried shouldn’t she be?

she exhaled, trying to ignore the way her chest felt tight.

“okay.”

jisun relaxed, just a fraction.

chae-eun leaned back, rubbing her temples.

“we should watch the news,” she murmured. “see if anything’s being reported.”

jisun groaned. “i hate the news.”

“yeah, well. too bad.”

chae-eun reached for the remote.

myah leaned back into the couch, but suddenly, the room didn’t feel quite as warm as before.

she tried not to think about why.

chae-eun flipped through the channels, the room bathed in the flickering glow of the tv screen. myah curled her knees up to her chest, eyes scanning the headlines flashing across the bottom of the news ticker.

“altercation at sinchon station leaves three injured, two in critical condition.”

the camera cut to a familiar location, train station signs illuminated by harsh, artificial light. police officers milled about, their expressions unreadable. a few reporters stood off to the side, murmuring to the camera, but it was the footage that came next that made myah’s stomach churn.

grainy security footage played on-screen.

at first, it was just a blur of movement, indistinct figures tangled together in a flurry of limbs, but then a hybrid came into view.

wolf ears, visible despite the hood he wore.

his eyes burned with something wild, desperate.

he lunged at someone, a human, judging by the lack of visible features, but before he could land the hit, another person tackled him from behind. the footage was cut off there, replaced by the reporter’s composed, neutral expression.

“the altercation began late this evening when a dispute between patrons at a nearby establishment escalated into violence. witnesses claim that one of the hybrids involved ‘snapped’ without provocation, leading to the attack.”

myah clenched her jaw.

snapped.

they always said that.

it didn’t matter if the hybrid had been defending themselves or retaliating after being provoked, it was always their fault.

jisun made a noise low in her throat, tail flicking sharply against the couch cushions. “they’re gonna eat this up.”

chae-eun sighed. “yeah.”

a familiar sense of frustration, laced with something heavier, settled between them.

it was always the same.

the news told the same story, every time.

and no one ever questioned it.

myah tore her gaze from the screen, swallowing the unease rising in her throat.

“it’s late,” she murmured. “we should sleep.”

chae-eun hesitated, then nodded.

jisun stood first, stretching before reaching a hand out toward myah. “c’mon.”

myah almost rolled her eyes, but there was a comfort in the way jisun tugged her forward, leading her toward the bedroom.

chae-eun lingered in the living room, still watching the tv screen.

before myah disappeared down the hall, she caught one last glimpse of the footage, still replaying in the background.

the hybrid’s eyes, wide, tired, resigned, before he was dragged out of frame.

she didn’t sleep well that night.

rain drizzled against the windows of the café, tiny droplets gathering in uneven lines before sliding down the glass. the sky had been gray all morning, an unrelenting layer of thick clouds hanging low over the city. it wasn’t the type of rain that came down in heavy sheets, no thunder, no dramatic downpour. just cold, steady drizzle, the kind that seeped into your clothes and left you feeling damp no matter how many layers you wore.

the streets outside were quieter than usual, muffled under the rain. people moved hurriedly, umbrellas held low over their heads, boots splashing through shallow puddles.

inside the café, the air was warmer, cozier, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and caramel syrup lingering despite the lack of customers. it had been a slow morning, and even now, past noon, there were only a handful of patrons scattered across the space.

the last few days had been uneasy. it had been three days since incident at the train station and yet there have only been more hybrid attacks.

or at least, that’s how the news framed it.

every station repeated the same headlines, the same grim footage playing on loop, blurry surveillance videos of fights breaking out, blood staining the pavement, sirens wailing in the distance.

but none of them ever showed what led up to it.

what provoked it.

myah didn’t know what to believe.

she kept her head down, focusing on the mundane task of wiping down the counter, her movements slow and methodical. the foam from the milk frother clung to the sink’s surface before swirling down the drain.

kai stood near the register, arms crossed, one ear flicking as he stared out the window. his tail, usually tucked neatly behind him, twitched in small, agitated movements.

doyoung, one of their other coworkers, was by the shelves, restocking bags of coffee beans. he was human, tall, lean, with a sharp, knowing gaze that missed nothing. he wasn’t the type to pry, but myah had noticed that he always seemed aware, like he knew when to step in and when to keep quiet.

kai let out a loud yawn, stretching his arms above his head before flopping against the counter. "slow day."

"lucky for you," doyoung muttered, stacking another bag on the shelf. "means less people side-eyeing you like you're about to lunge across the counter."

kai shot him a flat look. "oh, yeah? maybe i should start biting. make it worth their while."

"please don’t," myah said without looking up. "we’re already short-staffed."

kai smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

it hadn’t, not in days.

he might joke about it, but myah could tell the constant scrutiny was getting to him. every day, the stares, the tension in the air, the way people hesitated before handing him their money, like touching his hand might somehow taint them.

it was subtle, but it was there.

“you’ve got that look again,” kai said, eyes flicking up to myah. “the one that says you’re thinking too much.”

“i always think too much,” myah muttered, stacking plates from a recently cleared table.

doyoung snorted. “at least she thinks. you, on the other hand...”

kai clutched his chest in mock offense. “wow. slander in my own workplace.”

before myah could respond, her phone buzzed in her apron pocket. she wiped her hands on a towel before pulling it out, frowning at the unknown number.

“hello?” she answered.

“is this myah takahashi?” the voice on the other end was clipped, professional.

“uh... yes?”

“this is officer sakurai from the kyoto metropolitan police department. we’re calling regarding your grandparents, hiroshi and ayako takahashi.”

she straightened immediately, the air in her lungs thinning. “what about them?”

there was a pause. too long. too heavy.

“i’m sorry to inform you that they’ve passed away.”

her mind blanked. “what?”

kai and doyoung stopped their playful bickering, both watching her now. she felt like she was underwater, the words sluggish, too thick to process.

“they were found early this morning at their residence. we’re still investigating the circumstances, but initial reports suggest it was a hybrid attack.”

hybrid attack.

the words barely registered. her grip tightened on the phone. “that... that doesn’t make any sense.”

“we understand this is difficult. if you’re available, we’d like you to come to the station to discuss next steps regarding their estate and any arrangements you may need to make.”

her mouth was dry. “yeah,” she said numbly. “okay.”

the call ended. she stood there, phone in hand, staring at nothing.

“myah?” kai’s voice was softer now, careful.

she inhaled sharply, shoving her phone back into her pocket. “my grandparents are dead.”

silence.

doyoung's expression fell. “oh my god myah, i’m so sorry.”

“do you, do you need to sit down?” kai asked, stepping closer.

she shook her head, the movement jerky. “no, i just— i need to go.”

kai didn’t hesitate. “i’ll walk you home.”

“kai, you don’t have to”

“i’m walking you home.”

his tone left no room for argument.

doyoung squeezed myah’s arm gently. “text me if you need anything, okay?”

myah nodded, barely hearing her. she let kai guide her out of the café, his presence steady beside her. the streets blurred around them, the weight in her chest suffocating. hybrid attack. it didn’t make sense. her grandparents, strict, cold, but untouchable in her mind, couldn’t just be gone.

she barely registered kai’s arm around her shoulders, grounding her. “whatever you need,” he murmured, “i got you.”

she didn’t have the energy to reply. she just kept walking, the weight of the world pressing down on her chest.

the days following the news of her grandparents' deaths felt strangely muted, as if the world had been wrapped in cotton. the hybrid attacks on the news blurred together, the same violent images looping on screens in shop windows and subway stations. myah tried to ignore them, but each report left a gnawing unease in her stomach.

at work, the atmosphere was no different. kai hovered around her more than usual, his sharp eyes flicking to her every time she sighed or rubbed at her temples. she appreciated it, even if she didn't acknowledge it outright.

“you’re gonna make that rag disintegrate,” kai said, nodding at the counter she had been wiping for the last five minutes.

myah blinked down at the damp cloth in her hand, then huffed out a quiet laugh. “guess i zoned out.”

kai didn’t return the laugh. instead, he leaned against the counter beside her, arms crossed over his chest. “any more news?”

she shook her head. “nothing beyond what they told me. hybrid attack, no suspects, still investigating.” the words felt hollow now, rehearsed. she had repeated them so many times to her coworkers, to jisun and chae-eun, to herself in the mirror.

“and you believe that?”

“what do you mean?”

kai shrugged, but there was tension in his shoulders. “just seems, how do i put this, convenient.”

“convenient?” she echoed, frowning.

kai hesitated for a moment, then sighed, dropping his voice. “the way hybrids are treated in this country, the way people react to them. it doesn’t add up. if a hybrid was really responsible, don’t you think they’d already have someone to parade around as the culprit? something public? something to make a statement?”

she swallowed. she hadn’t thought about it like that. “maybe they just don’t know who did it yet.”

kai didn’t argue, but his silence was enough of a response.

the bell over the door jingled, breaking the moment. their coworker, yuna, poked her head out from the back, barely glancing up from her phone. “myah, phone for you. said it’s about your grandparents.”

she felt kai’s gaze on her as she set the rag down and hurried into the back, her heart hammering in her chest.

the call was short. official.

“ms. takahashi, as the sole heir, you’ve been named the beneficiary of your grandparents’ estate. the will reading will be held at the district courthouse in three days. we strongly encourage your attendance.”

she barely remembered responding, barely remembered setting the phone down and walking back out front.

kai straightened the moment he saw her face. “what is it?”

“the will.” her voice sounded distant. “they left everything to me.”

the courthouse is cold.

not physically, the air is actually a little too warm, like the heating is working overtime, but everything about it feels sterile. impersonal. the walls are a dull gray, the floors scuffed from years of foot traffic. fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, casting a harsh glare on the polished wood of the long conference table where myah now sits.

she grips her hands together in her lap, trying to ignore the tight knot in her stomach. the lawyer, sungho, barely spares her a glance as he flips through the papers in front of him. his suit is crisp, his hair perfectly combed, his expression unreadable.

he finally stops, clears his throat, and begins.

“you are the sole heir to the takahashi estate.”

myah blinks.

she knew that already, but hearing it out loud like this makes it feel real in a way it hadn’t before. she waits for him to elaborate, but he only continues in that same monotone voice, listing off assets as if she were a stranger reviewing a contract instead of a grieving granddaughter.

“the property located at 218 fujimoto drive is now under your name, as well as all remaining financial holdings, stocks, and investments left behind by mr. and mrs. takahashi. ownership of their business, takahashi antiques, has also been transferred to you.”

her head snaps up.

“wait,” she says. “the business?”

nakamura doesn’t even look up. “yes.”

myah’s mouth goes dry. she hadn’t thought about the store in years. tucked away in an old part of the city, her grandparents had run it for as long as she could remember. filled with rare artifacts, books, and oddities from all over, it had always given her the feeling of stepping into another world. she remembers being a child, running her fingers over the spines of leather-bound tomes, tracing the delicate carvings on antique jewelry. she remembers the way her grandmother had spoken in hushed tones to certain customers, ones who always seemed to leave with something unseen.

her stomach churns.

“everything?” she asks slowly. “the house, the business, the land?”

nakamura’s pen scratches against the paper. “correct.”

something about the way he says it makes her skin prickle. detached. uninterested. like there’s something more beneath the surface that he’s choosing not to acknowledge.

she watches him carefully. “why does it feel like there’s something you’re not telling me?”

finally, he looks up. his gaze is flat, unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. something assessing. “your grandparents had… unique arrangements.”

myah frowns. “what the hell does that mean?”

nakamura exhales sharply, like he doesn’t have the patience for this conversation. he flips to another page, scanning it briefly before speaking again.

“i assume you’re already aware?”

“aware of what?”

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he leans back slightly, studying her. it’s subtle, but she can feel it. the weight of something unspoken pressing down on the space between them.

“they never told you.”

it’s not a question.

myah grips the edge of the table. she feels like a child again, sitting on the tatami floor of her grandparents’ home, listening to them speak in hushed voices behind closed doors. she remembers the way they would change the subject when she walked into the room, the way certain guests were never introduced to her.

she swallows hard. “told me what?”

nakamura closes the folder. “that’s beyond my jurisdiction.”

her frustration flares. “you just said i inherited everything. how can i not know what it is i’m inheriting?”

his lips press into a thin line. “you’ll find out soon enough.”

she stares at him, heart pounding. “is this about the business?”

he says nothing.

her pulse thrums in her ears. her grandparents had always been private, but she’d never questioned it. not really. but now, memories resurface, fleeting moments she hadn’t thought twice about as a child. the times her grandfather would leave in the dead of night without explanation. the strange symbols carved into the wooden beams of their home. the way her grandmother had once told her, in a voice lower than a whisper, that some things were better left unknown.

her skin crawls.

she pushes back her chair, standing abruptly. “fine,” she says, voice steadier than she feels. “if you won’t tell me, i’ll figure it out myself.”

nakamura merely nods, as if he expected this. “i suggest you be careful, ms. takahashi.”

she pauses. “careful?”

he meets her eyes. for the first time, there’s something almost like pity in his expression. “your grandparents kept secrets for a reason.”

she doesn’t reply. instead, she turns on her heel and walks out, the weight of his words settling over her like a thick, suffocating fog.

as she steps out of the courthouse and into the cold afternoon air, she realizes something.

this isn’t just an inheritance.

it’s a warning.

the house loomed before her, silent and still, wrapped in the eerie hush of abandonment. myah hesitated at the front steps, the key trembling in her fingers. it had been years since she last stood here, and yet, the sight of it felt unchanged, untouched by time. the wooden panels, once pristine, were weathered now, darkened with age. the porch creaked beneath her weight, groaning in protest as if resenting her return.

she inhaled deeply, pushing open the door. a gust of stale air met her, thick with dust and something else. something faintly familiar, like the remnants of a past life lingering in the shadows.

the entryway was dim, the last rays of evening light slanting through the curtains. it illuminated the fine dust particles dancing in the air, disturbed by her arrival. she took a cautious step inside, her boots barely making a sound against the hardwood floors.

nostalgia washed over her in a slow, creeping wave.

her old home.

her prison.

she moved forward, trailing her fingers along the edge of a wooden console table. the family photographs were still there, frozen in time. her as a child, grinning with a missing front tooth; her grandparents, stoic and composed, their gazes like polished glass. she swallowed, suddenly aware of how empty the house felt without them.

her feet carried her down the hallway, past the framed paintings, the delicate porcelain vases her grandmother had so carefully collected. everything was exactly as she remembered it, yet now, it all felt foreign.

the door to her old room creaked as she pushed it open, revealing the untouched relic of her childhood. the bed was still covered in soft pink sheets, the plush rabbit she once slept with propped neatly against the pillows. shelves lined the walls, packed with old books and trinkets, a collection of memories she had long since outgrown but never discarded.

she stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of aged paper and lavender, remnants of an old sachet her grandmother had once placed in the drawers. myah trailed her hands over the desk, her fingertips brushing against the carvings she had made as a child. little stars and swirls etched into the wood, secrets only she had known.

a lump formed in her throat.

it was as if the house had been waiting for her, frozen in time, unwilling to move on without her.

but she wasn’t that little girl anymore.

she turned away, her heart heavy, and made her way toward the kitchen.

the moment she stepped inside, an unexpected scent wrapped around her. cinnamon.

she inhaled sharply, the smell pulling her back in time, back to when her grandmother stood by the stove, humming softly as she baked pastries, hands dusted in flour, her touch light but firm.

the kitchen was eerily unchanged. the wooden dining table sat in the center, the same lace tablecloth draped over it. the copper pots hung from their hooks, gleaming faintly under the dim light filtering through the windows. the oven door was slightly ajar, as if waiting to be used again.

myah reached for the chair she always used to sit in, running her hands along its worn edges.

for a moment, she swore she could hear the distant echoes of laughter, her own, bright and carefree. her grandmother’s gentle voice calling her name. the scrape of a spoon against a mixing bowl.

but when she blinked, the house remained empty.

silent.

a chill ran through her.

she wasn’t sure if it was the memories, the eerie preservation of the house, or something else entirely, but a deep unease settled in her chest.

she wasn’t alone.

not in the way one might think.

the house was watching her. waiting.

for what, she wasn’t sure.

and that unsettled her most of all.

she stood there for a long time, gripping the back of the chair like it might steady her, like it might pull her back to reality. but reality felt warped here, tangled up in memory and dust, in the heavy silence pressing against her ears.

with a slow breath, myah moved to the counter, trailing her fingers along the cold marble. the spice rack still stood in the corner, filled with half-used jars of star anise, cinnamon sticks, and dried lavender. she picked one up absentmindedly, twisting the cap off, breathing in the scent.

it was strange, how something so small could feel so intimate. so personal.

she set it down carefully, eyes drifting to the old wooden cabinets, the fridge that hummed quietly in the background, still plugged in after all these years. her grandmother never threw anything away if she could help it.

the thought made myah’s throat tighten.

turning away, she let her eyes sweep over the kitchen once more, as if expecting some ghost of the past to materialize. but there was nothing. just an old house, preserved in time, waiting for someone to come home.

she exhaled sharply. enough of this.

pushing away from the counter, she made her way back to the hallway, her footsteps muted against the wooden floors. the house stretched before her, dark and still, the air thick with something unspoken.

she glanced toward the staircase.

it loomed in the dim light, each step leading up to the second floor where the bedrooms lay.

her grandparents’ room.

a part of her didn’t want to see it. didn’t want to step inside and confirm the emptiness, to find that even in death, they still lingered in the walls.

but another part of her, some quiet, stubborn part, needed to.

so she moved forward.

the stairs creaked under her weight, the sound sharp and jarring in the stillness. she reached the landing, her hand hovering over the railing, the hallway stretching before her.

their bedroom door was shut.

it always had been, even when they were alive.

she hesitated, heart pounding, before slowly wrapping her fingers around the brass doorknob and twisting it open.

the room smelled of old fabric and cedar, of the faintest trace of perfume that had long since faded.

the bed was neatly made, the way her grandmother always kept it. a thick comforter tucked tightly around the edges, pillows stacked just right. their nightstands remained untouched, her grandfather’s old watch resting beside a pair of reading glasses, a book left open on the page he had last read.

a lump formed in her throat.

it felt wrong, stepping into their space like this. like she was intruding on something sacred.

but they were gone. and this, this was hers now.

she swallowed hard, stepping toward the vanity where her grandmother used to sit every morning, brushing her hair with slow, careful strokes.

a jewelry box rested on top, slightly ajar.

myah reached for it, fingers ghosting over the delicate carvings on the lid before she lifted it fully open.

inside, tucked beneath strands of pearls and old brooches, was a folded piece of paper.

her brows furrowed.

she reached for it, unfolding it carefully, her eyes scanning the delicate script.

“myah, if you’re reading this then you already know.”

her breath hitched.

know what?

her eyes darted to the next lines, but the ink was smudged, blurred beyond recognition.

frustration curled in her chest. she turned the paper over, searching for something, anything, but the back was blank.

what was she supposed to know?

a cold dread crept over her skin.

the lawyer’s words echoed in her head. “your grandparents had… unique arrangements.”

she gritted her teeth, folding the letter carefully before tucking it into her pocket.

whatever this was, whatever secrets they had left behind, she wasn’t leaving until she figured it out.

but first, she needed to breathe.

with one last glance around the room, she turned on her heel and left, shutting the door softly behind her.

downstairs, the house still smelled like cinnamon.

but now, it felt different.

like it wasn’t just waiting.

like it was watching.

myah spent the next few hours drifting from room to room, her fingers brushing over old furniture, the edges of framed photographs, the small trinkets left untouched on shelves. everything felt preserved, like a museum of her childhood, but also strangely off.

it wasn’t just the stillness, or the way dust had settled into the corners, or even the letter tucked inside her pocket, burning against her thigh like a secret waiting to be unraveled.

it was the feeling of something lurking just beneath the surface, something she couldn’t quite place.

standing in the living room, she traced the edge of a porcelain figurine resting on the mantel. her grandmother had collected them. tiny, delicate things, each one hand-painted and arranged meticulously.

she used to get scolded for playing with them.

“they’re not toys, myah. they’re memories.”

the words echoed now, soft as a whisper in the back of her mind.

she swallowed, stepping back.

the old grandfather clock in the corner ticked on steadily, its rhythmic beat filling the silence.

she exhaled slowly, pressing her palms against her temples.

this was too much.

the house. the will. the cryptic words from the lawyer.

and the letter, "if you’re reading this… then you already know."

but she didn’t know. and the longer she stayed here, the more it felt like the walls were closing in around her, whispering secrets just out of reach.

a sudden noise, soft, almost imperceptible, made her freeze.

a creak.

her head snapped toward the hallway.

the house was old. old houses made noise. that was all.

but still, she held her breath, listening.

nothing.

shaking herself, she exhaled sharply and turned toward the kitchen.

she needed water. something to ground herself.

the faucet groaned as she turned it on, the stream cold against her palms as she let it run.

she gripped the edge of the sink, trying to steady herself.

what the hell was she even doing here?

she should leave. pack up whatever was necessary, figure out the rest later. maybe even sell the house. she didn’t need it, didn’t want it.

but even as the thought crossed her mind, something inside her rebelled against it.

because this place wasn’t just a house.

it was hers.

and whether she wanted to or not, she had to figure out why.

the letter in her pocket felt heavier than before.

sighing, she turned off the faucet and wiped her hands on a nearby towel.

she’d start with the office.

her grandfather had always been meticulous. if there were any answers, they’d be in there.

squaring her shoulders, she stepped out of the kitchen, the house humming with silence around her.

but as she made her way toward the study, that lingering sense of unease refused to fade.

if anything, it grew stronger.

the study was exactly how she remembered it, dark wood, overstuffed bookshelves, the faint scent of old paper and something deeper, something almost metallic.

she hesitated in the doorway, fingers tightening around the hem of her sweater.

when she was younger, she wasn’t allowed in here. her grandfather had been strict about that, always keeping the door locked, always keeping his work private.

“there are things a child doesn’t need to know, myah.”

but she wasn’t a child anymore.

stepping inside, she let the door creak shut behind her.

dust coated the desk in a fine layer, and when she reached out to drag her fingers across the surface, she left streaks in the residue.

it was strange, everything else in the house felt preserved, but this room felt abandoned.

like someone had left in a hurry.

or like they never intended to return.

she swallowed, moving toward the bookshelf.

her grandfather had always been a man of routine, of habit. if there was something to be found, it would be here.

she scanned the spines, history, philosophy, law… nothing out of place.

but as she reached out to pull one free, her hand brushed against something rough.

a piece of paper, wedged between the books.

her pulse picked up as she carefully tugged it free.

the paper was yellowed, edges curling. the handwriting was neat, deliberate.

but it wasn’t in japanese or korean.

it wasn’t even in english.

it was in a language she didn’t recognize at all.

frowning, she turned it over, hoping for some kind of explanation.

but there was nothing.

just that strange, foreign script staring back at her.

her stomach twisted.

she didn’t know why, but looking at it made her feel wrong.

like she wasn’t supposed to see it.

like she wasn’t supposed to be here.

her fingers trembled slightly as she folded the paper and slipped it into her pocket.

she’d figure it out later.

for now, she needed to keep searching.

turning back to the desk, she pulled open the first drawer.

empty.

second drawer.

empty.

third—

her breath caught.

there, nestled at the bottom, was a small wooden box.

unassuming, plain.

but locked.

she reached for it, running her fingers along the edges.

there was no key in sight.

but she knew, instinctively, that whatever was inside this box, it was important.

and she had to find a way to open it.

she sat back on her heels, staring at the box like it might open on its own if she willed it hard enough.

but of course, it didn’t.

with a frustrated sigh, she set it on the desk, fingers drumming against the wood.

her grandfather had always been careful. deliberate. if he locked something away, it was for a reason.

but where would he have kept the key?

standing, she let her gaze sweep the study again.

there were only so many places it could be.

the drawers were empty, but the bookshelf?

her fingers skimmed over the spines again, searching for anything that felt out of place.

just then her fingers ran over the spine of a book that didn’t quite fit.

it was thinner than the others, wedged between two thick tomes on legal theory.

heart pounding, she pulled it free.

inside, nestled within its hollowed-out pages, was a key.

her breath hitched.

hands shaking, she snatched it up, rushing back to the desk.

the key slid into the lock with a quiet click.

for a moment, she hesitated.

whatever was inside this box, it would change things.

she felt it.

but she couldn’t stop now.

with a deep breath, she lifted the lid.

inside was a stack of neatly folded documents.

on top, an envelope with her name written in her grandfather’s handwriting.

slowly, she picked it up, fingers ghosting over the ink.

she swallowed hard.

then, carefully, she slid her finger under the flap and pulled out the letter.

the first line made her blood run cold.

“if you are reading this, then we are already gone.”

myah’s breath caught in her throat. she stared at the words, fingers tightening around the letter as an eerie weight settled in her chest.

her grandfather’s handwriting was firm, precise, just as she remembered. but seeing it now, knowing he had written this with the knowledge that she would find it after his death, sent a shiver down her spine.

she forced herself to keep reading.

“there are things we never told you. things we kept hidden for your own good. but if you’ve found this, it means our past has finally caught up with you.”

her hands shook.

she swallowed hard, pressing her lips together.

“our estate is now yours, but with it comes responsibility. you may have thought our wealth came from years of business, from careful investments. but the truth is, our fortune was built on something else entirely.”

she blinked, rereading the line.

what the hell was he talking about?

her pulse hammered in her ears.

“the basement.”

she inhaled sharply, fingers tightening around the pages.

“we never spoke of it. we never let you near it. but you must understand it was necessary. everything we did was necessary.”

necessary for what?

she could feel her heartbeat in her throat, her stomach twisting as she scanned the rest of the letter.

“the key is in your hands now. what you do with it is your choice. but be warned, myah: there are things in this house that do not forgive, that do not forget. tread carefully.”

the letter ended there.

silence stretched in the study, thick and suffocating.

myah stared at the paper, rereading each word, her mind racing.

the basement?

her grandparents had never mentioned a basement.

she clenched the letter in her hands, standing abruptly.

her skin prickled with unease as she glanced around, the air in the house suddenly feeling heavier, colder.

the basement.

she had to find it.

she had to know what they were hiding.

slowly, she stepped out of the study, the floor creaking beneath her feet.

her breath came short and uneven as she moved down the hall, scanning the walls, the floor, any sign of a hidden door.

but there was nothing.

until—

her eyes landed on a spot in the dining room, just past the kitchen.

a section of the floor, slightly off-colored, slightly raised.

her pulse quickened.

she crossed the room, crouching down, fingers tracing along the edges of the wood.

it was subtle, almost invisible.

but when she pressed her palm flat against it, she felt it give.

a hidden panel.

with a sharp inhale, she dug her fingers beneath the seam and pulled.

the wood lifted, revealing a set of narrow stairs descending into darkness.

a rush of cold air hit her face.

her stomach twisted.

this was it.

the secret her grandparents had taken to their graves.

she swallowed hard.

then, gripping the edge of the opening, she forced herself to take the first step down.

the stairs groaned under her weight, the air growing colder with each step myah took. dust swirled in the dim light as she descended, the scent of damp wood and something faintly metallic filling her nose.

her fingers trembled as she reached out to brush the wall, searching for a light switch. her hand found something. an old metal box, cool to the touch. she hesitated before flipping it open.

click.

a single, flickering bulb buzzed to life overhead.

the basement was larger than she expected.

stone walls, lined with shelves covered in old books and boxes. a long, wooden table sat in the middle of the room, its surface scratched and scarred, as if it had seen years of use.

but it was what was beyond the table that sent a chill down her spine.

a door.

steel. bolted shut.

her breath caught in her throat.

what the hell were they keeping down here?

her fingers twitched at her sides as she stepped closer. dust clung to every surface, but the bolts on the door looked newer, untouched by time in a way that didn’t match the rest of the basement.

myah reached out, brushing the cold metal.

but before she could figure out how to unlock the door

bang.

she yelped, stumbling back as something slammed against the other side of the door.

her pulse roared in her ears.

another bang.

a scraping sound.

her breathing turned shallow as she staggered away, her body screaming at her to run, but she couldn’t. she couldn’t move. she could only stare.

because whatever was behind that door…

it wasn’t just alive.

it was waiting.

and now, it knew she was here.

her grandparents’ words echoed in her head.

“there are things in this house that do not forgive, that do not forget.”

her knees felt weak, the weight of the secret pressing down on her chest.

she needed to leave.

now.

with a sharp inhale, she turned on her heel and bolted up the stairs, slamming the wooden panel shut behind her.

the house was silent.

but she could still hear it.

the scratching.

the breathing.

whatever was in that basement,

it wasn’t going to stay down there forever.

the air in the house thickened, suffused with an unfamiliar scent that hung heavy, tainting the usual musky, cold atmosphere. it wasn’t just the sound of footsteps that caught their attention, though. it was the way the tension in the air shifted, thick with the faint taste of fear.

there was something different about her.

jungkook’s gaze flicked toward the door, his body tense as he inhaled deeply. the scent was faint, but unmistakable. her heartbeat, fast and uneven, vibrated in his chest like a deep drum, and he couldn’t help but feel the primal pull in his gut. she was afraid.

he growled low, a soft rumble that vibrated in his throat. there was something exhilarating about her fear, a delicious, undeniable charge that made his muscles flex, a heat pooling in his core. he’d been in the shadows for too long. it had been too long since he’d felt the heat of a prey’s fear, smelled it so close. “who is this?” his voice was hoarse, but he didn’t care.

the tiger hybrid lounging next to him snapped his gaze to the door, body going still. the instinct in him was electric, crackling beneath his skin. he could feel the air shifting, charged with something wild. he’d been caged for too long, too long without feeling this… alive. his lips pulled back into a predatory grin, and he let out a slow, guttural laugh. “her…” his voice rumbled, “she’s scared. but she doesn’t know it yet.”

the lion's golden hair gleamed faintly in the dim light as his sharp eyes locked onto the door. his body was tense, muscles coiled as he breathed in the scent of her, sweet, yet tainted with fear. he could sense the pull, the weight of her presence on the air. but it wasn’t just the scent that tugged at him. it was the hunger he felt rising in his chest, a deep-seated craving he hadn’t fed in far too long. “she’s not supposed to be here,” he muttered, his voice low and steady, but the edge of his tone betrayed a flicker of something else. something dark.

yoongi’s presence shifted in the shadows, his piercing eyes narrowing as he registered the subtle disturbance. there was a faint tug in his chest, a sharp awareness. his body had been still, cold, but now… now he could feel the faint hum of something that wasn’t just human. She wasn’t just human. his jaw tightened, the hunger in him rising to the surface, just beneath the calm exterior. “we’ll see how long she lasts.”

the scent of her fear curled around his senses, an intoxicating pull. jimin, who had been quietly observing, felt the subtle shift too. his silvery hair shimmered faintly in the low light, his expression unreadable but sharp. she’s different, he thought, his gaze still on the door, though there was a softness in his features that didn’t match the intensity of the others. She’s curious, but she doesn’t know the danger she’s walking into.

hoseok’s laugh broke the silence, bright, full of energy, but with a bite beneath it. he could feel it too. the anticipation that sparked in his veins, a restlessness he couldn’t shake. his eyes were bright, wide, a flicker of mischief in the depths. “she smells so good,” he teased, his voice almost playful, but there was something more raw behind his words. the hunger was in him, too, gnawing at the edges of his patience.

the tiger's muscles twitched in response to the shift in the air, his lips curling into a smirk. “she’s scared. that’s what makes it fun.” his voice was low, dark with something primal, something carnal. “let’s see if she tries to run.”

the tension in the room thickened, palpable. every hybrid could feel it. the scent of her, the way her breath quickened, the pulsing rhythm of her heartbeat that called to them like a beacon. they hadn’t been this close to something like her in so long.

and she was afraid. vulnerable.

but that wouldn’t save her.

yoongi’s gaze flicked to the door, his expression blank but the flicker of something darker in his eyes betrayed his thoughts. she won’t get far. she’ll be ours, whether she likes it or not.”

the air grew still, thick with the scent of her fear, the sound of her movements barely perceptible now. she was running, but it didn’t matter. she had been marked. and now… now they all knew.

the door wasn’t much of a barrier. it would only delay what was inevitable.

they could smell her, hear her. the hunt had begun.

authors note: hey guys heres part one, i hope you guys like it !! this is only my second work so i apologize in advance, i also know this chapter didn't have a lot but i really wanted to get a decent exposition before diving into the story. also im thinking of potentially doing a taglist but am unsure of the best way to go about that, please lmk if you have any suggestions, i'm super new to this so any advice is greatly appreciated, tysm !!

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taglist: join taglist!

[claramelooo]

Woven Fates (7/???)

Well, well, well... I dunno what to say for this chapter hahahaha it was... Wow... To intense to write this.

I hope you can enjoy it! <3

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio X Fem Reader

Summary: Finally you seem to be finding your place.

Hey! Now I've a masterlist

Surrender

The silence of that morning seemed to have a life of its own—dense and enveloping, hanging like a veil over the breakfast table. You tried to focus on the slice of bread in your hands, but it was impossible to ignore their presence—Rio, relaxed as always, her eyes half-lidded as she took a lazy sip of coffee, and Agatha, meticulously stirring her drink with an almost lethargic air.

The world had changed, but only you seemed to know it. Since the night before, things between the three of you had taken on a different shade, charged with a meaning that made you blush at the smallest gesture. Words that once seemed banal now sounded like secrets wrapped in double meanings.

“You’re very quiet today.” Agatha’s voice cut through the air like a polished blade—smooth, yet sharp.

You lifted your eyes with effort, trying to force a smile. “Just thinking about some things from college.”

She tilted her head slightly, as if she had heard something interesting but didn’t want to show it openly. Her blue eyes—cutting and patient—swept over your face with uncomfortable precision.

“Something important?” Agatha questioned, her voice low, yet carrying an enigmatic tone.

“I think so,” you replied, your throat dry.

Rio let out a low, husky laugh but said nothing. She simply rested her coffee cup on the table with a soft sound, her long fingers lazily draped over the marble surface. There was something about her movements—something slow, too controlled to be innocent.

“You seem more… distracted than thoughtful, darling.” Rio finally broke the silence, her words light but dangerous. She didn’t look directly at you, just let the comment slip as she ran her tongue absentmindedly over her upper lip, as if savoring a taste that still lingered.

You tried to laugh, but the sound came out nervous, awkward. “I think I need better sleep.”

“Maybe.” Agatha smiled softly, though the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She lifted her coffee to her lips, taking a slow sip, as if savoring something beyond the drink. “But sometimes, sleep isn’t exactly what solves things.”

Your stomach turned. There was something in her words, something that slipped between meanings and left you in a state of uncomfortable alertness.

Rio leaned forward slightly, her posture relaxed but predatory, and spoke with her usual insolent calm. “It’s a shame, you know.”

“A shame?” you asked, not really wanting the answer.

She looked at you, finally. Her dark eyes gleamed with something that shouldn’t be there so early in the morning. “The best things happen while everyone’s asleep.”

You tried to focus on breathing, but it was as if the air in the room had suddenly grown too heavy. They were playing a game—one you didn’t fully understand yet but were undoubtedly a part of.

You were too focused on keeping your face from betraying the memory of what you had witnessed the night before—the desire you could still feel pulsing beneath your skin—when Rio broke the silence with such studied indifference that it only heightened your apprehension.

“So,” she began, leaning lazily into her chair, her fingers sliding over the cup’s handle with a touch so light it seemed almost absentminded, “who was the friend you met yesterday?”

Your heart jumped involuntarily. You blinked, surprised, suddenly feeling uncomfortable under her gaze. “Friend?”

Rio arched an elegant eyebrow, a subtle smile forming at the corner of her lips, as if she were amused by your reaction. “I thought you had gone out.” She paused, letting the silence stretch between you. “And didn’t even tell us.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Agatha intervened before any words could come out. Her tone was calm, controlled, but there was an undertone to her words that made your spine stiffen.

“She doesn’t have to tell us everything, my love.” Agatha’s smile was slight, almost casual, but her eyes were far too sharp for the gesture to seem innocent. “Everyone is entitled to secrets, aren’t they?”

Secrets.

The word hung in the air like a sweet, insidious poison. You felt the heat rise to your face—hot, betraying—exposing your failed attempt at indifference.

“Of course.” Rio murmured slowly, as if weighing the validity of Agatha’s argument. Her dark eyes drifted over you, assessing, measuring. But then, her tone softened, a dangerous sweetness slipping into every syllable: “I just hope you had fun. You seemed a little… desperate last night.”

The word flowed through the air, making you swallow hard. Desperate? You were. After Rio touched you, after Agatha watched every second of it; after they ignored you and fucked intensely, calling your name.

Frustration burned in your throat, your wounded pride pulsing like an exposed wound. They were older, powerful, women the whole world admired. And yet, it was them who made you lose control. That should have driven you away. Should have made you afraid. But it only made you want them even more.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “I just went out with a friend.”

Agatha let out a low, drawn-out chuckle, as if she knew something you didn’t. Or worse—as if she knew exactly what you knew and was simply having fun with it. She rested her chin on her hand, her blue eyes piercing through you like blades. “And what did you do?”

The way she asked shouldn’t have made your skin burn, but it did. As if the answer didn’t matter, as if everything was already written and decided before you even opened your mouth.

“College work,” you replied, your voice weaker than you would’ve liked.

Rio laughed softly, her long fingers stirring the spoon inside her coffee cup. “College…” she repeated, savoring the word. “You’re so young, aren’t you, my sweet?”

Her laughter sounded almost affectionate, but it carried something dark, something that made your stomach twist. It wasn’t about youth. It was about you. About how, despite your age, despite your inexperience, you were already hopelessly entangled with them.

Your heart pounded, and you hated how your mind raced back to the feeling of Rio’s hand on your skin during the lecture, to Agatha’s possessive glances—to the overwhelming scene you had witnessed behind that slightly open door.

“Well, well…” Agatha’s murmur sliced through the air like a sharp blade. Her tone was soft, almost lazy, but the way her words dragged out felt like a warning. You felt the weight of her gaze settling on you, pulling your attention before you could even avoid it.

“Rio mentioned something about you wanting a job?”

Oh, not this again.

Your stomach twisted, and you lowered your head, feeling the heat rise to your face. The mere act of having to ask them for anything made an uncomfortable unease grow inside you. They were already so generous, so good. The last thing you wanted was to seem ungrateful. Or worse, a burden.

"Yes… Well…" Your voice came out hesitant, the words seeming too fragile to survive under the weight of that gaze.

Agatha tilted her head slightly, her eyes assessing you as if she were taking apart your intentions, piece by piece.

"Aren’t you satisfied with your internship at the studio, dear?" The way she said it made your stomach clench. The "dear" was sweet on the surface, but there was something sharp lurking just beneath. "Many young people would kill for this opportunity."

Your chest sank, a cold weight spreading through your ribs.

"I'm loving the experience, Agatha, really." The words came out rushed, an anxious attempt to reassure her. "But—"

"But…" Agatha narrowed her eyes, a calculated and relentless gleam dancing in them. It was an invitation to continue, but instead of encouraging, her expectation crushed any confidence you might have had.

Your body tensed. You averted your gaze to some random point behind her, trying to draw courage from the void.

"Come on, little girl." Her tone was almost bored, but the ice behind those words sent a chill down your spine. "I don’t have all the time in the world."

Little girl. Fuck. Damn words.

You took a deep breath.

"I—" Your voice faltered for a moment. Your eyes scanned the room, looking for something solid to anchor your mind. Finally, you exhaled and forced the words out. "Well… The internship isn’t paid. And like this, I’ll never be able to rent an apartment." You concluded, feeling proud for a moment.

Agatha remained silent for an instant, her eyes fixed on you, sharp as if she were dismantling you piece by piece. She tilted her head slightly to the side, her fingers idly sliding over her wrist, as if analyzing the situation before deciding how to act.

"Ah…" She finally murmured, the corner of her lips curling slightly, but without any real trace of a smile. "So that's it."

You felt a knot form in your throat as you nodded slowly.

Rio, beside you, let out a short sigh and crossed her arms, chocolate-colored eyes sliding over you in a way that made your chest tighten.

"You never told us you wanted to move out." Rio's voice was low, almost a casual reminder, but you could sense the underlying weight in those words.

You averted your gaze, your hands instinctively clenching into fists at your sides.

"I… thought it was obvious," you said hesitantly. "I can’t live on charity forever."

Agatha let out a low, dry laugh and tilted her head as if genuinely surprised by your response.

"Charity?" She repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Is that what you think we’re giving you?"

You opened your mouth but hesitated. There was something in her eyes—a cold gleam, something that seemed both challenging and slightly irritated.

Agatha sighed, as if growing tired of the conversation. She adjusted her blazer, her nails sliding over the dark fabric before raising her gaze to you again.

"Rio mentioned you seemed worried about money," she said slowly, as if choosing her words with surgical precision. "That’s why she suggested an allowance."

Your chest tightened painfully. You felt the heat rush to your face—not from shyness, but something closer to indignation.

Allowance.

The word sounded like a slap.

As if you were a child. As if you were being pampered, taken care of, as if you had no real autonomy.

You clenched your fists at your sides, trying to contain the wave of frustration.

"Wouldn’t that be special treatment?" Your voice came out firmer than expected, and you held Agatha’s gaze, despite the unease growing inside you. "Isn’t all of this already special treatment?"

The silence that followed was almost suffocating.

Agatha blinked slowly, as if savoring your words, as if she were about to dismantle them one by one.

Rio narrowed her eyes, her lips curving slightly in a half-smile that did nothing to ease the tension in the air.

"Watch your tone," Agatha said, her voice soft but as sharp as a blade. It wasn’t a shout, nor a suggestion. It was a warning—clear and precise—that made you shrink involuntarily. "You are here because we allow it. Because we saw something in you that might be worth shaping. But don’t be mistaken, dear. You are not irreplaceable."

Agatha's raw and cruel words sent a chill down your spine, but you didn’t back down. "I’m not asking to be irreplaceable. I just want to be treated like an adult."

Agatha laughed, a low, humorless sound, yet it carried a strange sweetness.

"Oh. An adult?" She leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, her eyes fixed on you as if dissecting your soul. "Adults don’t need allowances. Adults also don’t cry in the laps of strangers. But you did all that, didn’t you? What does that make you?"

The question reverberated in your mind like a cruel echo.

What does that make you?

A child.

Not because Agatha had said it out loud, but because she had made sure to show it. The way the word "adult" left her lips, laced with disdain, as if it were a fantasy you were trying to wear without deserving it. As if, at the slightest touch, that illusion would shatter, revealing what you really were.

Your body responded before your mind could catch up. The words died in your throat, and you felt a pang of embarrassment at how your posture wavered, almost imperceptibly.

Agatha didn’t wait for you to respond. Already out of patience and visibly irritated, she ran her tongue over her lips, as if tasting something invisible in the air. Then, she slightly pulled away from the table and adjusted the cuffs of her elegant coat.

"Unfortunately, I’m afraid our conversation must end here… I have things to handle at the studio. Saturday or not, there’s always work to do."

You sighed in defeat and nodded, not really knowing how to respond. The movement seemed to please her.

"Be a good girl for me, yes?" She added, her eyes gleaming with something you couldn’t fully decipher.

You swallowed hard. Asking what exactly she meant would sound ridiculous, so you remained silent. Your silence made her smile.

"See you later."

And then, Agatha was gone.

Leaving you alone with Rio.

The sound of the door closing echoed through the house. You realized you had been holding your breath and slowly let it out. Your eyes drifted to the woman in front of you, who absentmindedly spun the ring on her finger.

"Well," Rio murmured, leaning back in her chair like a satisfied feline, "looks like it’s just the two of us now."

Rio observed you for a moment, her eyes sliding over you with a kind of calculated tenderness. Then, as if wanting to ease the weight of the previous conversation, she smiled slightly and reached out, her cool fingers brushing your arm.

"You made Aggie mad." She said, almost amused, as if it were a small inconvenience rather than something still burning inside your chest.

You lowered your gaze, biting the inside of your cheek. It was obvious that you had. Agatha never bothered to hide when something upset her—and today, you were that something.

"But don’t worry," Rio continued, her voice a striking contrast to Agatha’s harshness. "She never stays mad for too long."

That should have comforted you. But somehow, the fact that Rio was trying to reassure you only made the weight on your chest grow. As if, instead of pulling you away from Agatha’s suffocating grip, she was simply wrapping you in another kind of chain—soft, welcoming, but still a chain.

Rio tilted her head slightly, her fingers tracing a gentle circle on your arm before pulling away.

"She only wants what’s best for you," she said, and the way the phrase was spoken sounded like an undeniable truth, something unquestionable.

"We do."

The we.

A shiver ran up your spine.

You swallowed dryly, still feeling the shadow of Agatha’s words circling your mind, still hearing the echo of that cruel question.

What does that make you?

Rio smiled, her dark eyes filled with something both soft and impenetrable at the same time.

"Don't be so tense, darling. Let's do something to distract you, shall we?" she suggested, standing up and extending her hand to you. "Come."

A shiver ran up your spine. You couldn’t tell if what you felt was discomfort or excitement. Maybe both.

Rio didn’t seem in a hurry to fill the silence. On the contrary, she seemed to savor it. Her dark eyes locked onto yours, and a small smile appeared at the corner of her lips.

“Something wrong, little bunny?”

You opened your mouth, but no immediate answer came. You didn’t know if you wanted to run away or get closer. If you wanted to lose yourself in this game or keep your distance. But maybe you had no choice.

Because Rio didn’t seem willing to let you escape so easily.

The afternoon moved lazily after lunch, soft light filtering through the curtains as the world outside seemed to fade away. Rio appeared with a generous tub of ice cream and two spoons, her smile a mixture of mischief and affection. She shook the tub in your direction like it was an irresistible offer.

“Pick a movie,” she said casually, but with a peculiar glint in her eyes. “Today, you're in charge.”

You chose something light and charming—My Neighbor Totoro. A movie that always brought you comfort with its sweet and magical tones, even if it was a little childish. Rio didn’t seem to mind; on the contrary, she shrugged with relaxed acceptance. She hummed, settling beside you on the couch.

She let out a satisfied chuckle, adjusting herself and casually pulling your legs over hers. “Good choice. Aggie would find it too soft…” She scooped some ice cream and, without warning, brought the spoon to your lips. “Come on, open up.”

You hesitated for a second, but the way her eyes sparkled with amusement made you part your lips, accepting the creamy sweetness. Rio smiled, running her thumb over the corner of your mouth to wipe away a stray drop of ice cream, then licked her own finger as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

With every new spoonful, your mind seemed to sink into a lazy haze, like sinking into cotton. Your shoulders relaxed against her, your eyelids grew heavier. You felt good, protected, pampered in a way that shouldn’t have pleased you so much. Rio seemed to notice this, because her mischievous smile returned as she whispered, “Our little secret, right?”

You only nodded, your heart beating a little faster when you felt her lips brush lightly against your cheek. It was soft at first, just a timid touch, but Rio soon lost any hesitation.

As the minutes passed, Rio moved closer, invading your space with an unsettling ease. She nudged you lightly with her shoulder, laughing when you murmured a small complaint while trying to balance the ice cream tub without spilling it.

"Everything okay there, silly girl?" she teased, her fingers grazing your waist to tickle you ever so slightly.

You tried to answer, but you were already so relaxed that you just laughed in response. There was something hypnotizing about the way Rio spoiled you without hesitation—as if she were discovering a new kind of affection she hadn’t realized she craved so much.

"Good girl," she said with a playful smile, her eyes dancing with a fiery spark.

The world seemed to slip through your fingers as Rio pulled you even closer. She inhaled your scent discreetly, her nose brushing against the sensitive curve between your neck and shoulder. The gesture shouldn’t have felt so intimate, but heat spread through your belly too quickly, making your breath hitch.

As if wanting to savor the moment, she pressed wet, lingering kisses along your jawline. Every slow and deliberate touch made your body pulse, leaving you softer, lighter, more willing to surrender to her.

“Are you always like this?” Her voice was a soft, low growl, teasingly close to your ear. “So... delicious?”

You tried to laugh at her blatant flirting, but the sound got stuck in your throat, turning into something close to a desperate sigh. Your body felt like it was about to crumble under her skilled touch.

Rio didn’t stop. Her hands glided along your sides with an almost cruel slowness, as if mapping every inch of you. Every gesture was careful but also filled with possession, as if you were something she hadn’t known she could have but now refused to let go.

The heavy sigh against your skin made your heart stumble in your chest. Her voice came out husky, almost broken. “I never get this chance with Aggie…”

For a moment, it felt like a stray thought, a confession she hadn’t meant to say out loud. “But you... you let me.”

Those words wrapped around you, drowning out any attempt at rational thought. Her warm breath grazed your slightly parted lips, as if her mere proximity was stealing the air you needed. The gentle caress she gave your hair felt like it had a direct connection to your nervous system, relaxing you completely.

“You let me do whatever I want with you, don’t you?”

Before you could respond—or even think about denying it—her tongue flicked over the pulsing spot on your neck, followed by a strong suction that tore a helpless moan from your lips.

Your head fell back, eyes shut tight, body arching in an involuntary surrender. The air grew thick, charged with something deeper, something beyond any physical touch could explain.

Giving yourself to Rio wasn’t just a carnal act; it was a kind of unraveling of your own will, as if every fiber of your being was crying out for the dominance she offered without asking.

Rio, with the precision of someone who knew exactly how to destroy someone for pleasure, didn’t waste the opportunity. Her mouth trailed along the exposed expanse of your neck with a hunger that made your skin burn, each kiss, lick, and bite leaving invisible marks that pulsed like a signature carved into your flesh.

She let out a low growl, satisfied, pressing her hips against yours. “Because you’re my good girl.”

Those damned words. Again.

They cut through you like a sharp blade, carving out space for something you could no longer contain.

You gasped in surprise, your body trembling under the corrosive intensity of that declaration. Because the unbearable truth was simple: yes, you wanted to be that. You wanted to be exactly what she said—and maybe something even worse.

Rio's hand trailed down your side with a light touch, almost as if testing the limits of your consent. You felt the fabric of your shirt slowly rise as her fingers advanced, each movement a calculated tease. And when her warm palm finally found the curve of your breast, your whole body shuddered in response.

The soft touch quickly became something bolder. Her fingers moved to your nipple, teasing it with slow, torturous circles that made you gasp. Your body stiffened, shocked by the intimate gesture.

"Rio, what—" Your voice came out weak, almost trembling, your mind desperately trying to regain some semblance of control.

But she only answered by pinching your nipple firmly, precisely, drawing a strangled sigh from your lips. Heat surged through your body in hot waves, pulsing intensely between your legs.

"You don’t want this, sweetheart?" she whispered in a low, husky voice, thick with a desire that seemed to consume her entirely. Her teeth grazed the delicate curve of your ear, sending another irresistible shiver down your spine.

Your skin felt electrified, every touch heightening your sensitivity. You tried to open your mouth to respond, but the words got lost in the haze of stimulation she inflicted on you without mercy.

Her lips traveled downward, leaving a trail of warm, wet kisses along the side of your neck, while her fingers continued to toy with your hardened nipple, sliding like soap between her fingers—pressing, pinching, teasing.

It was too much.

"You're squirming all over, sweetheart, and I wonder why." Rio mused, her voice like sweet poison dripping into your ears. "I hope it's not because you love this, is it?"

She turned her attention to your other breast, already taut from arousal. You heard her let out a small whimper with her mouth still against your neck. “Doing this with a married woman… That would be wrong, wouldn't it, little one?”

Her other hand guided you on top of her, making your ass press deliciously against her cunt. Rio moaned, pressing you down even harder.

And you were completely at her mercy, incapable of denying the intensity of the pleasure she pulled from you with meticulous touches, calculated to push you to the edge of desperation.

“I-I'm sorry,” you rasped, your voice thick with false regret.

You felt Rio’s smile against your neck, her warm lips sending shivers down your spine like an electric current. She let out a low, husky chuckle, the sound vibrating against your skin and making your heart race.

Her hands continued to explore your body with a mix of devotion and possessiveness, as if each touch was an affirmation that you belonged to her—at least in that moment.

"Are you apologizing for being such a naughty girl?" Rio whispered, her voice dripping with pleasure and taunting amusement. Her teeth grazed your nape, and you trembled involuntarily on top of her, as if every nerve in your body was waking up to her touch.

"Say it... Say it, little girl," she ordered, but the firmness in her voice faltered as her hands tightened on your waist, pulling you even closer.

You felt the heat of her body against yours, the press of her breasts against your own, and the aching need between your legs became unbearable.

"S-sorry for being such a naughty girl," you murmured, your voice shaky as you started grinding slowly on her lap.

Rio groaned, her hands gripping your waist as if trying to keep control, but you could tell she was losing the battle against her own desire.

Her hips rolled against yours, and even through the fabric, you could feel her wetness, which only heightened your own arousal.

"Fuck," she growled, yanking your hair back with a force that made you gasp. The pain was sharp, but laced with a pleasure that made you dizzy.

Her lips crashed against yours in a messy, desperate kiss—full of teeth and hunger. It was wild, reckless, and you could barely think.

The kiss was rough at first, clumsy, as if both of you were so eager that you couldn't quite align. Your lips moved with a frantic urgency that made your heart pound, and you felt her teeth scrape against yours, a mix of pain and pleasure that made you even weaker.

When you tried to take control, running your tongue along her lips, Rio let out a low growl, surrendering completely.

Your tongues met in a frenzied rhythm, exploring, fighting, dancing. Hers was hot, insistent, and you tasted her—a mix of wine and vanilla ice cream.

She dominated you but let you take charge for brief moments, as if testing you, pushing you to go deeper. You felt her breath quicken, her muffled moans against your mouth, and it only made you want more.

"You're so fucking perfect," she murmured against your lips, her hands slipping inside your shorts, finding the growing wetness between your thighs. Both of you moaned at the same time, the sound echoing through the room as the sexual tension reached an unbearable peak.

Her hand was firm yet gentle, as if she knew exactly how to touch you to bring you to the edge. Her fingers explored you with precision, making your body tremble, your legs weak as if they could no longer hold you up.

Rio noticed and held you tighter, her lips now on your neck, nibbling and sucking, leaving marks you knew would last.

She let out a deep, satisfied chuckle, almost like a purr. Her fingers moved with deliberate pressure, finding the slick heat between your thighs. "Ah, my gem…" she whispered against your ear, nibbling your lobe with delicious cruelty. "This wet for me?"

The sound of her husky laughter made your stomach tighten, while your mind struggled to process the overwhelming intensity of the moment.

You whimpered in desperation, gasping under her touch, which left a trail of fire in its wake. "Please…" You didn’t know if you were begging her to stop or to keep going.

Rio didn’t stop. She barely gave you time to catch your breath before crashing her lips onto yours again, this time even hungrier.

She tasted hot and electric, like every brush of her lips sent a shockwave through your body. You felt completely strung tight, every cell in your body pulsating with a need you never imagined feeling.

Her hand, already firm against your throbbing heat, now moved with a clear intention, rubbing with a pressure that made you choke on your own breath. Your panties were soaked, and Rio knew it; she felt it, controlled it, fed off your vulnerability.

"That’s it, kitten… Be good. Be good for me," she murmured against your lips, her voice deep and languid as if intoxicated by the moment.

Her other hand slid under your shirt without hesitation, finding the soft skin of your breast. Skilled fingers teased your nipple with a sharp pinch, dragging a loud moan from you, almost a sob.

Your body arched involuntarily, seeking more of her, as if you couldn’t exist without her touch anymore. "Rio…" you whispered, your voice breaking between pleasure and confusion, trying to say something coherent but failing miserably.

She didn’t answer. Instead, her lips trailed down to the curve of your neck, leaving wet kisses and soft bites, each one burning like embers.

Her scent—a mix of desire and something intoxicating—filled your senses, making it impossible to think about anything else but this, right here, right now.

When her fingers slipped under the damp fabric of your panties, touching your bare, pulsing heat, you lost all control. You moaned loudly, not caring about anything anymore, the sound filling the space around you.

"That’s it, sweetheart… Let me hear you," Rio growled, her voice thick with lust.

Your hips instinctively moved, grinding against her touch, seeking more friction, more contact.

Her fingers now pressed firm, yet teasing, tracing slow, deliberate circles. Every movement was calculated, as if she knew exactly how to make you moan louder, tremble harder.

You were burning, completely surrendered, while pleasure built up inside you, consuming every inch of your body. "I—Please…" you whimpered between incoherent moans, not even sure what you were begging for—only that you needed her, all of her, and even more.

Rio seemed just as consumed as you. Her movements were desperate, as if she too was being devoured by the same fire that raged inside you. Her moans mixed with yours as she guided you deeper into an abyss of intoxicating pleasure.

Rio seemed to be in a trance, lost between low moans and incoherent murmurs. "You have no idea… how long… I've wanted this..." Her voice was hoarse, every word laced with a long-repressed desire, as if she wasn’t fully aware of what she was saying. "This was killing me."

Before you could even process those erratic confessions, her fingers finally slipped inside your panties, finding your swollen, throbbing clit. The direct touch made you gasp violently, your entire body tensing as unbearable heat radiated from your core.

"Rio…" You tried to speak, but the sound came out more like a fragmented moan, barely recognizable even to yourself.

She pressed her fingers more firmly, rubbing in slow circles, as if wanting to prolong the moment until you completely lost control. Both of your bodies trembled at the same time—she felt every pulse of yours, and it only seemed to fuel the insatiable hunger burning in her half-lidded eyes.

"You were waiting for this, weren’t you?" Rio murmured against your neck, nipping at the already sensitive skin as she continued her skilled movements.

You had touched yourself before, exploring your own pleasure, but this was different. That wild intensity, the absolute dominance Rio had over you, made every touch devastating. Your hips started moving on their own, chasing more of that maddening friction.

But then, amid the whirlwind of sensations, a distant part of your mind tried to resist, to remember something—someone.

"Agatha…" The name slipped past your lips before you could stop it, but it didn’t come out as a warning or a rational reminder. No, it sounded more like a needy moan, filled with longing and confusion.

Rio froze for a second, and you feared she might stop. But instead, something dark awakened in her. Her brown eyes gleamed with a dangerous intensity as she smiled wickedly, her lips wet and slightly parted.

"Oh, sweetheart…" Rio growled, her voice dripping with something even deeper. "You're still thinking about her, aren’t you? You wanted her to be here?" She bit your shoulder hard, making you cry out in pain. "—Huh?"

She pressed, her fingers now firmer, faster, as if punishing you for mentioning her wife’s name. "Do you want her to see you in my lap like the perfect little baby you are?"

Guilt rooted itself inside you like a choking weed, suffocating, inevitable. It didn’t come as a sudden weight, but as a persistent whisper, sliding through your mind, your veins, your skin.

What does that make you?

Agatha’s voice echoed, low, cutting, numbing. You tried to push it away, but the truth was you didn’t want to. Because along with the shame, along with the crushing weight of the disappointment you knew you had caused her, came something else. Something even more overwhelming.

Need.

It burned in your core, throbbing and relentless. The need to see her. To apologize. To hear her voice telling you that everything was okay, that you were still good enough. That you were still theirs.

Rio knew. She always knew.

You tried to respond, but the words were lost amid the moans spilling from your mouth. Rio didn’t stop, her fingers now moving at an unrelenting pace, while her other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place.

Her fingers slid inside you, deep and firm, while her thumb continued stimulating your clit. The combination was almost too much, and you felt your legs tremble, your body writhing under her touch.

"It feels so tight in here, bunny," she groaned, voice strained as if she were holding back.

"Agatha…" The name escaped again, but this time it was a long, drawn-out moan, filled with desire and need.

Rio laughed, a low, husky sound, as she picked up the pace, her fingers moving in fast, insistent strokes.

"That’s it, moan her name," she ordered, her voice dripping with pleasure and possessiveness. "But know that it’s me making you feel this. Me pushing you over the edge."

And you were right there, every movement, every touch, every word dragging you closer to the breaking point. Rio knew it, and she used it to her advantage, her fingers and words pulling you into a state of bliss you could barely endure.

Rio leaned in, her breasts pressing against yours, and you inhaled her scent—woody, intense, just like Agatha’s. It was deliberate. Everything was deliberate.

"You think you can satisfy us both?" She whispered, her lips almost brushing yours. "Think you can handle it?"

Before you could answer, she increased the rhythm again, her fingers moving in precise, rapid circles, while her other hand wrapped around your throat, fingers pressing lightly against your pulse.

"We're not letting you out of this. Fuck. You're not getting out of this," she growled as you felt her grind her hips against your ass. "You’re ours. Mine. Hers. Got it?"

You didn’t get it. You couldn’t understand. Your body arched, muscles tense like violin strings about to snap.

"Agatha... Rio... Please—" You didn’t even know what you were begging for, but they knew.

"I’m right here," Rio moaned, her own hips moving against your leg, revealing that she was just as close. "I want to hear you scream our names when you come."

Her voice cracked, her mask of control fracturing for just a moment, and you realized how much she needed this—needed you, Agatha’s complicity, the corruption the three of you were weaving together.

And then you fell.

The orgasm ripped through your body like wildfire, violent and uncontrollable, your screams swallowed by Rio’s devouring kiss. She drank in every sound, every tremor, as if she wanted to steal even your breath. But you felt something else—her fingers trembling, her body shaking against yours.

Your limbs felt heavy, as if submerged in a thick, unknown ocean. Your breathing was short, uneven, and a strange exhaustion weighed on your chest—not just fatigue, but something deeper, something that made your body feel fragile and vulnerable in a way you couldn’t explain.

Rio noticed. Of course, she did.

She didn’t say anything immediately. She just slid her hands over your back in a slow, lazy caress, as if trying to soothe every fiber of your being. Her fingers traced slow circles over your skin, moving down to the curve of your waist and back up again, the touch warm and grounding.

"You were so good for me," Rio murmured, her voice low and satisfied. The tip of her nose brushed against your temple, and she pressed a soft kiss there. "But now you're exhausted, aren’t you, little girl?"

You tried to deny it, to open your mouth and respond, but all that came out was a trembling sigh, a small sound you barely recognized as your own.

Rio smiled. A slow, knowing smile, but there was something in her eyes—something different. A quiet pride mixed with… tenderness?

Before you could process anything, she was already moving. With almost irritating ease, Rio pulled you against her chest, adjusting your body effortlessly, as if taking care of you like this was second nature.

"Shh," she murmured, her fingers now gliding through your hair, untangling the strands with patience. "You don’t have to worry about anything right now. Just let go."

You wanted to protest, to say you were fine, but the truth was, the weight of exhaustion wrapped around you like a thick blanket, making your mind slow, your thoughts scattered.

Rio’s voice blended into your thoughts, as if she were somehow inside your head, whispering pretty words you didn’t even know the meaning of.

Her touch was a sedative. The warmth of her body, the safety of her arms, the lazy kisses she pressed to your forehead and cheek. Everything was an invitation to surrender.

Rio sighed against your hair, the warmth of her breath sending shivers down your spine. "Are you always this small, or do you only seem like it when you’re like this… giving yourself to me?"

You felt her laughter vibrate against you, as if she were amused at your expense, but there was something more. Something deeper, heavier.

Then you realized you were on top of her, part of your face buried in her breasts, while your arms held her tightly—like you were afraid she’d leave you.

That she’d abandon you.

“My perfect girl,” Rio repeated, silencing your thoughts with a warm kiss on your forehead. Her voice was lower this time, as if she were speaking to herself. “Don’t overthink.”

Sleep came before you could answer.

And Rio stayed there, holding you firmly, her hand lazily sliding over your back, her touch constant—persistent. As if making sure that every part of you still belonged to her.

[...]

You woke up with your body heavy, exhausted in a way you had never felt before. As if every part of you was drained, emptied. Your mind was hazy, your limbs lethargic. Your first instinct was to curl further into the sheets, to seek the warmth that had surrounded you before, but the space beside you was empty.

The scent was the first thing you noticed.

Dense, warm, familiar.

This wasn’t your room.

The mattress beneath you was softer, the sheets carried an intoxicating fragrance—something sophisticated and slightly sweet—a blend of amber, incense, and something that reminded you of leather. A scent that seeped into your mind, making you even dizzier.

Their room.

You woke up in their bed.

The shock washed over you slowly, like a tide rising. The space around you was larger than your own bedroom. A shiver ran through your body as you remembered what you had seen—how they loved each other wildly, the kisses exchanged, the looks filled with years of intimacy. It was like watching a forbidden film, something you were never meant to see, but now it was burned into your mind, impossible to erase.

And then, you remembered.

You and Rio, in the living room.

Rio touching you as if you belonged to her, as if you were an extension of her, something she could mold and control at will.

Your body still carried the echo of her touch, as if her fingers had left invisible marks on your skin. You turned in bed, feeling the weight of the sheet over you, and tried to organize your thoughts. But they were tangled, mixed with the scent of the room, with the memories that wouldn’t stop resurfacing, with the feeling that you had crossed a line from which there was no return.

You forced yourself up, feeling your muscles contract from the extreme fatigue. With light steps, you left the room, glancing around as the hallway light hit your eyes, making you blink against the discomfort.

Descending the stairs, you noticed how empty the mansion felt. What time was it, anyway? Had you really slept that long? You heard two familiar voices and approached with almost fearful steps.

“She thinks she can speak however she wants now?” Agatha’s voice was sharp, carrying a silent venom, as if she were still savoring the audacity you had shown earlier. “Seems like we’re being too generous.”

“You should’ve seen her, love,” Rio said, amused, her tone dripping with lazy pride. “She was so fragile afterward. So receptive. I think our little girl learned her lesson.”

Agatha’s silence was brief but noticeable.

“I tamed our little wild thing,” Rio continued, and you could almost see her bright smile, confident, basking in her victory. “Now you need to calm down too, huh?”

Agatha scoffed. “I am calm.”

“Oh, sure you are,” Rio teased, a playful lilt in her voice, as if she could see right through the other woman.

You closed your eyes, your face burning with shame.

They were talking about you. About what they had done to you.

Your chest rose and fell with a trembling breath. You should go in there, you should say something. But you stayed put.

“Oh. I can’t believe you’re going to be the mean mommy.”

The word lodged itself into your mind like a shard of glass.

Mommy.

Rio said it so casually, as if she hadn’t just turned your reality upside down. The silence that followed was so thick you could almost feel it pressing against your chest.

And then, Agatha responded—but her voice was lower this time, drawn out.

“Don’t start with that.”

Rio just laughed.

And you left the hallway almost stumbling over your own feet, the air caught in your lungs like you were suffocating. Their scent still clung to your skin, to your clothes, and Rio’s words echoed in your mind—the mean mommy.

What was that supposed to mean?

The kitchen was a silent refuge, a space where you could pretend, at least for a few minutes, that you had control over something. You grabbed a knife without thinking too much, your fingers tightening around the handle as you started cutting ingredients with quick, precise movements.

Cooking had always calmed you. A mechanical, logical process. Something you could control.

And you needed to feel in control.

But the illusion didn’t last long.

Soft footsteps echoed across the wooden floor, and soon, voices followed behind you.

“Hmm,” Rio murmured with an audible smile, holding Lucky in her arms, the cat completely unaware of the tension. “The little kitchen rat strikes again.”

You didn’t look at them, keeping your focus on what you were doing. But then came the dragged sound of a chair being pulled. And Agatha’s voice, low and slightly irritated.

“Put the knife in the sink.”

The command was firm, dry.

Your jaw tightened.

“I’m not a child,” you muttered, cutting the vegetables with more force than necessary. “I lived alone for years. I know how to cook, I know how to take care of myself.”

“Do you?” Agatha taunted. “Because what I see is a stubborn little girl playing with sharp objects.”

You turned abruptly to face her, the knife still in your hand, your eyes blazing.

“Why do you always do this?” Your voice trembled with frustration. “Treat me like I’m… small?”

Agatha didn’t answer immediately. She just observed you, her blue eyes analyzing every detail of your face, as if trying to decipher something even you didn’t understand. Then, she laughed. A low, humorless sound.

“Because you are small.”

The words burned your skin like a sting. Your fists clenched, anger mixing with something you couldn’t name.

“And little girls who disrespect their guardians need to be punished.”

That was the breaking point.

You lunged at Agatha, tears of fury spilling from your eyes.

"You are not my mother!" You lunged at her, pounding your fists against the woman's shoulders, sobbing uncontrollably.

Your fists hit her shoulders, weak and desperate, your whole body trembling. The tears fell uncontrollably, and you sobbed between the blows.

Agatha grabbed your wrists, firm but not hurting you. You tried to break free, tried to fight against her, but the weight of exhaustion and overstimulation made you crumble.

Your knees buckled.

And then you clung to her.

Your hands found the hem of her expensive linen shirt, fingers gripping the fabric so tightly it wrinkled. You sobbed against her, your face pressed into her chest, the words slipping out between broken cries.

“You’re not her…” Your voice was weak, shattered.

Your arms wrapped around Agatha’s neck, your body seeking hers with a need you couldn’t understand. You held onto her tightly, almost desperately, your fingers clutching her blouse like she was the only solid thing in your unstable world.

You trembled.

The weakness that was once physical had now become emotional and mental.

Agatha froze for a moment. You felt it. As if even she hadn’t expected this.

But then, her hands found your body—firm and certain, holding you back.

And in that moment, in that safe and dominant warmth, the word slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

“…Mommy.”

It was a whisper. A thread of a voice so small that, for a moment, you weren’t sure if you had actually said it out loud.

The silence that followed was heavy, laden with a tension that felt almost tangible. You felt Agatha’s body tense, as if she were processing that word, that involuntary confession.

And then, slowly, her hands began to move. One slid up to your nape, fingers weaving into your hair, while the other trailed down to your back, pressing you even closer. The scent of white jasmine, so characteristic of her, wrapped around you, comforting you.

“Shh,” you felt Rio approach slowly, drawing large circles on your back. “Breathe for us, sweetheart.”

Rio’s voice was soft, almost melodic, as if she were trying to hypnotize you. You tried to obey, dragging in air with difficulty, feeling your chest burn with each inhale. But their hands were there, firm and steady, guiding you, keeping you anchored.

“That’s it,” Agatha murmured, her lips nearly brushing your ear. “Nice and slow. You’re safe now.”

You wanted to believe her. Wanted, more than anything, to believe that this was real, that you could surrender completely and that they would be there to catch you. But a part of you still resisted, still clung to that illusion of control.

“I… I don’t know…” you stammered, the words spilling out in fragments, as if your mind couldn’t form complete sentences.

“You don’t have to know, love,” Rio replied, her voice so close that you could feel the warmth of her breath against your nape. “You just have to trust.”

And then, without warning, you felt your feet leave the ground. Agatha lifted you with an ease that seemed almost supernatural, her strong arms cradling you as if you weighed nothing. Rio was beside you, one hand supporting your back, as the two carried you toward their bedroom.

You didn’t fight. You had no strength to. Instead, you let yourself be taken, your body limp and exhausted, your mind clouded by a haze of emotions you couldn’t name.

Their bedroom was a sanctuary of luxury and comfort, with a massive, plush bed at its center, covered in silk sheets that gleamed under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Agatha placed you in the middle of the bed with care, as if you were something precious and fragile, while Rio pulled the blankets up to cover you.

“Here,” Rio murmured, sitting beside you and threading her fingers through your hair. “You’re exhausted, little one. Rest.”

You tried to respond, but the words came out as a meaningless murmur, as if your mind was too overloaded to form coherent thoughts.

“Shh,” Agatha whispered, settling on the other side of the bed and placing a hand on your face. “Don’t speak, darling.”

And you relaxed. Not because you wanted to, but because you had no choice. Her body was warm and solid beside you, and her touch was firm yet gentle, as if she knew exactly what you needed.

“We’ve got you, sweetheart.” Rio continued, her voice low but carrying an authority that left no room for question. “Let go.”

You felt the tears burning behind your eyelids, but this time, you didn’t try to hold them back. They fell freely, dampening the silk pillow as you clung to them like they were the only thing keeping you upright.

And deep down, you knew that maybe they were.

Rio lay down beside you, her arms sliding around your body in an embrace that was both comforting and oppressive. Her warmth pressed against you, her slow and steady breaths ghosting over your skin.

Her scent—cinnamon and sandalwood—mixed with Agatha’s jasmine, creating a dense and enveloping haze. You felt small between them. Small, exhausted… and, for the first time, safe.

Gradually, your sobs subsided, replaced by ragged breaths. Your body still trembled, but the weight of exhaustion was beginning to pull you into an irresistible lull.

Above you, Agatha took a deep breath, as if about to say something, but hesitated.

The silence stretched, and then…

“M-mommy will… will take care of everything.”

Her voice was hesitant, almost strained. As if the words had been ripped from a place deep inside her, a place she didn’t want to admit existed.

But there it was.

The arms around you tightened just a little more.

The scent, the warmth, the feeling of belonging to something, even just for a moment…

It was the last thing you felt before succumbing to sleep.

~*~

Where's your place?

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[loafysainz]

the parent trap (remake) | CS 55

cast: carlos sainz x fem!reader

warn: 100% fiction & remake

chap 1, chap 2, chap 3, chap 4, chap 5, chap, 6, chap 7

PART 6 MEETING MOM

As the summer camp buses lined up, Mr. Hamilton stood on the main lawn, a megaphone in hand, his voice cutting through the chatter of children reluctant to leave.

“Okay, everyone, I hope you packed everything! Don’t forget anything, and we’ll see you next summer!” he called, hugging children who clung to him in farewell.

Amidst the emotional goodbyes, a pair of boys stood under the shade of an old oak tree, whispering fervently.

“They’re staring at us too much, Matheo. Do you think they know?” Mattia adjusted the collar of his shirt nervously, shifting from foot to foot.

Matheo, ever the confident one, rolled his eyes. “No way. Stop being so weird, or they’ll suspect something. Do you remember the plan?”

Mattia hesitated before nodding. “Yes, but… maybe repeat it? Just in case?”

Matheo sighed, exasperated. “You’re hopeless. Fine. I’ll go home to Mom, and you’ll go to Dad. We’ll ask them why they split and figure out how to fix it. Got it?”

Mattia nodded fervently, clutching his suitcase. “Got it. This is for the greater good.”

“Mattia Y/LN! Your car is ready!” Mr. Hamilton’s voice boomed, making both boys jump.

Mattia grinned and gave Matheo a quick hug. “Good luck with Mom. And remember, don’t mess this up!”

Matheo smiled nervously, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his suitcase. “You too. Tell Dad… I said hi, okay?”

“I will.” Mattia smirked, ruffling his brother’s hair and let him jogging off toward the car.

****

London was breathtaking. Matheo pressed his nose against the car window, taking in the winding streets, the azure sky, and the amazing architecture of London. His heart raced as they approached the house—a beautiful, modest villa with ivy climbing the walls.

When the car stopped, he hesitated for a moment before stepping out. A wave of unfamiliar scents hit him—fresh sea air, blooming flowers, and something else... coffee? He clutched his suitcase and stepped inside, greeted by the cozy interior and a handmade sign that read, "Welcome Home, Mattia."

He smiled despite himself. As he wandered further, the smell of coffee grew stronger. Following it, he found a man sitting in an armchair, newspaper in hand.

“Grandpa?” Matheo ventured.

The man lowered the paper, revealing sharp blue eyes and a graying mustache. “Mattia! Is that you? My favorite little gentleman?”

Matheo grinned. “It’s me, Grandpa.”

Grandpa stood, pulling him into a tight hug. “My god, you’ve grown! But what’s this?” He leaned back, eyeing Matheo curiously. “Are you smelling me?”

Matheo nodded earnestly, "I’m memorizing it.” His grandpa chuckle a little and say "You’re as peculiar as ever.”

Before Matheo could reply, a soft voice floated down the staircase. “Mattia? My baby?”

Matheo froze. His heart thudded as he turned toward the sound. There she was Y/N—his mother, descending the stairs, her arms outstretched.

“Mom!” Matheo cried, running to her. She swept him into a hug, kissing the top of his head as he buried his face in her shoulder.

"I can't believe it's you," Matheo tried to say through his sobs.

"And I can't believe it's you, baby. Tell me, who was the person who dared to cut your beautiful hair?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as she ruffling her son soft hair.

"He was a friend from camp, is it bad?"

"No, of course not. It suits you very well"

Then Y/N noticed Matheo's hair color. "What? A dyed hair too?"

Matheo tried not to get nervous so he grimaced

"Does it bother you?"

"As long as you don't turn into a bad kid, it's all good. Is there another surprise you have to tell me, baby? A piercing? A tattoo?"

Matheo cried more at his mother's sincere concern, he needed this, he had longed for it so much. Y/N worriedly watched as his son shed more tears.

"What happen baby? are you feeling hurt or something?"

"No, it's not that. It's just that I missed you too much."

"I missed you so much too. It felt like an eternity the time you weren't by my side."

She cupped his face, her smile softening. “Welcome home, my little man. You’re finally here.”

Matheo clung to her again, his heart swelling with a mix of relief and joy. For the first time in months, he felt like he was exactly where he belonged.

****

His mother pulled back, her hands on his shoulders, and smiled warmly. "Come now, tell me everything! Did you like everyone at camp? Was it fun?"

Before Matheo could answer, Martin, the ever-dutiful butler, appeared at the door with a small, unexpected guest.

"Excuse me, madam," Martin said, holding up a small, scruffy real madrid tightly. "It seems we have a plush in the suitcase."

Matheo's eyes widened in panic. Madi?! His real madrid plushie, he snatched the plushie from Martin's hands. "Oh! Uh, that belongs to my... friend," he stammered. "The one I told you about from camp. I have no idea how it got into the suitcase."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, amused. "Well, since it’s not ours, shall we dispose of it?"

"No!" Matheo blurted, clutching the stuffed real madrid tightly. He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. "I mean, no. I’ll mail it to him. He loves this thing a lot. Like, he can’t live without it. Especially not in, say, a foreign country."

"Very well," his mom said with a smile, clearly not buying his story but letting it slide. "Martin, that’ll be all. Thank you."

As Martin left, Matheo exhaled, holding Madi close.

[loveharlow]

SEVEN Blurb

The Pogues Realize You're Missing

set during s2:005, swearing

“POPE, SIT THE HELL DOWN, MAN…” John B groaned from where he was sat on the patio sofa, feet kicked up with his hands clasped over his stomach as Pope paced the length of the outdoor deck and JJ’s blue eyes trailed the boy’s every step, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What’s wrong with you?”

Pope just gave the brunette a side-glance, his thumb going in between his teeth quickly as he gnawed on the limb. He didn’t want to say anything — he wanted to let you handle it. You told him you’d be fine. But you also told him that you’d pick up his calls and answer his texts…and you didn’t. You still weren’t.

3 Missed Calls. 7 Unread Messages...

You okay? I called you twice. At least react to the message or something… Dude. Say something or I’m calling again. That’s three calls. Hello??? You said you’d respond. I’m getting worried. Y/N I’m shitting bricks here, so if you’re joking it’s not funny. This is the last text.

Pulling his phone from his back pocket, he quickly jammed his thumb against your contact and put the device to his ear, still pacing the balcony. “I shouldn’t have let you go by yourself…” The boy mumbled to himself.

“Dude, who do you keep calling?” JJ asked from his place in the lounge chair, combat boots kicked up on the coffee table. Pope simply ignored him, whether it was for JJ’s sanity or his own safety, he didn’t know.

The line rang until it didn’t.

“252-414-0313 is not available. At the tone, please leave your message…” The automated female voice directed the stressed boy once again, but he angrily hung up before the beep could even sound — groaning and tugging dangerously at the roots of his hair. 

“Okay, seriously,” The blonde started, sitting up straight in his seat. “Hell’s wrong with you, dude? You’re freakin’ me out…”

Pope simply sighed, letting out a large gust of air as his hands fell limply to his sides before turning around to look at his two friends, both of their eyes on him — wide and waiting. “...It’s Y/N.” He gave up, tossing his arms out carelessly as he spoke, defeat in his tone.

The blue-eyed blonde boy immediately perked up at the mention of you, shoulders once relaxed now square and tense. “What about her?” He asked, mildly confused as John B sat up slowly, the same look of confusion etched onto his face.

“I…” Pope stuttered, shifting on his feet. “She didn’t want me to say anything and I was trying to let her handle it on her own-”

“Pope, what’re you talking about?” JJ pressed, standing from his seat — John B looking up at his two friends from where he sat on the sofa, wondering what exactly you had done to have Pope losing his mind on the patio of The Chateau.

“...She left.” Pope blurted, rising and dropping his shoulders awkwardly.

JJ’s eyes went wide, his neck lurching as his lips contorted, a sentence forming itself. “Left? What do you mean she left?” He asked, incredulously. “Left and went where? I thought she was inside.”

“She went to get Marley, or try to-”

“The fuck?” JJ reacted. “And you didn’t stop her?”

“I offered to go with her but she wouldn’t let me-”

“Why didn’t you say something?” JJ countered — eyes squinted, cheeks flushing an angry shade of red.

“She told me not to!”

“Why would you listen to her?!”

“Okay!” John B finally stepped in, standing up and in between the boys who’d grown dangerously close to each other — a hand on each of their chests. “Yelling at each other isn’t going to fix anything. So, chill out…” John B directed, slowly lowering his hands and angling his body more towards Pope. “You said she went to get Marley back, right? So why are you freaking out?”

Pope swallowed harshly, rubbing a hand over the top of his head as he spoke. “She thinks Barry has her at his trailer and you know how that part of town is…” Pope alluded, referring to the countless criminals and dealers who lived under the radar and in that exact trailer park. “I offered to go,” He reiterated, eyes on JJ. “But she said it was too dangerous for me and that she’d dealt with them before. But we agreed that if I didn’t hear from her then I’d tell you guys.”

“Stupid fuckin’ agreement…” JJ scoffed, turning and taking a few steps away from his friends — running his fingers through his hair. “Is she fucking crazy? Why would she….” He trailed off angrily, balling and un-balling his fists trying to quell his anger, to no avail. “Dammit!” He screamed, kicking the coffee table causing the objects on top of it to shake and fall.

“Calm down-” John B tried.

“Don’t tell me to calm down-” JJ warned, swiping the boy’s hand off of his shoulder and stepping closer.

“Why can I hear you idiots from all the way outside?” Kiara appeared, the screen door closing behind her — a look on her face between annoyance and confusion.

“Pope let Y/N go to Barry’s alone and now no one can get a hold of her-”

“I didn’t have a choice!” The distressed boy defended.

“Yeah fuckin’ right…” JJ dismissed.

“Screw you-”

“Shut up!” Kie screamed, hands in front of her. The boys went silent, eyes going to the brown-haired girl closest to the door. “She went to Barry’s? Alone?”

“Yup.” JJ said, drawing his lips into a thin line before scoffing unbelievably. “And you just let her leave without saying shit to anyone…” He threw out at Pope once again.

“It’s not his fault, JJ.” John B defended. “We all know how she is, none of us could’ve stopped her from going. And let’s not jump the gun here, alright?” JB tried, locking eyes with each of his friends. “It’s just Barry, right? Rafe’s in jail and Barry wouldn’t do any-”

“No, he’s not.” Kiara added, all heads whipping in her direction — the girl standing with a hand clasped over her mouth, her eyes pointed aimlessly at the ground as she came to several realizations at once. 

“...What?” Pope blurted, brown eyes going astronomically wide.

“The hell do you mean he’s not?” JJ questioned aggressively. 

“They…” Kie stuttered, trying to think and speak all at once — her hands waving wildly in front of her as she struggled to get her words out. “They let him out like, an hour ago.” She said, voice and hands shaking.

“You don’t know that.” John B immediately dismissed, fear and anger coursing through his veins at the new world of possibilities of things that could happen, could’ve happened, or could be happening to you. “...How do you know that?”

That’s when Kiara took a single step to her left, revealing a mourning Sarah standing by herself outside — arms wrapped around herself like a child as she made eye contact with everyone on the patio. No one had expected to see her so soon after what happened.

Seeing someone die. Seeing someone you love die…It sticks with you. For a long time.

“...Because she told me.”

The environment fell into a tense silence, everyone’s eyes trained ahead of them or at the floor or at nothing at all. Until they all heard the familiar pattering of paws approaching — everyone’s heads whipping towards the sound to find Marley running towards The Chateau. 

“What the hell…” JJ mumbled under his breath, running to let the animal in as she ran up the steps and jumped onto the sofa. Everyone looked at each other — confused, angry, worried…

Suddenly, John B’s jaw was clenching, the boy swiping his car keys up from the coffee table with no hesitation. “..The van. Now.”

©loveharlow.