#slow motion multitasking

[itendtothinkalot]

in this economy? (part 1)

summary: you needed money. he needed a fake girlfriend. easy deal, right? except he’s your best friend’s boss. and you’re one minor inconvenience away from setting something on fire. he’s cold, rich, emotionally unavailable. you’re loud, broke, and very good at pretending this isn’t slowly turning real.

genre: fluff | fake dating

characters: ceo!heeseung x f! broke ass reader

words: 12k?

warnings: none in this part

a/n: damn didnt know tumblr had a word limit so heres a 2 parter i didnt realise would be a 2 parter

part 2

You were in your final year of college, living what could only be described as the off-brand version of Hannah Montana. Two jobs, endless assignments, zero glam. You had the double life down—student by day, overworked part-timer by night—except instead of rocking out on stage, you were rocking a polyester apron and a mild caffeine addiction.

Despite working like a hamster on an espresso wheel, your bank account stayed somewhere between “embarrassing” and “haunted.” Thanks, student loans. They followed you like an ex who couldn’t take a hint—except this one charged interest and occasionally sent you emails that made your eye twitch.

Still, you powered through. Broke, yes. Sleep-deprived, absolutely. But functioning? Debatable.

Fortunately, your best friend Jake—resident golden boy, and somehow always suspiciously well-rested—had just landed a Big Boy Job. He was now the personal assistant to the Lee Heeseung. Which sounded impressive… you guessed. You wished someone had warned you what a big deal this guy was, but no one did. You didn’t know. You really didn’t.

You were three bites deep into your third roll of bread, barely chewing anymore. It wasn’t about manners—it was about survival. Tuition was due, your rent deadline loomed like a jump scare, and your bank account balance looked like a bad joke.

Jake sat across from you at the glossy conference room table, watching you with an expression that landed somewhere between mild horror and disbelief.

“Slow down,” he said, nudging the breadbasket just out of your reach. “The bread’s not running anywhere.”

You glared at him, a crust still stuck to your bottom lip. “Easy for you to say. You’re not living on instant noodles and silent sobbing.”

He wrinkled his nose. “You literally had coffee and a spoonful of peanut butter for breakfast.”

“Because I couldn't afford a second spoonful.”

Flipping through your notes with one hand and clutching a half-eaten roll with the other, you tried to cram half a semester’s worth of marketing strategy into your already overloaded brain. You were multitasking. Efficient. A legend, if legends were broke and hungry.

Jake looked personally offended. “This is a workplace, you know. There are millionaires walking around here. You’re dropping crumbs on a seven-thousand-dollar chair.”

You paused mid-bite. “Seven what now?”

He tossed you a napkin with the kind of disappointment only a best friend could perfect. “Just—try not to look like a starving Dickens orphan if my boss walks in.”

You frowned. “Your boss?”

And that’s when the air changed—like a cold draft had slinked in through invisible cracks. Jake straightened. The playful glint in his eyes flickered out.

Speak of the devil in designer slacks.

The door creaked open, and in walked the heir to Luxen Technologies: Lee Heeseung.

Cold. Polished. Annoyingly symmetrical.

You promptly choked on your bread.

"That's your... boss?" you asked, staring as the man strolled in like he was walking on a Calvin Klein runway in slow motion, his coat flaring just slightly, hair annoyingly perfect.

Sure, he was good-looking. Objectively. Like, if you had a dollar for every sharp angle on his face, you could maybe afford two spoonfuls of peanut butter.

But you didn’t have time for men. You barely had time for yourself.

Here you were, fully dependent on your best friend and roommate’s snack stash and corporate pantry privileges, inhaling free carbs like your life depended on it—which, honestly, it kind of did. This had become your daily routine: roll out of bed, survive uni, raid Jake’s office for bread and maybe some emotional support tea every morning.

Jake sighed, already bracing for impact like someone who'd lived through this exact scenario too many times. “Look, you have to leave before he comes over and kicks you out.”

You snorted, entirely unbothered, and waved him off like he was being dramatic—which, to be fair, he usually was. Reaching for another roll from the meticulously arranged snack spread (which you were absolutely not supposed to touch), you said breezily, “He wouldn’t do that. Right?”

Jake didn't answer immediately. Instead, he gave you the kind of look reserved for people about to learn something the hard way. “He’s kicked people out for less,” he muttered, casting a wary glance at the growing constellation of crumbs you were generously distributing across the sleek, glass conference table—like you were decorating it for a carb-themed holiday.

Your chewing slowed. “Oh,” you said, mid-bite, hand frozen halfway to your mouth.

Silence.

The kind of silence that prickled.

Something shifted in the air, and you felt it—like animals sensing a predator approaching. You turned your head slowly.

And there he was.

Lee Heeseung. In the flesh. A few steps away and looking like he’d just walked into a crime scene. He was tall, sharp, and immaculately put-together, holding a tablet in one hand like it offended him. His eyes scanned the table, then landed on you—the uninvited guest currently mid-chew, hoarding bread rolls like it was your last meal.

If disapproval had a face, his was it.

Your brain, bless its useless soul, screamed: Run.

Your stomach had other plans: Finish the bread first.

And your hands? They casually reached for two more rolls while maintaining steady eye contact with the most terrifyingly attractive man you’d ever seen.

Honestly, if you were going to get kicked out, you might as well be full.

You glanced at Jake. With as much dignity as one could muster while chewing, you gave a dramatic bow, wiping a suspicious smear of butter off your cheek with the back of your sleeve. “Good day, Mr. Sim. I shall see you again tomorrow. Absolutely lovely businessy chat. So productive. Okay. Bye now.”

Jake snorted. Loudly. But you ignored him, choosing instead to hoist your laptop bag like a makeshift shield, holding it in front of your face in an attempt to avoid the burning scrutiny of one Lee Heeseung. Eye contact was the enemy. Recognition was a death sentence. And above all else: pantry access must be preserved.

If he ever put two and two together—that the very person chewing her way through his conference table like a feral carb-goblin was you—you were done for.

Goodbye, free bread. Goodbye, Jake’s fancy office snacks. Goodbye, dignity… not that there was much left to begin with.

You began edging toward the door, sidestepping like a raccoon caught red-pawed in the middle of a kitchen raid, trying not to look suspicious. Which only made you look so much more suspicious. And to make matters worse, the more you tried to vanish, the longer Heeseung stared.

His eyes followed you with a slow, assessing calm—like a predator trying to decide whether the strange creature in his territory was worth the energy to chase. He didn’t say a word. Just watched. Silently. Intensely. Unreadable.

Probably wondering who let the help in.

“Smooth,” Jake muttered behind his hand, clearly enjoying every second of your descent into awkwardness.

“Shut up,” you hissed, tripping slightly over your own bag strap on your way out, a quiet wheeze of panic slipping from your lips.

You didn’t dare look back until the elevator doors had closed behind you, safely sealing you in a metal box where embarrassment couldn’t reach you. Heart pounding. Mouth dry. Still tasting sourdough.

So that was him, you thought. Jake's boss.

And if he ever figured out who you were? You were screwed.

Meanwhile, back in the war zone formerly known as the conference room, Jake turned back around slowly to face his boss.

Heeseung didn’t look up. He was scrolling through his phone like none of that had just happened. “What time’s my meeting again?” he asked casually, thumb gliding across the screen.

“Three,” Jake replied quickly, slipping back into assistant mode with the smoothness of someone who really needed to keep his job. “Then another one at five with the UX development team. They’re presenting the wearable AI prototype.”

Heeseung gave a brief nod, still scrolling.

There was a beat of silence. Jake almost allowed himself to exhale.

And then—“Who was the girl?”

Jake blinked. “Girl?”

Now Heeseung did look up. One perfectly shaped eyebrow lifted just a fraction. “The one eating the bread like it owed her money.”

Jake choked. “She's just...she's my friend.”

Heeseung narrowed his eyes, the phrase clearly not satisfying. “Your friend. In my conference room. During working hours. Helping herself to my carbs.”

“To be fair,” Jake offered, voice cracking like a freshman in choir, “they’re technically Luxen’s carbs. Also, you don’t even eat the bread—”

“She wiped her mouth with her sleeve,” Heeseung said, looking deeply betrayed. “Do people do that?”

Jake had no idea if he was supposed to laugh, apologize, or call security on your behalf.

“She’s harmless,” he said quickly. “You won’t even see her again. I think."

Heeseung hummed, a noncommittal sound that somehow said everything. His gaze drifted back to his phone.

But Jake caught it.

A flicker at the corner of Heeseung’s mouth—so quick it almost didn’t happen.

Not irritation. Not disapproval.

Curiosity.

Almost.

—

Heeseung sighed.

It wasn’t that he hated his life. Far from it, actually.

He liked working. Loved it, even. There was something deeply satisfying about losing himself in spreadsheets, contracts, and a calendar so tightly packed it could give a scheduler heartburn. He was good at it—no, great at it. The kind of great that turned heads in boardrooms. The kind of great that earned nods of respect from executives twice his age. Even his notoriously competitive older brother and stone-faced father begrudgingly acknowledged his brilliance when it came to the company.

They weren’t jealous of his success—not exactly. Just… quietly resentful that their grandfather, the patriarch of the empire, seemed to have written Lee Heeseung in bold letters at the top of every metaphorical will, wish list, and family legacy blueprint. Heeseung was the golden boy. The prodigy. The one who could do no wrong.

Well—except in matters of the heart.

His grandfather, a man of steel nerves and silk pocket squares, had one tragic flaw: he was a hopeless romantic. The handwritten-letters, crying-during-Hallmark-movies, “Love conquers all” kind. Back in his youth, he had famously eloped with Heeseung’s grandmother after her parents forbade the match. It was the tale he recited at every family dinner like a dramatic bedtime story, wine glass in hand, pausing for emphasis with misty eyes and unnecessary violin music playing in everyone’s heads.

Now, he’d made it his personal mission to marry off every last descendant like he was casting a period drama.

And naturally, he took particular offense to Heeseung—the youngest, most accomplished, and most emotionally unavailable—refusing to so much as glance at romance. Not a flicker. Not a whisper. Not even the vague interest of someone who knew love existed in the same universe.

So imagine Heeseung’s horror when, despite all logic, he found himself distracted. Haunted, even. By the mental image of some girl with a mouthful of carbs, an unapologetic sleeve-wipe, and crumbs on her cheek like a personal brand.

Utterly ridiculous.

Infuriating, even.

There were precisely three things Lee Heeseung could not abide during work hours:

Unexpected visitors.

Long-winded conversations.

Family.

So, naturally, all three arrived in one dramatic flourish when the office doors slammed open with the subtlety of a wrecking ball wearing designer shoes.

“Seung!”

Heeseung didn’t glance up. He didn’t need to. That voice had the energy of a Broadway debut and the volume to match.

“Why is he here?” Heeseung asked flatly.

Jake froze mid-sip of his iced Americano, nearly choking on the absurdity of being blamed for something he had very clearly tried to prevent. “I told him not to—he didn’t even call—”

Heeseung finally looked up, just in time to watch the hurricane make landfall.

Grandpa Lee swept into the room like he still ran the place, all charisma and cologne, his cane purely decorative and his expression full of self-satisfaction. Former CEO. Founder of Luxen Technologies. Current full-time menace to his grandson’s blood pressure.

“Grandpa,” Heeseung said through clenched teeth, voice just shy of a groan. “You can’t keep barging in here every time you have a thought.”

“Of course I can,” the old man said cheerfully, already heading for the plush chair across from Heeseung’s desk. “It’s my building. My company. My bloodline. And also, you left Sunday dinner early, again, so I brought the discussion to you.”

Jake slowly sank into his seat, doing a decent impression of a man attempting to fuse with office furniture. He opened his laptop, not to work, but to pretend like he was somewhere—anywhere—else.

Across the room, Heeseung dragged a hand down his face, the weariness in his expression not from deadlines or meetings but from the familial storm that had just rolled in, all bluster and dramatic flair.

It wasn’t that Heeseung didn’t love his grandfather. He did. Deeply. He’d grown up listening to Grandpa Lee’s stories—some romantic, some insane, all borderline exaggerated. He loved the old man’s fire, his flair for theatrics, his unwavering belief in love.

But the thing was, Heeseung didn’t believe in love. At least not for himself.

Love happened, sure. It was cute in theory. Like puppies. Or those couples who held hands in grocery store aisles. But for Heeseung? The concept belonged in other people’s lives. He had things to build. A company to run. An empire to uphold. There wasn’t room in his carefully scheduled, emotionally vacuum-sealed world for candlelit dinners and grand declarations.

“Seung,” Grandpa Lee began, already digging into the contacts on his ancient phone like he was summoning a spell. “One of the kids—from—uh—SunTech, I think. His granddaughter—”

“Not interested,” Heeseung groaned, dragging his chair out and dropping into it like a man preparing for battle. He turned on his computer and focused all his energy on his Google Calendar, as if the overlapping blocks of color could protect him from whatever matchmaking scheme was brewing.

“She’s your age,” Grandpa insisted, swiping through what looked like a very poorly lit photo. “Exceptionally bright. Lovely eyes. Probably fertile—”

“I don’t care,” Heeseung said, without even blinking.

Grandpa Lee scoffed so hard, Jake briefly checked the air conditioning to make sure it wasn’t just the vents.

“Jake, my boy,” the old man thundered, turning to Jake with the dramatic flourish of a stage actor mid-soliloquy, “you best prepare an umbrella for tonight. The ancestors are going to cry from how rude my grandson is.”

Jake coughed behind his hand, clearly losing the battle not to laugh.

“Rude?” Heeseung repeated, eyes still fixed on his screen. “Didn’t you run away from your family to marry Grandma?”

“She was the love of my life,” Grandpa snapped, puffing out his chest like he was about to monologue about moonlight and destiny. Again.

“And didn’t you yell something along the lines of—what was it?” Heeseung pretended to think for a beat, then smirked. “Oh right. ‘Kiss my ass.’”

Grandpa Lee’s face wrinkled into an affronted frown. “You little—!”

He stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor, cane in one hand like he was about to duel.

Jake peeked up from behind his laptop, eyes wide, mildly alarmed.

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, looking irritatingly calm. “Just saying, if rebellion for love was good enough for you, maybe rebellion against love is good enough for me.”

“You’re twisting my legacy, you arrogant little–” Grandpa snapped.

Heeseung let out a long-suffering sigh. “I love you, Grandpa,” he said, not without sincerity, “I really do. But I don’t think—”

Whack.

The cane came down with expert precision, connecting with the top of Heeseung’s head before he could finish the sentence.

“Ow—! What the hell?! Grandpa!” Heeseung hissed in pain, one hand flying up to his hair as he recoiled in disbelief.

“That,” Grandpa Lee said, lowering his cane with the pride of a seasoned warrior, “was for being stupid. I may be old, but I’m not senile.”

Jake, valiantly trying to remain neutral, let out a sound that could only be described as a muffled snort, quickly masked behind his coffee cup. He was, unfortunately, enjoying this far more than his employee handbook allowed.

“You assaulted me,” Heeseung muttered, rubbing his scalp and glaring at the very man who used to tuck him in with bedtime stories about elopements and destiny.

“That wasn’t assault,” Grandpa countered, straightening his lapels. “That was discipline. You’re welcome.”

“You could’ve said something.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Jake quietly slid a packet of ice from the mini fridge toward Heeseung’s desk like a peace offering. Heeseung took it with a scowl, pressing it to his head as Grandpa settled back into the chair he had so dramatically abandoned.

“I’m not saying fall in love today,” Grandpa continued, voice a touch gentler now. “But open your eyes. One day, someone is going to walk into your life—and she won’t give a damn about your meetings or your title or your five-year plan. She’ll probably be a disaster. A whirlwind. And exactly what you need.”

Heeseung stared at him, unimpressed. “You’ve been watching those stupid dramas again, haven’t you?”

“I like them,” Grandpa sniffed, unbothered. “They speak to the soul. And unlike you, they have range. Emotional range."

Jake lost the battle with his laughter, letting it escape in a quiet wheeze.

Heeseung gave him a sharp look. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Not at all,” Jake said, already typing something into his notes app with far too much amusement. “Should I call Legal and ask about emotional damages from relatives?”

“Call a therapist while you’re at it,” Heeseung muttered.

Grandpa Lee stood again, “I’m not cancelling the date with SunTech’s granddaughter,” he announced, as if this declaration were final, written in stone, sealed by the ancestors themselves.

Heeseung groaned, already feeling the migraine bloom behind his eyes. “Grandpa. Cancel it. I’m not sitting around awkwardly sipping tea with some random girl—”

“Not random. SunTech’s granddaughter,” Grandpa corrected, his tone haughty, as though the corporate pedigree alone should be enough to send Heeseung into a frenzy of romantic interest.

“You don’t even know her name.”

“It’s something to do with the sun,” Grandpa said, waving a dismissive hand. “Sunny? Sunrise? Sunhwa? Something celestial. The details aren’t important.”

“Oh, I think they are,” Heeseung deadpanned.

“Seung.” His grandfather’s voice softened with a rare touch of sincerity. “Please. Just one date. One.”

Heeseung hesitated. Not because he was considering it, but because he was trying—desperately—to find a way out that didn’t involve disappointing the man who once taught him how to drive and also how to spot a bad merger.

“I can’t,” he said finally.

“And why not?”

Heeseung opened his mouth, then closed it. Thought. Thought harder. Came up with absolutely nothing. His brain was a clean whiteboard where excuses usually lived, but today, apparently, they’d taken the morning off.

He glanced at Jake. Still in his chair. Still sipping his iced Americano. Still laughing silently behind his laptop like this was a free improv show with catered snacks.

“Because…?” Grandpa prompted, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Jake?” Heeseung said, turning toward his assistant like a man clinging to the edge of a lifeboat.

Jake blinked. The sip of coffee in his mouth stalled somewhere in his throat.

Oh, no. Oh, no no no.

Heeseung’s eyes screamed Help me. Jake’s brain screamed Why do I work here. But somewhere between panic and pity, an idea emerged—terrible, reckless, and unquestionably effective.

Jake cleared his throat. “Because,” he said slowly, “Mr. Lee already… has a girlfriend.”

The room went still.

Utterly, impossibly still.

Heeseung blinked once. “I what.”

Grandpa Lee's gaze sharpened like a hawk spotting prey. “You what?”

Jake could feel the weight of both their stares, but he pressed on, fully embracing the reckless commitment of a man now in far too deep.

“Yes,” he nodded, his voice unnaturally bright. “He has a girlfriend. Very real. Extremely non-fictional. You just haven’t met her yet.”

Heeseung turned to him slowly, his face a portrait of stunned betrayal. “Jake.”

Jake gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Go with it.”

Grandpa folded his arms, skeptical. “And why haven’t I met this girlfriend?”

Jake hesitated for only half a second—just long enough for his brain to spin a web of half-truths and whole lies. “Well, it’s still new. They only started seeing each other last month. And Heeseung’s, you know…” He looked at his boss meaningfully. “Shy.”

Heeseung let out a sound that could only be described as internal screaming.

“Shy?” Grandpa repeated, eyebrows raised like the concept was foreign.

Jake nodded solemnly. “Very reserved when it comes to feelings. Doesn’t like to share until he’s sure. That’s why he hasn’t said anything. It’s still early, and he’s trying not to mess it up.”

For a moment, Grandpa said nothing.

Just stood there, his sharp eyes narrowing, gears visibly turning behind them like he was piecing together a very juicy puzzle.

Then—“It’s that… Bread Girl, isn’t it?”

Heeseung blinked. “Bread girl?”

The name rang a bell. Faintly. Something Grandpa had muttered earlier about a chaotic woman who’d been assaulting his company’s carb inventory with reckless abandon. Right. Jake’s friend. The one who'd been in his conference room. The one who chewed like it was a competitive sport and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

Jake’s eyes widened in alarm. “You… you saw her?”

“She knocked into me on her way out of the conference room just now,” Grandpa said, nostrils flaring like he was reliving the moment. “Nearly knocked my cane out of my hand. I was ready to launch into a full lecture on manners and public decency—until I saw the amount of bread she had crammed in her arms.”

He smiled, clearly delighted. “That’s when I knew. She wasn’t being rude. She was just in love. Hungry and in love. My favorite combination.” And without further warning, he pulled Heeseung into a firm, proud hug. “Keeping my granddaughter-in-law well-fed. That’s my boy.”

Heeseung stood there like a mannequin in a hostage scenario, arms limp at his sides, staring over Grandpa’s shoulder with wide, blinking disbelief. His gaze locked on Jake, who looked dangerously close to either exploding with laughter or faking his own death.

Was he going to throw his best friend under the bus?

Apparently, yes.

“Yep,” Jake said with a helpless shrug. “That’s her.”

Heeseung opened his mouth to protest—but then paused. The wheels in his brain, previously stuck in panic mode, began to turn. Slowly, reluctantly, but undeniably. There was an idea forming. A stupid, dangerous, possibly reputation-ruining idea.

But it might just work.

“She’s… shy,” Jake added, already spinning the web a little further, clearly hoping Heeseung would not kill him in his sleep later. “Which is why she hasn’t been introduced yet. It’s still… new.”

Grandpa pulled back just enough to give Heeseung a squint of suspicion. “New?”

Heeseung hesitated.

And then, with the kind of sigh one gives right before jumping off a metaphorical cliff, he nodded. “Yeah. We, uh… only started seeing each other last month.”

“She’s still adjusting,” Heeseung continued, falling into the role with the grim acceptance of a man who’d rather fake a relationship than go on another one of Grandpa’s curated matchmaking setups. “Not really used to… all this.”

“All this?” Grandpa gestured around the office.

“The… CEO thing,” Heeseung said, waving vaguely. “The attention. The—uh—pressure. You know how it is.”

Grandpa narrowed his eyes further, scrutinizing his grandson with the intensity of a man deciding whether to believe a magician or demand to see what’s up his sleeve.

Finally, after a beat of silence: “So you’re saying the girl who wiped her face with her sleeve in your conference room... is your girlfriend.”

Heeseung nodded once. “Yes?"

Grandpa considered. Then smiled. “Well, damn. That explains the crumbs.”

Heeseung exhaled slowly, like he’d just avoided death by PowerPoint. “So you’ll cancel the SunTech date now?”

Grandpa chuckled, already heading toward the door. “Of course, of course. I would never interfere in true love. But now that I know she’s real…” He paused dramatically at the door. “I expect to meet her properly next week. Bring her to dinner. No excuses. And tell her to bring an appetite. There will be baguettes.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

Then Jake leaned forward, voice dry and just the right amount of judgmental. “You do realize what you just did, right?”

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, groaning as he pinched the bridge of his nose like he could physically squeeze the consequences out of existence. “Jake… I’m gonna need your friend’s phone number.”

Jake stared at him. Blinking. Processing.

“She’s going to kill me,” he muttered.

—-

You were halfway up the street, your backpack tugging at your shoulder and your feet dragging after a long day, when someone came jogging toward you from the bus stop.

“Hey! Hey hey—!” Jake’s voice rang out, breathless but chipper, his hand waving like he was flagging down a taxi.

You squinted at him. “Why are you running like I owe you money?”

He didn’t bother answering. Just grinned—way too wide, way too bright—and looped his arm through yours, tugging you along.

“I brought you dinner,” he announced, tone suspiciously light.

You stopped walking, brows pinched. “What?”

Jake held up a plastic bag in front of your face with exaggerated pride. The aroma hit you first, warm and familiar. You peeked inside.

Your eyes widened. “Is this—Sue’s? As in the good roast chicken?”

“With the chili oil packets,” Jake said smugly, clearly pleased with himself.

“You went all the way across town?” you asked, mouth falling open as you cradled the bag like it was gold.

He nodded, almost bouncing. “And there’s more.”

You narrowed your eyes. “More?”

“I ordered your bubble tea too. It should be here any minute.”

You gasped, hand flying to your chest. “Taro oat milk with brown sugar pearls?”

Jake mimicked a solemn oath, placing a hand over his heart. “Taro oat milk. Brown sugar pearls. No ice. Less sweet. Just how you like it.”

Your face lit up immediately. “You’re my favorite person. EVER!”

“I know,” he said, leaning into you with an overly sweet smile. “Just remember...that I love you. I love you. Deeply. Eternally. Unconditionally.”

You snorted, nudging him away with your elbow. “Okay, drama queen.”

But then he paused. His voice dipped just slightly, soft but steady. “I’m serious. I love you.”

You froze for a second.

Your smile faltered.

There was something off in his tone—too sincere, too heavy for a roast chicken and bubble tea run. You turned to look at him properly.

“Jake,” you said carefully.

He straightened, schooling his face into something resembling innocence. “Yeah?”

Your eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

Jake blinked, feigning confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You only say ‘I love you’ like that when something’s wrong. It’s your guilty voice. So what is it? Did you clog the sink again? Spill something on the couch? Sign me up for something I didn’t agree to?”

His laugh came out high-pitched and thin. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Jake.”

“It’s not bad,” he said quickly, holding up both hands.

“Oh my God,” you groaned. “What did you do?”

“It’s not illegal,” he added, stepping back slightly as you took a slow, threatening step forward.

“Jake.”

He held out the roast chicken bag like a shield. “Eat first. Yell later.”

You snatched the bag but kept your gaze locked on him, lips pressed into a flat line. “Talk.”

He scratched the back of his neck, clearly stalling, eyes darting around like he was hoping a car would hit him and end the conversation.

—

The door to your shared apartment swung open with a slam, and you stormed in like a woman possessed.

Jake had barely made it through the front door before you launched yourself at him like a sleep-deprived hurricane.

“YOU—YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE—”

“Wait—WAIT—THE CHICKEN—!” he squeaked, still trying to kick his shoes off as you flailed your arms with righteous fury.

You were half-thrashing, half-swatting at him with the plastic bag still clutched in your hand, the scent of roasted garlic and chili oil trailing behind every slap. Jake yelped, stumbling backward as he grabbed the nearest couch cushion to shield himself.

“IT’S FIVE HUNDRED PER DATE!” he shrieked. “WHY ARE YOU YELLING—”

“I’M YELLING BECAUSE YOU SOLD ME LIKE I'M SOMETHING YOU CAN BUY FROM THE STORE!” you cried, swinging the chicken like it owed you rent.

Right then, Jungwon’s bedroom door flew open with a bang. His hair was sticking up in all directions, eyes wide with panic, an oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder like it had lost the will to live.

“WHAT’S GOING ON?” he demanded, voice still hoarse with sleep. “Is someone dying?!”

“HES A FUCKING IDIOT, THAT’S WHAT’S GOING ON!” you shouted, jabbing a finger at Jake like a prosecutor presenting Exhibit A.

From behind the couch cushion, Jake winced. “Okay, I understand that you're mad."

Jungwon blinked, processing. “Dude, what the hell did you do?"

"HE WANTS ME TO FAKE DATE HIS BOSS!” you screamed again, nearly vibrating with rage.

Jake raised a finger. “For money,” he added helpfully, as if that made the entire situation perfectly reasonable.

Jungwon stood there for a beat, then tilted his head. “...Is the boss hot?”

The entire room fell into silence.

You turned to Jake slowly, brows lifting. “Wait. Is the boss hot?”

Jake’s grin spread, lazy and far too pleased with himself. “You tell me. You met him.”

Your brain stuttered. Froze. Replayed the memory of a tall man in a dark suit, judging you with cold eyes while you stuffed your face with carbs like a gremlin.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, dropping onto the couch like gravity had finally won. “You’re all insane.”

Jungwon wandered over and sat beside you, already reaching for the plastic bag. “I’m just here for the roast chicken,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Can someone pass me a leg?”

Jake, still crouched like a man dodging emotional bullets, gently placed the bag on the coffee table like it was a sacred offering. Then he looked over at you, head tilted, eyes wide and hopeful.

“So,” he said softly, “can I explain now? No hitting this time?”

You stared at him.

He grinned anyway.

And unfortunately for him, he was still within arm’s reach.

—

You sat on the couch like a judge ready to deliver a life sentence, arms crossed so tightly your shoulders were starting to cramp. The look on your face could’ve wilted houseplants. Jake, for once in his life, had the good sense to sit on the floor at a safe distance, hands folded on the coffee table like he was about to pitch a startup you were morally opposed to.

Jungwon sat cross-legged between you, gnawing on a chicken leg and swiveling his head left and right like a referee at a very dramatic tennis match.

“So,” Jake began carefully, voice high and overly gentle, “first of all, I just want to say that I love and appreciate you—”

“No,” you cut in, eyes locked on him. “Start with the part where you volunteered me—your best friend, your roommate, your tragically broke companion in poverty—to pretend to date Lee Heeseung. The CEO. The multi-billionaire. Your boss.”

Jake opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again.

Jungwon, through a mouthful of chicken, offered, “That guy’s scarier than my thesis supervisor. And mine once made someone cry over a missing footnote.”

“THANK YOU!” you shouted, pointing at Jake like you were about to sentence him to community service.

Jake threw his hands up. “Okay, okay, yes, I panicked! Grandpa Lee was in the office, demanding to know why Heeseung was single, and I didn’t know what to say! So your name just—came out!”

“Like a demon leaving your body?” you snapped.

Jake pointed a finger at you. “Also, this is kind of your fault!”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“HE SAID YOU BUMPED INTO HIM!” Jake practically shouted, voice cracking. “And he saw, like, four bread rolls in your arms!”

“It was three!” you yelled, scandalized.

Jake flailed. “Okay, THREE! Doesn’t change the fact that Grandpa Lee saw you, assumed you were stealing company bread, and decided obviously you and Heeseung were secretly dating.”

You stared at him. “In what world does that even make sense—”

“SO THIS IS YOUR FAULT!” Jake yelled dramatically, pointing like you’d been caught on a crime scene.

You gaped. “I didn’t know the old man I bumped into was Heeseung’s grandfather! How is that my fault?!”

“I don’t know!” Jake shouted back. “But somehow it is!”

Jungwon raised a hand without looking up. “To be fair, you did look suspicious carrying that much bread.”

“I WAS HUNGRY!” you barked.

Jake groaned. “Look, I didn’t plan this, okay? It happened. It’s done. And now we just need to go along with it for a few fake dates—three, four tops—and we’re good.”

You glared. “This is literally fraud.”

Jake held up a finger. “This is capitalism—and you get paid. Five hundred per date.”

You opened your mouth to yell again—then paused.

Because five hundred… times four…

Your gaze dropped to the roast chicken on the table, suspiciously thoughtful.

Jake leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “You’re doing the math.”

“No.”

“You are.”

Jungwon didn’t miss a beat. “Two grand.”

“Shut up,” you and Jake snapped in unison.

You sagged into the couch like the weight of student loans had finally won. “He’s not even going to like me.”

Jake tilted his head. “He already noticed you. Asked about the girl who ‘wiped her mouth with her sleeve like she was raised in the wild.’”

Jungwon snorted so hard he nearly choked.

You exhaled, long and slow. “...Fine.”

Jake’s face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

“But if this backfires,” you said, pointing a chicken drumstick at him with all the gravitas of a loaded weapon, “I’m shitting in your room.”

Jake didn’t even blink. “That’s fair.”

Jungwon nodded solemnly. “Reasonable terms.”

—

As Heeseung always said—often, and with great pride—he wasn’t the relationship type.

Too much work. Too much noise. Too many unnecessary emotions clogging up the schedule.

People around him dated like it was a seasonal hobby. Fell in love in spring, broke up by fall, recycled the whole cycle again by winter. But for Heeseung? It had never been appealing. He didn’t need anyone. He liked being alone. He thrived alone.

He was an expert at sidestepping dating scandals. A pro at slipping out of flirty conversations with a well-timed smile and a conveniently urgent phone call. He could survive dinner parties full of “When are you getting married?” aunties without so much as a twitch in his left eye.

Composed. Controlled. Untouchable.

Until now.

Now, he was sitting in his office—his very sleek, very expensive office—surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass, watching the Seoul skyline stretch out like a smug reminder that his life was supposed to be pristine.

And it was. Mostly.

His suit was charcoal grey, custom-tailored. His coffee, bitter and scalding, sat in its perfectly symmetrical spot on the table. His hair, of course, was slicked back with enough precision to win a military medal. Everything in his life was polished.

Everything… except this one absurd detail.

He exhaled slowly.

Jake.

Jake and his chronically reckless mouth.

This wasn’t the usual “Oops, I told the intern you’d review their pitch” kind of trouble.

This was “Oops, I told my grandpa you’re dating a girl you don’t know, and now she’s coming to a meeting at 2:30” kind of trouble.

Heeseung had handled high-stakes mergers. He’d stared down stone-faced investors and charmed half a dozen billionaires before lunch. But now? Now he was apparently in a fake relationship.

And paying for it.

Five hundred dollars per date.

He wasn’t sure which part offended him more—the relationship, or the invoice.

Jake had made it sound like she was some half-wild creature who pillaged the office pantry and vanished into the wind. Which… wasn't entirely inaccurate. But what Jake didn’t know—and what Heeseung would rather jump out the boardroom window than admit—was that he had noticed her.

Actually, he’d remembered her quite clearly.

Big eyes. Crumbs on her cheek. Confidence like she owned the place, despite clearly not belonging there. She’d looked him dead in the eye with a mouthful of bread and the pure, unbothered energy of someone who’d never been told “no” in her life. Honestly? It was a little bit impressive.

And yes. Fine. Maybe she was cute.

Not that it mattered.

Because Heeseung didn’t do feelings. He didn’t get involved. He didn’t believe in all that heart-fluttering, stars-aligning nonsense.

Cute or not, this wasn’t going to turn into anything.

It was just a favor. A fake setup. A temporary solution to a very loud grandfather.

That was all.

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and breathed through his growing irritation. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to perform feelings. He didn’t want to drink overpriced coffee with some girl pretending to be his girlfriend so his matchmaking grandfather could sleep peacefully at night.

A quick glance at his watch: 2:27 p.m.

—

You were pinching Jake’s side like your entire financial future depended on it.

“Ow!” he yelped for the third time, swatting at your hand. “Okay, I need those ribs!”

You didn’t care.

You were terrified.

No—beyond terrified. Every synonym in the English language applied. Petrified, horrified, on-the-verge-of-spontaneous-combustion. Your heart was trying to launch itself into space. Your soul was threatening to exit your body via sheer panic.

“Breathe,” Jake said gently, trying to peel your claw-like grip off his hoodie. “You’re gonna be fine. You look amazing. Honestly, if you weren’t my best friend, I would've totally tried to kiss you by now.”

“You’re not helping, Jaeyun,” you hissed, teeth clenched, eyes wide and manic like you’d just seen the end of civilization.

“Right, sorry,” he said quickly—still grinning, because Jake had zero fear of death, apparently.

You glanced at your watch.

2:25.

Ten minutes until showtime.

Your heart was doing Olympic-level gymnastics. Your stomach was performing Cirque du Soleil. Your brain was stuck on a loop of elevator music and “what if” scenarios.

You looked ahead—at the sleek, modern glass door of Heeseung’s office. Too clean. Too intimidating. Too expensive-looking. Even the potted plants screamed, You don’t belong here.

The panic hit like a freight train.

Without thinking, you grabbed Jake’s arm and yanked him back, nearly slamming both of you into a very offended-looking potted plant near the elevator.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, voice shaking, hands clammy. “I cannot do this.”

Jake blinked. “Whoa—okay. Deep breath. You can do this. You’re just nervous.”

“Nervous is messing up a group project. This is like—I don’t know—faking a relationship with a corporate cyborg while praying I don’t end up blacklisted from every job ever.”

Jake made a soothing gesture. “He’s just a guy. A guy in a very expensive suit with the social skills of a brick and a caffeine addiction that’s borderline medical.”

You let out a half-sob. “Jake, what if I say something weird? What if I trip? What if he hates me on sight and then cancels the whole thing and somehow calls my school and gets me expelled just for existing—”

“Hey.” Jake grabbed your shoulders, firm but gentle. “Look at me.”

You did. Barely.

“You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re gorgeous. You’re the only person I trust with this because you’re the only one who could handle him. Even when he’s acting like some emotionally stunted AI in a suit.”

You sniffed. “I hate you.”

Jake smiled, soft and annoyingly sincere. “Love you too. Now breathe, princess.”

You inhaled. Exhaled.

Inhaled again. Slower.

It helped. Barely. But it helped.

Jake stepped back and nudged you gently toward the glass doors. “Go in there. Pretend you like him. Pretend you’re not thinking about chicken. Smile. Look mysterious. Say something deep like, ‘I don’t really believe in love.’ He’ll be confused. That’s how you win.”

A dry laugh escaped you—half squirrel, half dying engine. But still. A laugh.

Your watch blinked again.

2:28.

Showtime.

You straightened your shoulders, fixed your expression into something halfway pleasant, and took a step forward.

Let the corporate fake dating games begin.

—-

Heeseung sat alone in his office, posture perfect, fingers wrapped loosely around a coffee cup. His suit was sharp, pressed so crisply it practically gleamed. His expression, as always, unreadable.

Except for the slight crease in his brow.

Because she was late.

He glanced at his watch.

2:31.

Not catastrophic. But still. He didn’t like being made to wait. Especially not by someone he was paying.

He exhaled quietly, sipped his coffee, and shifted his gaze to the window—

—just in time to watch a girl crash headfirst into the glass office door.

He blinked.

There was a muffled thud, followed by a dramatic, “OW, MY FACE!” and Jake’s voice yelling, “OH MY GOD, ARE YOU OKAY?!”

The girl stumbled back, one hand pressed to her forehead, the other still valiantly clutching a bubble tea with a bent straw and a leaking lid. Her dress was cute, her hair a little windswept, and her face was lit up in full, blazing embarrassment.

Heeseung stared.

“This is your fault,” she snapped at Jake, rubbing the growing red mark on her forehead.

“If you hadn’t roped me into this, I wouldn’t have walked straight into your invisible death door.”

Jake gasped, wounded. “My fault?! Are you blind?! The door wasn’t even moving!”

“I was panicking! I thought you were going to shove me through it like a sacrificial lamb!”

“You were already walking!”

“You said, ‘smile and act normal’ right before I hit it. What part of that was helpful?!”

“You looked cute! Until, you know… the impact.”

Inside the office, Heeseung remained still. Coffee in hand. Silent. Watching.

Through the glass, their chaotic little argument carried on without shame. You were waving your hands in frustration; Jake was holding your elbow with exaggerated concern, both exasperated and wildly entertained.

It was loud. Messy. Unprofessional.

It was… oddly funny.

A faint tug pulled at the corner of Heeseung’s mouth before he even noticed it.

Not quite a laugh. Not quite a smirk.

Just… the suggestion of something warm.

Jake finally spotted him and started waving like a man trying to signal an aircraft.

“Let’s go already! He hates tardiness.”

You turned.

Your eyes met Heeseung’s through the glass—annoyed, wide-eyed, bubble tea still clutched like a fallen soldier in one hand.

Heeseung raised his coffee in silent acknowledgment.

And nodded.

You swallowed. “Great,” you muttered. “He saw all of that, didn’t he?”

“Every second,” Jake said cheerfully.

You groaned and took a cautious step forward. Jake placed a hand on your back and gently—but undeniably—shoved you through the door like you were an offering to royalty.

He guided you across the room like a handler walking a nervous show dog.

“Mr. Lee,” Jake said smoothly, already shifting into his polished Assistant Mode. “This is my friend.”

Heeseung didn’t respond right away. His gaze remained fixed on his coffee mug, fingers tapping lightly along the rim like it was conducting an orchestra only he could hear.

You stood stiffly in front of him, hands clasped like you were about to deliver a public apology. Jake stood beside you with the smug energy of a man watching chaos unfold exactly as he planned.

Finally, Heeseung looked up.

His eyes moved from Jake to you.

To your forehead.

Back to your eyes.

“…You’re late,” he said flatly.

You blinked. “It’s 2:32.”

“Yes,” Heeseung replied. “Which is not 2:30. Like we originally planned.”

Your jaw twitched. “Psycho,” you muttered, just loud enough for a small god to hear.

Heeseung raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

You straightened. “Sorry. I meant… yes, I know. Won’t happen again.”

Jake nudged your side and whispered, “Off to a strong start.”

—

The past five minutes were the longest of your life.

You stared at your feet. Then your thumbs. Then the floor again, like something might appear to save you. A trapdoor, maybe. Or the sweet embrace of the earth swallowing you whole.

Heeseung, meanwhile, had been staring at you. The entire time.

Not speaking. Not blinking. Just… watching.

Jake sat between you like a silent referee, sipping his coffee with the energy of someone watching a sitcom he’d accidentally created.

It was weird. Weird. Weird. Unbearably weird.

Finally, mercifully, Heeseung cleared his throat. The sound cut through the silence like a scalpel.

“I prepared a contract,” he said, voice calm. Businesslike. As if you weren’t about two minutes away from passing out in his office.

You blinked. “A contract? For something as—” you stopped, but it was too late—“as stupid as this?”

There was a pause.

Heeseung’s brow lifted. Just slightly. “Stupid?”

You froze. Your mouth opened. Nothing helpful came out.

“I didn’t mean—it’s not—I’M stupid,” you blurted, clapping your hands over your face. “That’s what I meant. I’m stupid. Please ignore everything I say for the next ten years.”

Jake choked on his drink.

You kept your face buried in your palms, wondering if anyone in the building would trade places with you. Janitor? Security guard? Plant in the corner?

Heeseung said nothing. For a long second.

Then, very dryly: “Good to know.”

You groaned.

Jake leaned over, voice low and unhelpfully cheerful. “You’re doing great.”

“Mr. Lee has written up a draft of the contract,” Jake said, slipping into full assistant mode, posture straight, tone clipped and professional.

You squinted at him. “Ew. Why are you talking like that?”

Jake glanced at you, then back at Heeseung with a sigh. “I’m working, you idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

“Oh. Right.” You scratched your neck, sheepish. “Forgot.”

Across the table, Heeseung bit his bottom lip—subtly, quickly—but it didn’t go unnoticed. His gaze lingered on you, and for the first time since you walked into the room, something shifted. His eyes didn’t look annoyed anymore.

Amused, maybe. Just slightly.

Dangerously close to smiling.

Jake cleared his throat, snapping back to task. “In the contract,” he continued, “you’ll find a breakdown of the terms—including Mr. Lee’s expectations, your responsibilities as his… companion—” he winced a little at the word “companion,” “—and a list of things you’re explicitly not allowed to do.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like what? Wear Crocs in public?”

Jake didn’t miss a beat. “Actually, yes. Clause six.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”

Heeseung finally spoke, smooth and unbothered. “I don’t joke about footwear.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Jake leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee again like he was watching live theatre.

“Okay… and what else?” you asked, trying—and failing—to sound chill.

Jake cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “Clause five…Physical…”

Heeseung looked up, expectant. “Yes?”

Jake made a face like he was already regretting his entire existence. “Do I… have to explain it?”

“Yes,” Heeseung said calmly, without even looking up from the contract. “It’s in the terms.”

You squinted at him. “Terms? What is this, fake dating or joining the military?”

Jake pressed on. “Physical contact. Mr. Lee has stated that there should be… none. Or at least not without clear, mutual agreement. No uninvited touching. No sudden… anything. Basically—don’t grope the CEO.”

You choked. “What?! I wasn’t—Why would—That wasn’t even on the table—”

Jake raised both hands. “I’m just reading the clause!”

Your face went red. Hot. Instantly.

You turned to Heeseung, eyes wide. “Not that I was planning to touch you or anything! Like, why would I—Not that you’re—okay, you are technically—”

You made a sound that wasn't even a word and slapped a hand over your own mouth.

Jake let out a slow, gleeful exhale. “This is so much better than I imagined.”

You groaned and sank lower in your seat. “I hate it here.”

Heeseung, annoyingly composed, glanced up at you. His expression unreadable… but his lips twitched. Barely.

You swore he was enjoying this.

You had been in the office for an hour.

One full hour.

Sixty minutes of your life you were never getting back, spent listening to Jake read through a contract like a local news anchor trying to make tax reform sound exciting.

“…Clause twelve: Should the second party—meaning you—be asked to attend any corporate function, you will refrain from referring to the first party—meaning Mr. Lee—as ‘my sugar daddy,’ even in jest.”

You blinked. “That… needed to be clarified?”

Jake didn’t look up. “You’d be surprised.”

You slowly slid further down in your seat, gripping your bubble tea like it was the last tether to your sanity. Your legs had gone numb. Your dignity had long since packed its bags and fled the room. And the worst part?

You still had to sign this thing.

All this—for a whopping two grand.

Across the table, Heeseung was unmoved. He hadn’t spoken in the last twenty minutes, just sipped his now-cold coffee and occasionally made a small note in the margins like he was preparing for a stockholders’ meeting instead of a fake relationship.

Jake flipped the page. “Clause thirteen…”

You groaned. “There are thirteen?”

Jake looked up. “We’re only halfway through.”

You dropped your head to the table.

This was your life now.

—

You had officially entered hour two of your Fake Dating Orientation.

Jake, your overly enthusiastic best friend and traitor to your dignity, was seated across from you like a talk show host who’d been waiting all day for the drama. He’d already gone through the entire contract. Twice. And now, unfortunately, it was time for the “chemistry test.”

“We’re going to do a little practice,” he announced, clasping his hands together. “Let’s see how well you two can sell this.”

You blinked. “Sell what, exactly?”

Jake beamed. “That you’re in love, of course.”

You visibly recoiled. “Oh god.”

Heeseung, seated beside you, didn’t say anything, but his entire body tensed like he’d just been told he had to perform on a game show. His fingers gripped the armrest, jaw tight.

You glanced at him.

He glanced at you.

Then you both looked in opposite directions so fast it would’ve given a chiropractor whiplash.

Jake leaned forward, utterly enjoying himself. “Okay. Pretend you’re on a casual third date. You’re into each other. You’re comfortable. There’s hand-holding. Eye contact. Smiles. Soft laughter. Possibly some light touching of the knee if you're really ambitious.”

You turned your head just enough to catch Heeseung already looking your way. Your eyes met. Instantly, you looked back at the floor.

Your cheeks were burning.

So were his ears.

Jake let out the loudest, most exaggerated sigh in human history. “You two haven’t even held hands yet.”

“I don’t—this is ridiculous. I don’t need acting lessons,” Heeseung muttered, running a hand through his hair in mild frustration, clearly more flustered than he was willing to admit.

“Clearly you do,” you mumbled under your breath.

He turned his head slowly. “Your face is flushed.”

You raised a brow. “Your ears are red.”

That shut him up.

For a second, the two of you just stared at each other. Not blinking. Not smiling. Like two cats waiting to see who flinched first.

Then you both sneered. Simultaneously.

Jake, watching from the corner of the room like a director overseeing a painfully awkward indie film, clapped once. “Amazing. So natural. This is going great. Really convincing chemistry.”

You and Heeseung didn’t look away from each other.

He raised an eyebrow like this was some kind of silent battle.

You narrowed your eyes in return, mouth twitching.

Jake clapped his hands together like a game show host about to announce the bonus round. “Alright. Let’s take it out there.”

You squinted at him. “Out where? Hell?”

Jake ignored the comment. “The office. The hallway. The real world. You two need a test run.”

Heeseung exhaled through his nose. “This is stupid.”

Jake raised a brow. “Should I just go ahead and reschedule that SunTech date, then? I’m sure she’d love a Thursday dinner.”

Heeseung shot him a look. “You’re forgetting you work for me.”

Jake smiled sweetly. “And you’re forgetting you need me to fix this mess.”

You, meanwhile, were sprawled on the couch like an exhausted Victorian heroine. “I’m bored.”

Jake turned, hands on hips. “You’re getting paid five hundred dollars per date to fake-date a CEO. Try to look alive.”

“Fine,” you groaned, hauling yourself up. “Let’s get this over with. What exactly do you want us to do? Gaze longingly into each other’s souls and whisper sweet nothings about fiscal responsibility?”

Heeseung rolled his eyes. “She’s really dramatic.”

“And you’re really uptight,” you shot back.

Jake clapped again, delighted. “Perfect. Just like a real couple.”

You both glared at him.

“Okay,” Jake continued, stepping into director mode. “Stage one: casual physical affection. We’re going for subtle intimacy. Nothing over-the-top. Just enough to make people go, ‘Hmm. They might be sleeping together.’”

Heeseung nearly choked on air.

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

Jake gestured between you like a choreographer. “Heeseung, arm around her waist. And you, try not to look like you’re being taken hostage.”

Heeseung looked vaguely alarmed. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Jake said cheerfully. “Like you’ve touched another human being before. Preferably without looking like it’s a tax audit.”

There was a long pause.

Then, reluctantly, Heeseung stepped closer. His hand hovered awkwardly near your waist like it had never been introduced to the concept of touch.

You raised your eyebrows. “You’re not disarming a bomb.”

He cleared his throat. “You’re… shorter than I thought.”

“I’m wearing flats.”

“Still. Noted.”

Jake watched with glee as Heeseung finally, finally placed his hand on your waist—so lightly it was barely there. You tensed anyway. Because apparently your nervous system hadn’t signed off on this level of contact.

Jake turned to you. “And you, sweetheart, try not to smile like you’re being held at gunpoint.”

You bared your teeth in what could only generously be described as a grimace.

Heeseung glanced at you. “That’s your fake dating face?”

“It’s a work in progress.”

“You look like you’re about to offer me life insurance.”

You sighed. “Okay, let’s not pretend you’re Mr. Suave. You touched me like I’m made of porcelain and trauma.”

“I didn’t want to overstep.”

Jake, now leaning on the doorway like a proud parent at a talent show, was positively glowing. “This is amazing. I should be charging admission.”

You groaned. “Are we done yet?”

“Almost,” Jake said, eyes twinkling. “Now walk out there. Just a quick lap around the office. Arm around her waist. Maybe whisper something flirty if you’re feeling bold. Bonus points if someone drops their coffee.”

You turned to Heeseung, who looked like he’d rather be hit by a bus.

He glanced back at you.

You both exhaled.

And in perfect, miserable unison, you muttered, “Let’s just get this over with.”

—-

At the entrance of Heeseung’s office, Jake had—because of course he did—another brilliant idea.

“Let’s try a… scenario,” he’d said, eyes gleaming like he’d just discovered a new form of social torture. “Something romantic. Circumstantial. Like you just got caught in a moment. You know, one of those ‘oh, didn’t see you there, just happened to be holding each other and laughing softly’ kind of deals.”

You and Heeseung stared at him in silence.

Jake pointed to the glass wall just beside the door. “Over there. That’s your stage.”

So now, here you were—pressed awkwardly to the side of the office entrance, standing shoulder to shoulder with Lee Heeseung, the human embodiment of a luxury watch ad.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

“I’m gonna be completely honest,” you whispered, glancing up at him. “I forgot the plan.”

He looked down at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “There shouldn’t be a plan.”

You frowned. “What?”

“This kind of thing,” he said, voice lower now, thoughtful, “should be natural. If we rehearse every little move, it’ll look fake.”

You didn’t respond right away.

Because honestly?

You had no idea how to make it look real.

You’d never been on a fake date before.

Actually, you’d never even been on a real date.

You’d spent your entire life chasing deadlines, side gigs, tuition payments, and discount ramen packs—love had never exactly made it into the schedule. Flirting was an optional elective you never had time to take. The closest you’d ever gotten to romantic tension was arguing with a vending machine.

And now here you were. Being gently stared at by a man with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and eyes like he was actually trying to understand you. You had half a mind to pull the fire alarm and flee.

Instead, you cleared your throat and said, “Right. Natural. Got it. So should I just… laugh at nothing? Flip my hair and pretend you said something charming?”

Heeseung smirked—actually smirked—and looked away. “You’re really bad at this.”

“I’m trying,” you hissed.

“I can tell.”

You gave him a sharp look. “Well, you’re not exactly oozing romance either, Mr. Emotionally Constipated.”

He huffed a small laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “Do you always insult the people you fake date?”

“Just the ones who critique my performance before the show starts.”

He glanced back at you then, gaze lingering a bit longer this time. “You’re nervous.”

You stiffened. “No, I’m not.”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“No, I’m—”

“You keep tapping your fingers.”

You looked down. Your hand was, in fact, tapping against your thigh like it was performing a solo.

“…It’s called rhythm,” you muttered.

Heeseung just gave you a look.

And for a moment, just a moment, the tension shifted. Slightly softer. Slightly less unbearable.

Heeseung exhaled slowly and said, almost reluctantly, “Let’s just… be still for a second. Pretend we’re mid-conversation. Look relaxed.”

You nodded.

Neither of you moved.

From inside the office, Jake was pressed dramatically against the glass, holding his phone up like he was filming a nature documentary.

You both ignored him.

Mostly.

Then, quietly, Heeseung said, “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

You blinked. “What, pretend to be someone’s fake girlfriend?”

He didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow.

You hesitated. Then sighed. “I’ve never been any kind of girlfriend.”

Heeseung looked at you.

Not judgmental. Not surprised.

Just… quiet.

And for the first time, you wished this moment wasn’t fake. Just for a second.

Then Jake knocked on the glass like a proud zookeeper.

“THAT LOOKS AMAZING!” he yelled. “Now do a forehead touch!”

You turned back to Heeseung, mortified.

“Don’t,” you warned.

Heeseung nodded. “Absolutely not.”

But when he looked at you again, his ears were pink. And this time, yours were too.

—-

The next few days were absolutely unhinged.

When Jake told you Heeseung was meticulous, you thought he meant the occasional Google Calendar reminder. What he actually meant was: this man plans your fake relationship like it’s a Fortune 500 company launch.

From Monday to Friday, he had everything scheduled down to the minute.

Monday

"Coffee shop. 2 p.m. Look approachable."

Those were his exact words. Not cute. Not casual. Approachable. Like you were a storefront. You showed up early—naturally—and promptly spilled oat milk across the table trying to jab your straw into your cup. It exploded like a dairy crime scene.

Heeseung just stared at you. Then slid a napkin across the table, deadpan. You muttered, “You're welcome for the entertainment.”

You made fun of his black coffee. “You drink it like a bitter old man who’s lost faith in humanity.”

He looked at your lavender oat milk iced monstrosity. “And your drink choices are one of a six-year-old’s.” 

You laughed. 

He didn’t.

But his eyes softened. Just a little.

Tuesday

PR strategy, according to Jake: “Be seen. Look adorable. Pretend you like each other.”

You: showed up in his office.

Also you: immediately raided the pantry and stole three muffins.

Heeseung watched from his desk. Said nothing. Pretended to type very seriously while clearly watching you.

You plopped down on his couch, opened your laptop, and made very dramatic “working” noises.

At one point, your laptop screen dimmed. Before you could even react, he walked over silently and plugged in your charger.

You blinked. “Oh. Thanks.” He just shrugged and returned to his desk. But you caught it. The ghost of a smile as he sat down. Like he was trying not to like you. Failing, obviously.



Wednesday

You accompanied him to a fake business lunch.

There were women in designer outfits, expensive perfume clouding the air, and stiletto heels you were sure doubled as weapons. They looked at you like you’d crawled out from under the table.You sat there in an old blouse your mom gave you, heart thumping in your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the ketchup stain you thought you removed.

You fidgeted. Overthought. Considered hiding under the table.

Then Heeseung leaned in, so close his breath grazed your ear. “You’re doing fine.” That was it. Just those words.

And you didn’t remember a single thing after that. You just nodded and smiled and let those three words replay in your head like a calming song.

Later, in the car, you kicked off your heels like they’d personally betrayed you. He raised an eyebrow.

“A little dramatic, no?”

“I’ve suffered,” you whined.

 He handed you a water bottle and rolled the windows down.

 “You’re welcome,” he said.

 You rested your feet on the dash. Caught him looking at you at a red light.

 He looked away too fast. Suspiciously fast.

Thursday

You brought takeout to his office, unannounced.

He looked up when you entered, blinking like you’d just done something absurd. “You brought food?”

“Yes. Humans eat. Shocking, I know.”

You sat on the floor beside his desk. He joined you. In a full suit. Cross-legged like a model student, tie undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. You offered him a dumpling. He took it. No hesitation.

 You grinned. “Isn’t it so good?”

He chewed. “Greasy.”

“But good?”

He hesitated. “If I say yes, will you stop bothering me?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

You pretended not to notice the way his eyes lingered on your face longer than they needed to.

Friday

You were late. By five minutes.

He texted: “Late.”

You texted back: “Cry about it.”

He didn’t reply.

You arrived out of breath, annoyed, hair windswept and bag hanging off one shoulder like you’d run a marathon to get there.

He just handed you a drink. Your favorite.

Didn’t say anything. Didn’t look smug. Just passed it to you with one hand and opened the door to a rooftop garden with the other. Of course he had a rooftop garden. Because he was secretly the male lead of a tragic romantic comedy and you were starting to hate how well the role fit.

You sat on the bench beside him, knees brushing under the table. “You’re so serious all the time,” you said, teasing. “Do you even know how to smile?” He scoffed. 

“Do you even know how to tell a joke?”

 “Excuse me—I am hilarious.”

 “You’re… something.”

—-

You lay in bed, burrito-wrapped in your blanket, one arm tucked under your head and the other dramatically thrown across your eyes like a Victorian ghost overcome by mild emotional instability.

Your ceiling stared back at you like it knew.

And unfortunately, your brain did that thing it loved to do: play a full highlight reel of the past week.

It had been five days.

Five fake dates.

You were getting paid five hundred dollars per day to pretend to like Lee Heeseung.

That was the deal. The entire deal. Nothing more, nothing less.

And honestly? Not a bad one. Amazing hourly rate. Low stakes. You just had to hang out with a man who looked like a luxury perfume ad and acted like a spreadsheet given life.

You could do that.

You had survived retail during Christmas and three years of sharing a bathroom with Jungwon.

And yet… somehow, you were the one spiraling.

Because Heeseung wasn’t awful.

Actually—he was kind of…

Nice.

Underneath the sleek suits and emotionally stunted persona, he was… oddly considerate. The kind of guy who noticed when your laptop was dying and plugged it in without comment. Who remembered your coffee order after one chaotic spill. Who didn’t flinch when you shoved dumplings into his mouth like a sleepover buddy instead of a business partner.

And okay, fine. He was also really easy on the eyes.

With his annoyingly sharp jawline and those lips that were probably illegal in several countries. And the way his tie loosened around his neck by Thursday, and how he laughed—actually laughed—at your dumb joke on Friday.

You groaned and rolled onto your stomach, burying your face into your pillow.

“Nope. No. Absolutely not.”

You barely knew him. You’d been fake-dating for a week. You didn’t even know what kind of music he liked. For all you knew, he could be a hardcore jazz saxophone guy. Or worse—he liked podcasts about finance.

This wasn’t real. You were faking it.

Professionally.

And still…

You wondered what it would feel like to hold his hand with no one watching. No “scene” to pull off. No Grandpa to impress. Just… you. And him. And the quiet weight of something unsaid.

You wondered—horrifyingly—what it would feel like to kiss him.

Just once.

Just to see.

You smacked your forehead. “I need therapy.”

The worst part? It wasn’t even entirely about Heeseung.

You were realizing, in a slow, sinking kind of way, that your romantic life was… embarrassing.

Jake, your best friend-slash-chaos goblin, didn’t count. Jungwon, your honorary brother, sure as hell didn’t count. And your last date had been someone who said “let’s split the bill” and then left you with it.

You hadn’t been around someone kissable in a long time.

And now you were being paid to fake-date someone who might actually ruin your life if you let him.

You groaned into your mattress again.

At this rate, you were going to fall for your fake boyfriend before your first paycheck cleared.

—

Heeseung was not sleeping.

It was after midnight. The city outside was quiet. His entire house was dark.

And all he could think about… was you.

Which made no sense.

You had shown up in his life like a whirlwind. Unpredictable. Loud. Crumb-covered. You drank rainbow-colored lattes and wiped your mouth on your sleeve and called his contract “stupid” without blinking.

But you’d also fed him dumplings on the office floor—the office floor—which he’d never sat on in his life. But then you’d whined, kicked your feet like a brat, and said, “Just join me. Or are you too much of a rich bitch to?”

And that was all it took for Lee Heeseung—the picture of corporate perfection—to sit beside you, cross-legged, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You’d teased him until he smiled without realizing. You’d let your legs rest on the dashboard and talked about nothing like it mattered. And you hadn’t cared who he was. Not the CEO. Not the heir. Just… Heeseung.

He exhaled, staring at the ceiling with all the enthusiasm of a man confronting his own emotional shortcomings.

Was he really catching feelings after five “fake” dates?

Apparently, yes.

Which was alarming.

He had spent his entire adult life navigating business galas and high-end blind dates with elegant, polished women. The kind who wore heels taller than his emotional range. He knew how to charm. How to play the part.

And yet none of them had ever stuck.

None of them made his hands twitch when they leaned in.

None of them made him smile like an idiot when they were five minutes late.

But you?

You with your loud opinions and easy laughter and tendency to steal muffins like they were currency?

You were dangerous.

And you were fake.

A fake girlfriend, in a fake arrangement, for a fake relationship.

And yet here he was—imagining what your hand might feel like in his. What your laugh might sound like in his apartment, in the morning, when you were still sleepy.

Heeseung groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

This wasn’t good.

He was supposed to be managing this. Keeping things professional. Keeping his head clear.

Instead, he was lying awake at 1:34 a.m., thinking about your smile and the way your voice got all soft when you called him out for being too serious.

God help him.

He was catching feelings.

And he was completely, utterly screwed.

part 2

[gav-san]

Soul Shanked 3/4

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

Soul Shanked Masterlist

Chapter Title: Ten Feet of Shirtless Chaos and Absolutely No Peace Length: 11 K+

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Taglist: @wontknowbetter, @sleepydang @flav1a0 @pleasantkittenpersona @heartsforseo

You sat at the edge of the palace terrace like a diplomat carved from marble. Back straight, hands folded, shoulders coiled so tight they might snap if anyone so much as exhaled too loudly.

Flanking you were your appointed chaperones: Sisca the Silent and Jai the Judgemental. Boa’s finest. Her favorites. Her blades.

They didn’t blink. They didn’t speak. You weren’t entirely convinced they breathed. Each held a spear that looked less like a weapon and more like divine retribution forged in steel. Both radiated the kind of calm that promised they’d vaporize Shanks without breaking a sweat. Or protocol.

Naturally, that only seemed to encourage him.

He lounged by the nearest pillar, leaning just enough to seem relaxed but not sufficient to trigger instant death. A perfect 9.8 feet away.

Shanks leaned against the balustrade like he owned the view, one boot hooked casually over the other, the picture of arrogant ease. The sea breeze played with his hair and the ends of his coat, catching on the amused tilt of his mouth like even the wind had a crush on him.

“You always this formal, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low and teasing. “Or is it just me?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you lacked a retort but because you couldn’t afford to play the game. Not here. Not with him playing with both of your lives. Not with Boa’s honor quietly weighing itself across your shoulders like a ceremonial yoke.

One wrong move, and Sisca would drive a spear through his lung faster than a heartbeat. One wrong word, and Jai would file the paperwork for your funeral,neatly, alphabetically, and in triplicate.

Still, Shanks smiled. Like a man who’d never met a warning he couldn’t charm his way past.

“Don’t worry,” he said, flicking you a wink. “I’ve had worse reception. Once got stabbed before the hello. This is practically a warm welcome.”

Sisca’s grip on her weapon didn’t so much as twitch.

You sighed, spine still iron-rod straight. “You were told this wasn’t a social visit.”

“I thought we’d multitask,” he said. “Politics and flirtation—two of my strongest suits.”

Jai inhaled sharply through her nose. You weren’t sure if it was disapproval or the prelude to divine smiting.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re very confident for a man surrounded by women who could, and would, fold you like laundry.”

“Ah,” Shanks murmured, grin widening, “but I’ve always liked dangerous women. Especially ones who sit like they’re one insult away from murder.”

The mark on his collarbone glowed faintly, catching the dying light. And he was smiling, like a man born for slow-motion disasters and thoroughly delighted to be starring in one.

“You know,” he said, voice dipped in moonlight, “I like your name.”

You didn’t answer.

He glanced sideways at the guards. “Ladies. That wasn’t flirting. Just a compliment. Zero seduction, full respect. No stabbing necessary.”

Neither woman moved.

Not a blink. Not a breath. One of them might have narrowed an eye. Or maybe the light shifted. Or maybe it was divine wrath, quietly calibrating.

You remained still. Unmoving. Impeccable. If posture could kill, yours would be dragging his soul to the underworld.

Shanks, of course, looked like a man lounging in the middle of a dream he had no intention of waking from. Ten feet of glittering threat. Ten feet of controlled power. Ten feet of pirate emperor clearly thriving under scrutiny.

“I mean it,” he added, voice low. “Your name. It suits you.”

Silence.

Then, to the guards, gently, as if addressing a bear mid-nap:

“Still not flirting. Just being polite. Totally platonic appreciation of her identity.” He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. His one hand. Easy, casual, the motion somehow cocky and graceful all at once.

Sisca’s knuckles flexed on her spear.

Jai inhaled. Once.

You didn’t move. But your eye twitched. Barely.

Shanks lit up like he’d been handed a personal victory. “Progress.”

You finally spoke, your voice as flat and cold as the marble beneath you.

“If you die, I still die. That’s the only reason you’re not impaled.”

He grinned, entirely unbothered. Possibly more pleased.

“So you’re saying… I’m protected by fate.”

You turned your head slowly. Deliberately. “I’m saying don’t push it.”

Sisca’s spear shifted forward by a single, terrifying millimeter.

Shanks immediately lifted his one hand in surrender, elbow tucked loose at his side like he was halfway to curtsying.

“Not pushing,” he said cheerfully. “Just standing. Respectfully. Handsomely. Supportively.”

You inhaled through your nose and began calculating the moral logistics of screaming directly into the sea. Would Boa fine you? Would it echo?

Silence.

He glanced back, chin tilted, that damn glimmer in his eye. “Do you always wear your hair like that?”

Your head turned just slightly. “You’re not allowed to compliment me, man-creature.”

“I’m not?”

“It counts as manipulation.”

He laughed, low and amused, like he’d just watched a nobleman trip down palace stairs. “Fair point. But I am allowed to say I’m glad it was you.”

Your jaw clenched so hard your molars filed a formal complaint.

“I wanted a quiet weekend,” you hissed. “Not to be soul-tethered to a sentimental pirate with seaweed for brains. I’ve adopted a glorified fruit peddler with a superiority complex.”

“Hey,” Shanks replied, utterly unbothered, “I’d make a terrible vendor. I’d eat the stock. Plus the hair causes riots. Pretty sure it’s a war crime in at least five ports. Seven if I style it.”

You groaned and dragged both hands down your face, smearing invisible frustration like war paint.

“Divine punishment,” you muttered. “That’s what this is. The gods got bored and picked me for enrichment.”

You fixed your eyes on the sea like it might swallow him whole if you stared hard enough.

It didn’t help.

Mostly because he wouldn’t shut up.

The guards were already tired of him.

“I have to say,” he murmured, casually leaning back against a pillar and crossing his legs at the ankle, “that’s an impressive spear. Subtle. Elegant. Bit terrifying. I like that in a woman.”

Sisca didn’t blink. But her grip tightened by exactly two degrees.

Then he turned to Jai, smiling with the patience of a man trying to charm a crocodile in formalwear. “And you. That stance? Flawless. I feel safer already. I think we’re really building something here.”

Jai blinked once. Slowly. Like an apex predator watching its lunch make too much noise.

You exhaled through your nose. Loudly.

Shanks tilted his weight, one-armed balance casual as a cat, and crossed his legs the other way.

“You know, I think I’m growing on them.”

“They’re deciding who gets to stab you first,” you said flatly.

He shrugged. One shoulder, one arm, all relaxed nonsense.

““Ah,” He said, all charm and chaos wrapped in sunburnt sea king energy “The classic affection-to-homicide pipeline.”

You said nothing.

He glanced again at Sisca. “Let me guess, former special ops?”

Silence.

“Silent type. Love that. Mysterious. Dangerous. Probably writes poetry in secret.”

Still no response.

Shanks beamed. “See? We’re bonding.”

You turned your head just enough to glare. “You’re antagonizing trained killers.”

“I’ve lost my arm and my ability to openly flirt,” he said, solemn as a monk. “Entertaining trained killers is all I have left. Unless you’re willing to bend the rules—”

Jai’s spear shifted. Sharply.

Shanks raised his hand, palm out like he was surrendering to divine judgment. “Flirting is off the table. I’m aware. Just being respectful. Loudly.”

You turned your gaze back to the horizon, jaw locked so tight it could cut rope. “If you get impaled, I’m not helping.”

“Good news,” Shanks said brightly. “We’d die together.”

That earned him something unexpected: Sisca looked at him.

Just a glance. Brief. But not blank. Something flickered behind her eyes, and she was clearly trying very hard not to show it.

You nearly slid off the terrace in pure, unfiltered despair.

Then, movement.

Both guards shifted. Subtly. Like the air had changed.

Sisca cleared her throat. “We’re due for a perimeter loop.”

You blinked. “You just checked the perimeter.”

“Regulation,” she said crisply.

Jai turned her head, fixing Shanks with a stare cold enough to halt blood flow. “Five minutes. Touch her, and I remove a limb.”

Shanks saluted with two fingers. “You’re both doing incredible work. Love the structure. I feel very safe.”

They turned and walked off. Slowly. Too slowly. Like they were trying not to smirk. Or listen.

You stared after them, slack-jawed. “…Did you charm my guards?”

Shanks tilted his head, all innocence and mischief, the wind toying with his hair like it liked him more than it should.

“Define charm.”

“…”

“Not on purpose,” he added quickly, lifting his hand again in mock surrender. “I just asked Jai if she was the deadliest woman on the island, or if that title still belonged to you.”

You blinked. Then slowly, deliberately, raised one hand to point at him. “That was absolutely on purpose.”

He grinned wider. “Maybe a little.”

“Stop. Talking.”

You hissed through your teeth, a sound somewhere between a threat and a prayer.

“Right,” he nodded, all mock gravity. “Silent admiration. Got it.”

You turned away before the guards returned and found you mid-yeet, launching a pirate emperor off the terrace in front of the royal koi pond.

You had once been a functional human being.

You rose with the sun. Drank your tea. Did your stretches. Negotiated trade deals. Smoothed over diplomatic fires. Once disarmed a bounty hunter using nothing but a rolled scroll and three precisely chosen insults.

But now?

Now you had Red-Haired Shanks, Emperor of the Sea, walking disaster, and your newly soul-bound curse, trailing after you like a golden retriever made of rum, grins, and catastrophic impulse control.

And the worst part?

He didn’t look bad doing it.

Never more than ten feet away. Constantly testing your ability to gauge exactly how long ten feet is.

A little later, in a valiant attempt to salvage a shred of peace and dignity over a quiet cup of tea, you finally managed to steal a moment alone.

The breeze was calm. The tea was warm. You were seated, upright, composed.

“Is that tea? Smells incredible. Or is that just your natural scent?”

His voice rang out behind you. Bright, chipper, and unmistakably cursed.

You flinched.

Missed your mouth.

And poured scalding tea directly down your front.

There was a moment of silence. A beat of disbelief. 

A horrified gasp. “Oh no. Was it my voice? Do I always have that effect? Is this normal? Should I warn people?”

You stared down at the wet, steaming mess. Then upward, toward the heavens, as if appealing directly to whatever deity was clearly trying to humble you through long-form emotional comedy.

You briefly considered drinking the rest just to speed up divine judgment.

Behind you, Shanks hesitated. Then padded forward with exaggerated caution. Like you were a wounded animal and he was the world’s most insufferable veterinarian.

“Okay,” he said softly, “not a compliment this time. Just an observation. You’re very composed under extreme tea trauma.”

You didn’t answer. Just plucked a napkin from the tray and began blotting your dress like a corpse preparing itself for burial.

“I have water,” he offered, holding up a flask. “Possibly. It might also be sake. Or really brave juice. Would you like to gamble?”

You turned your head just enough to stare at him with pure, exhausted fury.

Shanks winced. “Okay. Not the time for jokes.”

He scratched the back of his neck with his one hand, then awkwardly mimed offering a second before realizing, again, that he didn’t have one.

“Right. Just the one hand,” he muttered. “Still getting used to the dramatic pause when I go for the other.”

You sighed, shoulders drooping, dignity trailing away like steam from your tea-soaked lap.

“I was alone for three minutes,” you said, voice hollow. “Three.”

“That’s on me,” he said sincerely. “I sensed the peace and got jealous.”

You looked back down at your tea. Lukewarm now. Ruined.

“…I despise you.”

Shanks sat cross-legged beside you, entirely too comfortable for a man who just verbally ambushed your afternoon and indirectly baptized you in boiling oolong.

“Yeah,” he said, nudging his shoulder against yours. “But I’m growing on you.”

You stared down at the dripping mess. Then at the heavens. And seriously considered drinking the rest just to speed up divine judgment. You picked up your cup again, stared into its depths, and quietly whispered, “Please drown me.”

If you so much as dared to stretch in your own yard, he’d be there.

Perched on a bench. Ten feet away. Unblinking. Uninvited. Unstoppable.

“Wow,” he murmured one morning, eyes fixed on you like you were a rare comet or divine omen. “Do all the warriors here bend like that, or are you showing off just for me?”

You promptly collapsed sideways into the grass and didn’t get up for a full minute.

Not because you were injured.

Because your soul needed time to reboot.

From somewhere disturbingly nearby, his voice drifted again, chip-cheerful and ruinous.

“Careful. If you keep moving like that, I might have to throw my only hand  in marriage.”

You screamed into the lawn. Quietly. With dignity.

Sort of.

Reading in the library?

Impossible.

He sat behind you quietly humming, hand tapping books, watching the sunlight catch in your hair like it was the grand finale of a celestial event.

Every time you turned a page, you could feel him watching. Not leering. Not even flirtatious.

Just warm. Focused. Like a man who had discovered his new favorite hobby was you, sitting still and trying not to scream.

You made it halfway through a paragraph.

Then launched the scroll across the room with the emotional control of a goat on a cliff.

From somewhere behind you came his gentle, infuriating voice:

“That one must’ve been a tough read, huh?”

You considered throwing him next. Preferably out the nearest window.

At dinner?

You dropped your chopsticks. Twice. Because of his humming.

The first time, you brushed it off. The second, you stared at your own hands like they had personally betrayed you.

He picked them up both times, smiling like you were starring in some tragic romance where the heroine had been bested by wood and song.

As he handed them back the second time, he leaned in and whispered, “If I’d known chopsticks were the way to your heart, I would’ve started humming years ago.”

You stared at him like he’d just confessed to a war crime.

He stared back, looking unreasonably pleased for a man with one arm and zero shame.

You ate the rest of your meal with a fork.

From the dessert tray.

Alone.

In a separate room.

With the door locked.

And a chair wedged under the handle.

But Shanks' worst trait wasn’t the bad one-arm puns and unmanned one-liners.

He just talked. Constantly. With that maddening, wind-in-your-sails voice. Like he hadn’t trespassed, soul-bonded himself to you, and turned your carefully structured existence into a cursed honeymoon with color commentary.

You were an envoy. A negotiator. You liked things calm. Predictable. Quiet.

Now he sat across from you at meals grinning, polite, one leg swinging like a bored child with no grasp of war crimes. While he complimented the oils, the stars, or how “fascinating” your face looked when you were trying not to throw him out the nearest window.

It was getting to you.

You were chewing too loudly. Breathing weird. Sweating from existing.

Meanwhile, he looked like he’d just stepped off a wanted poster and onto a luxury resort flyer titled “Surprise! It’s Your Problem Now.”

One evening, walking the inner path with your ever-silent guard a few paces behind, he glanced over. 

“You know… if it weren’t for the deadly tether curse, this would kind of feel like a romantic getaway.” He said, casual as sin.

You choked on your own breath. “Don’t say things like that.”

He held up a hand, palm out, innocent as a storm cloud. “Just trying to break the tension.”

“The tension exists because of you!” you snapped. “You scaled a wall, broke into sacred grounds, and committed a forbidden bonding ritual that rewrote my soul!”

He had the gall, the utter, seafaring gall, to smile.

Like he hadn’t metaphysically hijacked your future and turned your destiny into a sitcom with no laugh track.

Your soulmark pulsed.

Warm. Smug. Traitorous.

Shanks tilted his head, the breeze catching his hair like he’d paid it to. Still smiling. “To be fair, I asked the wall for consent before I scaled it.”

You gawked at him. “You are impossible.”

“I’m consistent,” he replied brightly. “That counts for something.”

Your soulmark flared again. You slapped your hand over it like it owed you money.

“Stop agreeing with him!”

Shanks looked delighted. “See? Even fate likes me.”

You considered throwing him off the balcony. And briefly mourned that you’d be yanked right after him like an angry, cursed kite.

You wanted to scream. Or faint. Or punch a shrub. Possibly all three. In that order.

Then, like it was nothing, he plucked a flower from a nearby hedge and offered it to you with the absentminded ease of a man who had never once faced a consequence in his life.

You took it.

Paused.

And hurled it, with deadly precision, straight into the koi pond. The splash was divine.

The look on his face? Transcendent.

“Symbolic,” he murmured, deadpan. “Bold. Rebellious. I respect it.”

You turned and stormed off so hard you hit the tether. It snapped taut with a jolt that nearly yanked you backward. Shanks just called after you cheerfully, “Teamwork makes the soul-work!”

You screamed into your sleeve.

The koi pond rippled in sympathy.

He laughed.

That night, flat on your back on your designated side of the room, because tether, you stared at the ceiling and whispered into your pillow,

“He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die. Not from swords. From exposure. Exposure to a feral, unrepentant pet male creature.”

Across the dark room, entirely too awake, his voice drifted softly:

“You breathe really loud when you’re thinking.”

You shrieked.

The guards groaned in unison from their post just inside the door.

And Shanks?

Shanks just laughed.

Low. Warm.

Utterly delighted to be alive. Utterly delighted to be here. Utterly delighted to be yours.

Your downfall started with a twitch.

Barely anything. A flicker at the corner of your mouth.

You were seated at the edge of the courtyard, clinging to your last scraps of dignity and a lukewarm cup of tea, while Shanks lounged ten feet away under a cherry tree, hurling berries at a squirrel and losing every round.

He was humming again.

Some quiet, sea-worn tune that didn’t belong here, low and unpolished, a melody born of open water and wind, but somehow, it didn’t feel out of place. Like it had slipped through the cracks of this refined world and decided to stay.

Like him.

You did not notice.

You were drinking tea.

Not listening.

Definitely not watching him stretch in the sunlight like some maddeningly relaxed, gilded menace.

His coat had been tossed over a stone bench, long-sleeved and worn. He stood barefoot in the grass, back to you, shirt wrinkled and only half-tucked. He moved like he had all the time in the world. Slow, fluid, and entirely unbothered by the weight of your silence.

You did not look up when he rolled his shoulder, or when he tilted his head just so, like he was listening to something only he could hear.

You were an envoy. A diplomat. A professional. Your fingers wrapped delicately around the porcelain cup, posture perfect. You were not distracted by the way the sunlight caught the edges of his hair like a halo of rust and fire.

Or by the line of muscle just visible beneath the hem of his shirt when he reached behind his neck with his one arm, spine arching in a lazy stretch.

You certainly didn’t notice the way his hum dropped into something deeper, rougher, ust before it faded out entirely.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at you.

Just stood there, soaking in the morning warmth like a creature made for summer.

And you?

You sipped your tea. Calmly. Carefully.

And told yourself that your heartbeat hadn’t changed at all.

Then he said, almost to himself,

“You ever notice squirrels don’t like sharing? I offered him half. He judged me. Like, visibly. With his little squirrel eyes.”

You didn’t mean to react.

But your lips twitched.

Just a little.

Too little to matter.

His head turned, slow and triumphant.

“Was that a smile?”

You narrowed your eyes. “It was a spasm.”

“A very pretty spasm.”

“Die.”

He grinned and leaned back on his elbows, sun catching in that ridiculous red hair like it had been personally blessed by the gods for the sole purpose of testing your restraint.

“I’m just saying,” he said, all casual mischief, “if you laugh, I won’t report you to Hancock.”

You hissed like he’d insulted your bloodline. “I am not laughing. I’m surviving. Barely. You’re not a soulmate. You’re a feral pet I am unable to return who follows me like a leased beast.”

He looked radiant. Absolutely thriving on your suffering.

“I’d wear a real leash,” he said brightly. “If it’s you holding it.”

You made a noise so undignified even the birds paused.

One of the guards flinched.

A squirrel launched itself off the balcony like it wanted no part in what was unfolding.

Shanks, meanwhile, looked like he’d just won a chest of gold, a festival, and your eternal suffering all in one.

Utterly victorious.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. You were frozen between outrage, embarrassment, and the overwhelming urge to commit leash-related violence.

The next time your composure broke, it was a full-blown near-snort.

He’d been telling the guards a story. Something about a crewmate, an exploding pie, and a very poorly timed sneeze.

You were meditating. Not listening.

Until he said, “—and then the chef yelled, ‘It’s not seagull! That’s my wig!’”

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

Too late.

Your eyes widened at your own betrayal.

He turned. Slowly. That stupid, knowing twinkle in his eye already dialed up to unbearable.

“…You liked that one.”

“I pity-laughed,” you hissed. “Because your crew sounds educationally unsupervised. It’s the same as patting a dog on the head when it defecates on itself.”

“Still counts.”

You spun away sharply, tea sloshing over the rim of your cup like it, too, was trying to escape this conversation.

Your soulmark pulsed.

Warm. Smug. Traitorous.

You slapped a hand over it like it owed you money. “I swear to every god listening, if this thing glows again, I’m sawing it off with a spoon.”

Behind you, you could practically hear the grin.

You stared at the koi pond. Peaceful. Serene. Full of fish who didn’t speak, flirt, or forcibly bind themselves to your metaphysical existence.

You briefly considered diving in headfirst and letting the koi raise you.

You would be their strange, furious sibling. They would accept you. They would understand.

Then his voice, soft, amused, carried over the garden again.

“Y’know, if you do go in, I’ll probably have to follow. We’re kind of tethered.”

You didn’t turn around. You just raised your teacup in a silent toast to the sky and whispered, “Release me.”

And then came the moment that undid you.

Late evening. Opposite sides of the same room. The air was soft with the scent of rain, earthy and clean, like the whole palace was holding its breath.

He was on the floor with an old scroll spread across his lap, mumbling as he read. You hadn’t realized how often he talked to himself until now. Quiet little nothings, half-thoughts and sea-worn mutterings, like the words kept him company. Like silence wasn’t something he was built to trust.

You were pretending to read something, anything, not watching him tilt his head like a curious crow, not watching the furrow of his brow as he traced some ancient diagram with a single, careful finger.

Then, still completely focused on the scroll, he frowned and said, perfectly serious:

“What’s a ceremonial frog bowl? And why does it have four steps?”

You didn’t giggle.

You burst out laughing.

It hit like lightning. Sudden, bright, straight out of your chest before you could stop it. Loud and real. The kind of laugh that unhooked something in your ribs. You clapped a hand over your mouth instantly, eyes wide with betrayal at your own joy.

Across the room, he looked up.

Slowly.

His eyes met yours, startled, but soft. Gentle.

And then something else flickered behind them.

Not smug. Not amused.

Devastated.

The kind of devastation only hope can bring.

It nearly broke you in half.

You stood so fast your chair wobbled. “I’m going to meditate.”

“In the hallway?”

“I need…” Your voice cracked. You cleared it. “I need air. More air.”

He didn’t follow. Didn’t speak again. Just smiled.

And somehow, that was worse. So much worse.

“I’ll be waiting,” he said softly. “Always.”

You left before the soulmark could flare again.

Before the rest of you did.

You slipped behind the nearest pillar, heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to break free. You clutched your glowing hand like it was bleeding, like you could somehow smother the truth pulsing beneath your skin.

“You cannot do this,” you whispered.

The words tasted desperate. Fragile. Like if you said them enough times, they might become real. Like sheer willpower could undo destiny.

“You cannot fall for him.”

But your soulmark disagreed.

It stayed warm. Steady. Bright.

As if it already knew.

As if it had chosen long before you ever had the chance.

You pressed your back to the cold stone and squeezed your eyes shut, trying to breathe, to think, to remember who you were before all of this. Before him.

And Not in a rush. Not in a blaze. But in that slow, inevitable way waves claim the shore. Over and over. Until the sand forgets it was ever anything else.

Something inside you, quiet, traitorous, unbearably tender, had already begun to unravel.

The Den Den Mushi buzzed.

Benn sighed, pulled the receiver off its hook, and turned the volume dial all the way down before answering.

“…What.”

Shanks’s voice came through, distorted but still far too cheerful for whatever ungodly hour it was.

“Benn. Benn. Listen. I did it.”

Benn pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods. What.”

“She smiled.”

“…You woke me up for that?”

“No, no. You don’t get it. It wasn’t just a smile. It twitched first. Right corner. Like she was trying not to. Benn, it was transcendent.”

Benn groaned, adjusted the snail again, and lowered the volume another notch. Just in case it could still offend his ears.

“Was she choking?”

“No! I was mid-battle with a squirrel.”

“…You picked a fight with a squirrel?”

“He was judging me, Benn. I offered him berries, and he looked at me like I’d proposed tax reform.”

“This is why these women call us animals,” Benn muttered.

“Bold language from a man who once declared war on a garden party.”

“They set fire to my coat, Shanks.”

“Semantics.”

Benn sighed harder. “Does she still refer to you as her temporary man-pet?”

“Yes, but she said it with feeling.”

“Feeling like.., contempt?”

“Feeling like possessive contempt. There’s a difference.”

“Yes, but she twitched! Then she glared. Then—then, Benn—she told me to die. Like… fondly.”

Benn set down his pen and slowly turned away from the mountain of reports he’d been trying to finish for the past three days.

“Shanks.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“Time zones are a social construct.”

“You are whispering into a snail about a woman who actively wants to launch you into orbit.”

“She smiled, Benn.”

Benn stared into the middle distance. He could feel his eye twitching. Somewhere in his soul, a vein burst.

“You’ve fought admirals with less emotional investment.”

Shanks’ voice softened. Honest. Wrecked.

“…But none of them had her laugh.”

A pause.

The Den Den Mushi blinked once. Twice. Mimicking Shanks’s dreamy, far-off expression.

“…She laughed?” Benn asked. Immediately regretted it.

“‘Ceremonial frog bowl.’ Classic. She exploded, Benn. Tried to pass it off, but I saw. Then she bolted like I’d proposed marriage. Beautiful.”

Benn reached for the nearest blanket and dragged it over his head like it might protect him from whatever spiritual contagion this was.

“You’re the worst long-distance girlfriend I’ve ever had.”

“You love me.”

“No.”

“You’re going to help me write her a love letter.”

“I’m muting this snail.”

“I already picked a pen name. Very tasteful. Red-Haired Regret.”

Click.

The Den Den Mushi sighed. Loudly, passively, like it, too, was exhausted, and went dormant in the kind of theatrical silence reserved for cursed romances and doomed friendships.

You were getting comfortable. Way too comfortable. That’s why it happened.

On your so-called “fresh air stroll,” you made the fatal mistake of thinking out loud.

You and Shanks sat beneath the garden arbor. Guards nearby. Watching. Pretending not to listen. Absolutely listening.

The sun hung low over the gardens. Your chaperone, Jai, stood just far enough away to ignore anything subtle and hear everything.

You sat prim and dignified on the stone bench. Shanks lounged beside you, shirt slightly open, posture criminally casual. Menacingly comfortable.

You cleared your throat. Twice. “Can I ask you something?”

He turned to you instantly, expression softening like you’d asked him to stay forever. “Of course.”

You looked anywhere but at him. “It’s… about the differences. Between men and women.”

A beat.

“Darling,” he said, voice like velvet sin, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Your soul flatlined.

“I meant minor biological differences!” you snapped. “Anatomical reference! Like—a battle map!”

He chuckled, dark and delighted. “Even better. You want me to describe our physical differences like a tactical field?”

“That would be acceptable,” you said, with the dignity of a woman praying for death.

He leaned in, just slightly. Arm draped over the back of the bench. Voice low. Dangerous.

“Well then… my shoulders are broader. Years of swordwork. Chest is flatter, though I’ve heard it's very comfortable to lean against.”

You twitched violently. Somewhere behind you, a guard coughed judgmentally.

“My voice sits lower,” Shanks continued, undeterred. “Rumbles more when I whisper—”

He growled, just to prove it.

You stared straight ahead, radiating the kind of heat normally reserved for volcanic eruptions.

“That’s not—,” you managed. “That’s flirting.”

“Can’t it be both?”

“No.”

He hummed, pleased. “But you’re still listening.”

You stood so fast that the bench screeched in protest. He rose with you, leisurely. Unbothered. Like temptation on vacation.

“I could draw you a diagram,” he offered innocently. “Or show you in person. Purely educational.”

“You are a menace.”

He leaned in, just enough. Voice low, velvet-soft.

“And you are adorable when you’re curious.”

You nearly launched him off the nearest cliff with sheer indignation.

But your soulmark pulsed. Warm.Content. Betrayer.

And your mouth, traitorous, foolish, weak, was dangerously close to smiling.

“Oi, quiet down, it’s the captain—”

“He survived another day?”

The Den Den Mushi clicked to life mid-laugh.

“Put down your drinks, gentlemen. History was made.” Shanks drawled, smug enough to curdle milk, charm a snake, and bankrupt a monastery. “I’ve got a status report from the front lines of romance.” 

He then, shamelessly, launched into a dramatic play-by-play like a romantic war report.

On the other end, Yasopp wheezed. “She what? She asked you to describe your body like a battle map?”

“She did!” Shanks beamed. “Said it like she was ordering a strategic report. Full dignity. Absolute panic in her eyes.”

“Gods,” Lucky Roux muttered between bites, “and you answered?”

“I leaned in,” Shanks said proudly. “Gave her the full velvet voice. Told her my shoulders were broad from years of swordwork. The works.”

Benn’s voice cut in like static, low and done. “Did you say that out loud?”

“’ Course I did.”

“Why,” Benn groaned. “Why are you like this?”

“She twitched, Benn. I saw it. Full system shutdown. Red ears. Twitchy fingers. It was beautiful.”

“You’re gonna get us all killed,” Yasopp cackled. “Wait. Boss—wait—what’d she say?”

“Told me that’s not anatomy, that’s flirting.”

“And you said?”

Shanks grinned. The Den Den Mushi mimicked the expression with idiotic devotion.

“‘Can’t it be both?’”

The crew howled.

“I offered to draw her a diagram,” Shanks added helpfully. “Purely educational.”

“You’re not a man,” Benn muttered. “You’re a walking incident.”

“I’m an academic resource,” Shanks corrected. “She was curious. I was helping.”

“You were preening.”

“Semantics.”

A pause.

Then Benn again, dry and on the edge of despair. “…She didn’t hit you?”

“No,” Shanks said, absolutely thrilled. “She almost spoke to me willingly.”

Silence.

Then, pandemonium.

“She’s cracking!” Yasopp howled.

“She’s snapping!” 

Limejuice hooted.

“Into love,” Shanks sighed dreamily.

“Into homicide,” Benn snapped. “How long until Hancock throws you off a balcony?”

“Two days,” Shanks said. “One if I use finger gestures.”

Yasopp was crying. “Please. Please tell me you made finger gestures.”

“You didn’t—”

“I did! I labeled the chest ‘elevated terrain.’”

“YOU’RE GONNA DIE,” the whole crew screamed in unison.

The call ended with the unmistakable sound of Benn slamming his face into the table.

Boa Hancock was furious.

Not irritated. Not mildly put out.

Furious.

She stormed in tight, echoing circles across the palace floor, the click of her heels like warning bells before a siege. Her robes billowed behind her like war banners, her glare sharp enough to cut marble.

“He’s charming,” she seethed, like the word itself was a disease. “Like a bard with a sword and no impulse control.”

“Empress—” one guard dared, before being silenced with a single, withering glance.

“Dangerously charming,” she went on, ignoring the rising tension in the room. “Worse than any warlord. Worse than flattery. Worse than men who try! He doesn’t even try! He just smiles like he’s entitled to happiness!”

She spun on her heel like she meant to decapitate fate itself.

“And the worst part? He’s getting results.”

You stood nearby, hands folded, soulmark glowing like a smug torch under your sleeve.

“I haven’t encouraged him,” you muttered, a bit too defensively. “He just… exists like that. It’s his natural state. An ape without violence. It’s not flirting, it’s zoological observation. I can’t help it if the absurdity is… oddly compelling.”

Outside the door, Shanks whistled something chipper. Possibly a sea shanty. Possibly the soundtrack to your downfall.

“Yet!” Hancock whirled on you, hair fanning like a snake ready to strike. “You laughed yesterday.”

“I choked on my tea.”

“I saw teeth.”

“It was a wince.”

“It was a giggle,” She accused. “A feminine lapse of judgment. Next comes the touching.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

She pointed. “You let him sit under the arbor.”

“I didn’t let him. He follows me like a lost parrot with abs.”

“And yet it happened!”

A servant dropped a tray in the distance and sprinted for their life.

“Do you know how many good women I’ve seen fall because of pretty men with red hair and decent shoulders? Too many!”

You clenched your fists. “I am not ‘falling.’ I am holding up the emotional stability of this nation on my back.”

“Then why,” Hancock growled, stalking closer, “is your soulmark glowing like a lovesick firefly whenever he says your name?”

You looked down. Your hand was lit up like a festival lantern.

Outside, Shanks could be heard whistling again. Cheerfully. Possibly shirtless.

Your eye twitched.

Hancock snapped her fan open like a weapon. “He must leave.”

“I tried!” you hissed. “I tried to exile him! He just waved and unpacked! He doesn’t even have a pack!”

“He’s trespassing!”

“He called it a diplomatic nap.”

Hancock paced in agitated circles. “He’s smiling too much. That’s how it starts. First, it’s harmless humor. Then, favors. Then marriage. And by the time you realize he’s rearranged your entire life, you’re helping him pick curtains!”

You blinked. “Curtains?”

“Love is an ambush!” she declared, stabbing her fan into the floor. “And you’re walking directly into the trap.”

You glanced toward the window. Shanks was helping one of the guards rehang a wind chime. He gave you a lazy salute. The chime made a lovely sound.

Your heart fluttered.

You crushed it mercilessly.

“I will not fall for him,” you said, clutching what was left of your composure. “I am a proud, stable, intelligent woman.”

From somewhere just beyond the door, Shanks shouted cheerfully, “You said it, sweetheart!”

Boa Hancock didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

She just turned, ever so slowly, eyes glowing with the kind of rage usually reserved for divine smiting.

You felt your soul leave your body as amusement escaped you.

“…He has excellent hearing,” you whispered.

“You just laughed.”

“I gurgled.”

“You blushed at his joke about squirrels.”

“It was a biological malfunction.”

Hancock narrowed her eyes. “You’re defrosting.”

“…What?”

“Your mental defenses,” she said coldly. “You are rapidly defrosting. I give it four days before you start braiding his hair.”

You looked genuinely horrified. “That’s slander.”

“You’ll ask him to sing,” She continued mercilessly. “Then you’ll start singing back. And by the gods, if he builds you a bench, I will have no choice but to launch both of you into the sea.”

The soulmark on your hand pulsed again.

You slapped it.

Hard.

“Get it together,” You hissed at yourself.

Hancock crossed her arms, glowering. “You’re banned from arbor strolls. And poetry.”

“Fine.”

“And no more questions about anatomy.”

Your face turned bright red. “He exaggerated! I was curious for educational reasons!”

“Oh, he educated you, all right.” She hissed.

You groaned and covered your face. 

“I hate everything.”

Hancock sighed, sweeping toward the door. “Come. We’re training until you can recite every war crime in history without flinching.”

Outside, Shanks was whistling something suspiciously romantic.

You kicked the door shut behind you.

A sanctum of solemn texts, forbidden histories, and dust older than the concept of shame itself.

No laughter echoed here. No innuendo dared linger beneath the petrifying gaze of the ancient librarian. An immortal presence whose eyes had watched empires fall and whose sighs could flay ego from bone.

Somewhere behind you, in a distant alcove, Shanks was valiantly trying not to whistle.

You could feel him. Lurking. Orbiting. A cursed moon tethered to your dwindling patience by fate and mutual legal consequence.

But no flirting, no matter how persistent, could survive the death-glare of the librarian, a woman whose soul had fossilized into passive-aggressive silence sometime before the Void Century.

You were not avoiding the inevitable moment he’d make you smile again.

You were reorganizing. Respectfully. Heroically. As any noble scholar would.

The scrolls were misfiled. The chaos was offensive. The alphabet deserved better.

Which is how, entirely by accident, you found it.

A scroll. Stuffed behind Forbidden Marriage Lore: Volume VII – Emergency Binding and the Unwilling Heart.

Which, in hindsight, really should have come with hazard tape and a licensed chaperone.

You unrolled it, mildly intrigued (and absolutely not emotionally invested), fully expecting some dusty Celestial ramble about dowries or noble inbreeding rituals.

“Coital Harmony & Male Anatomy: A Primer for Warriors and Necessary Evil.”

…Pardon?

You read the first line.

“Though rarely encountered, the male form is functional, if external and often inconvenient.”

There were diagrams.

Hand-drawn diagrams. With arrows.

Labeled pressure zones.

A full-color cross-section titled: “The Battle Stance.”

There were instructions. Warnings. At least two footnotes referencing something called an “emotional dismount.”

You stared.

You recognized one of the positions as something a human might survive. The rest would require divine assistance, three spare joints, and a forgiving chiropractor.

The angles.

Labeled. Measured. Wildly optimistic.

You blinked.

Then blinked again. Still there. Still real. Still color-coded.

“…What is that?” you asked aloud, genuine confusion in your voice, as though the scroll might answer and explain itself.

You had questions. So many. Too many.

Then a voice. Low. Warm. Too pleased.

“Foreshadowing.”

You turned. Slowly. Like a woman facing fate, or maybe just a deeply stupid ghost.

There he was.

Shanks leaning too close, against a shelf like a smug demon cosplaying a scholar, one brow raised, eyes twinkling with absolutely criminal delight.

Your soulmark pulsed. In protest.

“Studying up on me?” he asked, the smirk audible.

You shrieked. The scroll launched skyward in panic.

He caught it, one-handed, like the world was a reflex test and he’d been training for this exact nightmare.

“I’ve heard of this one,” he said cheerfully, already unrolling it. “The infamous Karma Kuja scroll. Thought it was destroyed.”

“Why would you sneak up on me?!”

“To see what made you scream like that,” he grinned. “Worth it, by the way.”

“I am horrified!”

He beamed. “Same thing.”

You lunged for the scroll. He held it aloft, flipping it open like a cursed cocktail menu.

“Which part confused you?” he asked sweetly. “The angles? The Sacred Spear of Lineage?”

“I don’t want to know what that means!”

“But you do.”

You reached again. He lifted it higher.

You groaned, pointing in scandal. “Why is it outside the body?! That seems vulnerable!”

“It is,” he agreed. “That’s why men are emotionally unstable.”

Your finger shot to another section. “And this part…‘rising to meet the occasion’?”

He gave you a look that should require permits in six kingdoms. “That means exactly what you think it means.”

You shrieked. Again. Louder.

He offered the scroll back, far too pleased with himself. You accepted it with tongs.

“If you ever want a live demonstration, purely educational—”

You hurled the tongs at his face. He dodged. Laughing.

You slammed the scroll shut like you were sealing away an ancient evil, shoved it into the shelf, and slapped a fresh label over the entire section:

Man-Creature Delusions – DO NOT ENGAGE.

You tried to forget.

You really did.

You scrubbed your hands. Shoved the scroll back under Diplomatic Rice Offerings: A Study. Stormed into the garden with diagrams burned into your memory like divine punishment.

Unfortunately, ten feet is not enough distance to escape Shanks.

“I’m not thinking about it,” you muttered. “I’m not thinking about his shoulders. Or spears. Or—ugh—rising occasions.”

You walked directly into a pillar.

The guard didn’t blink.

That afternoon, you made another fatal mistake.

You turned to the guard, stoic, veteran, terrifyingly calm.

You cleared your throat. “Hypothetically… if someone asked about male anatomy…”

She blinked. “You mean the bits?”

You flinched. “Please don’t call them that.”

“They’re mostly external,” she said helpfully. “Hang like ceremonial bells. Or sad gourds.”

You stared. Unblinking.

“Occasionally they rise,” she continued. “That’s how you know the male’s ready to engage.”

You squeaked. “Engage… what?”

She gave you a look. Flat. Direct.

“Copulation.”

You shrieked.

Shanks leaned on the balcony, hand over his heart like he’d just witnessed a sunrise.

“Adorable,” he murmured.

That night, you lay in bed, glowing faintly, face buried in your pillow, chanting softly to yourself:

“He is a soul parasite. He is not a spear god. He is not a spear god.”

From across the room came a smug,  “You okay over there?”

You screamed into your pillow.

Breakfast arrived with you exhausted and Shanks glowing like he’d just had eight hours of sleep and a dream about victory.

You stared into your rice like it might offer divine wisdom.

Shanks sat across from you, looking disgustingly well-rested. Smiling like a man with no remorse.

“Morning,” he said, all warmth and no shame.

You didn’t answer.

He reached for a slice of melon. Bit in. Chewed thoughtfully. “Still thinking about the scroll?”

You choked on your rice.

“I’m always available to clarify,” he added helpfully. “Civic duty.”

“Eat your melon.”

He did. Slowly.

Then, far too innocently, “For example, did the scroll mention that during arousal, the sacred spear can actually—”

You slapped a hand over his mouth.

He blinked. Pleased.

The guards didn’t flinch. They’d evolved past caring.

“If I hear ‘sacred spear’ one more time,” you growled, “I will throw you into the koi pond.”

He licked your palm.

You shrieked, tripped over your chair, and hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and vengeance.

Shanks leaned forward, chin in hand, grinning like a devil on vacation.

“You’re adorable when you’re violently flustered.”

“You’re a soulbound menace with dimples!”

The guards sighed. Loudly. In sync.

A squirrel stole his melon.

And your soulmark? It glowed a little warmer.

The traitor.

Shanks convinced the guards, again, to let him walk beside you. Not behind. Not ten paces back. Right beside you.

He’d worn them down with a lethal mix of compliments, pirate charm, and somehow teaching one of them to whistle like a songbird.

You didn’t bother arguing. Not this time. You were too tired.

Too many sleepless nights spent thinking about sacred spears, gourd metaphors, and why that cursed scroll had so many labeled angles.

And now… Now you’d snapped.

Mid-walk, arms folded, face burning, you turned to him.

“You’re lying.”

He blinked. “About?”

You waved vaguely at his general person. “The… layout.”

Another blink. Then a slow, infuriatingly pleased smile.

“I assure you, darling, I’m alarmingly real.”

“You said things move and shift and rise like tidewater. That can’t be right. That’s not science. That’s theater.”

“It’s biology.”

“It’s performance art.”

He tilted his head, voice dipping. “Would you like to verify that?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.” He raised his sassy, sassy hand. Gentle, dangerous, and unmistakably smug. “If you’re that skeptical, I’ll let you check. With your own hands. Medically.”

You stared at him. “You want me to examine you.”

“For educational purposes,” he said solemnly.

He gave you the most outrageously innocent look in recorded history, like a temple acolyte caught with a flask of rum and the high priest’s daughter.

“Like a physician,” he added. “Or a sculptor with very important questions.”

You glanced around. One guard was chasing a feral chicken off the dining table. Another tripped over a bench.

 No one was looking.

You narrowed your eyes like a general preparing to inspect enemy territory.

“No tricks.”

“None,” he said, placing a hand over his heart with mock solemnity.

“No flirting.”

“I will be as stoic as a temple statue.”

You gave him one final look. The kind reserved for disasters about to unfold. Then sighed, long and weary, like a woman willingly stepping into battle for the sake of science.

You grabbed him by his empty sleeve, spun on your heel, and hauled him behind the nearest garden wall. The stone radiated sun-warmth. The shade, at least, was cool. Vines rustled. Birds chirped with suspicious enthusiasm.

It was private. It was quiet. It was cursed.

You turned to face him, jaw tight, dignity dangling by a thread. “Disrobe from the waist.”

He blinked. Actually stunned for once. “You are… aggressively curious.”

“Pants. Off.”

“Say please.”

You took one deliberate, threatening step forward.

“Right, right. No jokes. Educational purposes,” he muttered, already undoing his belt, far too smoothly. Like he’d rehearsed this moment in a mirror. Twice.

“You know,” he added, tone maddeningly light, “most people at least buy me a drink first.”

You didn’t flinch. You were a scholar. A researcher. A vessel of cold, clinical detachment. Mostly.

Until he dropped his trousers. You stared. You froze. Your soulmark gave a single, deeply unhelpful pulse of warmth.

“…It is external,” you whispered, horrified. “That’s real?”

Shanks looked absurdly pleased. “Told you.”

“It just… hangs there. Like a… a like a cursed sea cucumber.”

He laughed, quiet and delighted. “That’s a new one. I’ve heard sword, spear, divine scepter—”

You pointed, scandalized. “It moved.”

“It does that.”

You stepped back, as if it might lunge.

“You said it rises? Like tidewater? How is that structurally sound?”

“Well, there’s blood flow, and you know, internal works.”

You threw your hands up. “Why does it have texture? What biological function does that serve?”

“Grip?” he offered, far too helpfully.

You covered your face. “I’m going to die.”

“Do you want to touch it?”

“I already regret everything.”

“Just for science.”

You hesitated. Then, slowly, reached out with two fingers, like you were poking a jellyfish.

It twitched.

You shrieked.

Shanks doubled over laughing, hand on his knees. “You poked it like it owed you money!”

Mortified, you turned and stormed off, tripping on a vine, face blazing. Behind you, laughter echoed like a curse.

He called after you, smug and singsong, “You touched it! You can’t un-touch it!”

“I DID IT FOR SCIENCE!” you shouted over your shoulder.

“And I thank you for your service!”

You walked faster. Soulmark burning. Dignity in tatters. Somewhere in the distance, a squirrel fell out of a tree. Possibly in shock.

Behind the garden wall, Shanks pulled his trousers back on, still grinning like a lunatic. The soul tether hummed like a pulled string.

 “I think I’m in love,” he murmured.

“…She what?” Benn stared.

“Touched it,” Shanks repeated, grinning like a man who had personally invented chaos and filed the patent.

“Two fingers. Like she thought it might explode. Then she screamed.”

He radiated smugness like the sun. If the sun were deeply unhelpful and endlessly pleased with itself.

“Was this voluntary?”

“She requested anatomical clarity. I provided a... hands-on educational opportunity. A handy, if you will, for those of us lacking.”

“You’re gonna get stabbed by Hancock.”

Shanks raised a finger. “Not if she’s impressed by my commitment to science.”

Benn exhaled smoke like a man preparing to witness war crimes. “One day, you’re going to die stupid. And I won’t even blink.”

From nearby, Hongo muttered, “That was textbook malpractice.”

Lucky Roux yelled from the galley, “Did she faint?!”

“No,” Shanks said, practically glowing. “But she walked away suspiciously fast. Didn’t insult me. Accidentally activated the tether limit.”

He kicked a boot onto the table, soulmark faintly aglow beneath his collar.

“Gentlemen,” he announced, uninvited, “I am winning.”

Yasopp shouted down from the rigging, “Did she slap it?!”

“Nope,” Shanks called back. “She poked it. Like she was testing a hot bun.”

The deck erupted in cheers.

Someone passed grog. Someone else had already started a sea shanty-in-progress titled The Brave and the Blushing.

Hongo groaned. “You’re a menace to medicine.”

Benn stared into the middle distance, dragging a hand down his face. “Stop harassing the poor girl. She’s got enough on her plate without you parading your cursed anatomy like it’s a diplomatic credential.”

“You do realize this means she’s thinking about it,” Yasopp added, swirling his drink. “Constantly.”

Shanks’ grin faltered, shifting. Less pirate. More poet.

Smug melted into something quiet. Soft.

Benn looked up. The Den Den Mushi had gone still.

“I know,” Shanks said.

The crew erupted again.

You lay in bed, face half-buried in your pillow, eyes wide and haunted.

You’d done it.You’d touched it. Disobeyed Boa Hancock and all reason.

For science. For research. For medicinal clarity. Because you were a too-curious person on a woman-only island.

And you were never going to recover emotionally.

“It twitched,” you whispered into the void.

Your soulmark glowed gently under your palm, mocking you. Amused.

Your brain had been spiraling for hours, trapped in an endless, sleepless loop of trauma and unwanted fascination.

It was real. It was external. It moved. It had… texture.

You screamed silently into your pillow again.

Somewhere in the storm-wracked shipwreck of your chest, a thought tried to surface, traitorous, horrifying.

 “…It was kind of interesting.”

You kicked the blanket off like it was responsible. Rolled over like a thundercloud with regrets.

“I touched it like a fish,” you hissed. “A cursed, blushing fish.”

You vowed, then and there, hand over your soulmark and dignity leaking out your ears. That you would never speak of it again.

Until, of course, you remembered it five minutes later.

Which you did. Loudly. In the middle of lunch.

Thank the gods there were only a few days left.

Because if this kept up, Hancock was going to kill you. And honestly? Fair.

The sun sank low, bleeding warmth across the horizon. It bathed the cliffs of Amazon Lily in molten gold, gilding every vine and carved pillar in light. The sea lapped gently at the island’s edge, glittering like it was trying to mimic the sky.

Inside the palace, everything held its breath.

The kind of stillness that came before storms.

Shanks moved quietly through the corridors, his boots soft on stone worn smooth by generations of queens and warriors. He didn’t belong here, and he knew it. He felt it in the way the guards tracked his every step, in how the vines seemed to lean away from him, in the subtle thrum of the soulmark beneath his collarbone, pulsing like a ticking clock.

Two weeks. 

That had been the limit. The early stage of the curse. The distance clause. Ten feet or less, or they’d both collapse. If one of them died, the other followed.

It had been laughable at first.

A game.

He’d treated it like a tethered flirtation. Testing the limits with winks and terrible jokes, watching you flush, fluster, hurl scrolls and fruit like weapons.

But now…

And now, only two days left.

Now the bond felt less like a joke and more like a hinge. A door he hadn’t known he’d been waiting to walk through.

And on the other side, You.

The truth was simple, impossible, and already carved into him.

He couldn’t be happy without it.

Without you.

His steps slowed as he neared the garden wall. The wall with the vines where you’d poked him like cursed seafood and fled like a scandalized saint. He could still hear your shriek ringing off the stone. He could still see the sharp line of your back as you marched away, soulmark glowing like it was preparing to file a formal complaint.

He touched his own mark without thinking, fingers brushing the low warmth beneath his collar. It pulsed, soft, steady, unrelenting.

A quiet tether.

And he wasn’t sure he was selfless enough to let it go.

But the truth curled low and constant in his chest, a weight he carried like treasure smuggled too long. He wanted to steal you.

Not just your laughter or the way your eyes lit up when you were annoyed. Not just the sharp little scowls you threw like daggers or the way your soulmark flared when you were caught off guard.

No. 

He wanted all of you. Wanted to keep you. Wanted to kiss you until you forgot you hated him. Wanted to tangle your fingers in his and never explain it. Wanted to take you far from Amazon Lily, from rules and threats and thrones and scrolls and curses,and wanted to make you his.

And he knew how that sounded. He was a pirate. A war criminal. A flirt. But this? This wasn’t charming. It wasn’t teasing. It was greed. The kind you don’t recover from if you don’t take what you want and hold it close..

He tilted his head to the sea, jaw tight, breathing like it hurt because it did. Because the more he thought of letting you go, the more he thought of keeping you about doing something irreversible.

Of saying your name like a vow. Of slipping his hand beneath your soulmark and pulling you in, closer, tighter, and never letting the world take you back.

He was trying so hard to be good.

And then he heard your voice, and like a man caught in a siren’s pull, he was helpless to resist. He hadn’t meant to linger, hadn’t meant to listen. But he was a pirate. And pirates took.

Your voice drifted to him behind a curtain of vines, low, thoughtful.

“He’s… kind. Strange. Not what I imagined. Less like a beast and more like… a companion. Like Shakky’s man-creature, but less irritating.”

For a woman of Amazon Lily, it was practically a love confession.

He couldn’t wait to hand-deliver that insult to Rayleigh like a gift-wrapped curse.

Across the chamber, Hancock’s voice floated out, cool, measured, just this side of cutting.

“Remarkable progress. But tell me… did you tame him, or did he tame you?”

“I just mean—”

Boa cut in, sharp as a blade and twice as merciless.

“You imagined a monster. He’s worse.” A pause. A breath. “A man who knows how to say the right things. A true viper, waiting with poison and promises.”

Your laugh followed, not the brittle kind you used when he teased, but something gentler. Wary. Almost unwilling.

“Maybe he is taming me.”

“He’s time is almost up.” Boa snapped. “So get it together.”

He closed his eyes.

The soulmark beneath his collar flared, quiet but firm. Not pain. Not fate.

Just there.

Steady. Glowing.

He should have left. Should have turned away, should have honored the privacy you deserved.

But then Hancock’s voice followed,a little softer like she was soothing your feelings.

 “It’s best we remove him as soon as the tether ends. Quickly. Before that sickness settles. If you fall in love, it will be impossible to leave him.”

Love Sickness.

Usually it would only affect an Amazon Lily Empress, but who knew what soul mark would do to you.

His heart clenched.

And then your voice, softer than it had any right to be, like a secret you hadn’t meant to speak aloud. “Yes. I think it would end that way if given enough time.”

His heart jumped.

Boa didn’t argue. She only sighed.

Shanks’ hand found the stone column beside him, gripping hard. Anchoring himself. Trying, failing, not to move. Not to react. Not to feel like the world had just shifted underfoot.

Because now?

Now he knew you were wobbling on the edge of affection. You were as good as afflicted, and he had a moral duty.

And something inside him shifted.

“Don’t tell him,” Boa said sharply. “Or we’ll never be rid of him.”

That did it.

Not in some grand, swashbuckling, wine-smashed-against-a-wall kind of way. But in the quiet way. The irreversible kind. The kind that undoes men like him.

He pressed his palm to the mark beneath his collarbone.

And he walked.

One hand steady over the soulmark, feeling it burn. Not from the curse, but from the truth trying to claw its way free. Every step vibrated with the tether’s pulse. The ten-foot pull. The weight of what bound them.

He stepped onto the moonlit terrace.

His boots touched the sacred stone. And the mark snapped.

Not in pain. Not in punishment.

But like a ribbon loosening a bit

He staggered, caught himself. The glow beneath his collar dimmed to a slow, steady shimmer. Not gone. But waning.

Time was running out.

He stood still for a long moment, staring out at the sea. The wind pulled through his hair, cool against his skin. He breathed it in like a man preparing for battle.

A door opened.

He turned. Not quickly. Not startled.

Just hopeful.

You stood at the far edge of the terrace, breathless, uncertain of what he’d heard. Of what he knew now, and what he might do with it.

 Of course he’d followed. He always would.

Wind threaded through his hair, brushing strands across his brow as he watched the tide slip low on the horizon. The sea mirrored the sky in molten silver; the cliffs burned gold as the sun retreated.

You sat beneath the terrace eaves, half-curled in the roots of the garden’s oldest tree, back tense, hands resting on a scroll you hadn’t read in hours. From his vantage, he could see it clearly. How the breeze tugged at your hem but not your focus.

You weren’t reading. You were waiting.

He approached, footsteps soft over crushed stone, each one tugging tighter at the thread between you. The soul tether that had bound him long before either of you admitted it. As he passed, his fingers brushed lightly against the back of your skirt. Not to startle. Just to anchor himself.

You didn’t look up.

The orchids were in bloom, thickening the dusk with scent. Vines curled around the lantern tree like watchful arms, casting dappled light across your skin.

He saw your eyes flick toward his hair. Still bright, even in the fading day. You pretended not to notice. But you always noticed.

He stopped just short of you, standing at the edge of sacred light.

“Shouldn’t you be packing?” you asked, voice clipped. Half a joke. Half a dare. Like if he smiled, you’d survive it.

He didn’t smile. “There’s only one thing here I want to take.”

Your jaw tightened. The ache behind your eyes sharpened. You closed them and exhaled, like someone bracing for cold water.

“That’s not your choice.” You say quietly.

“Maybe not,” he said. “But I’ve made it anyway.”

You looked up.

He stood in the threshold between lantern light and shadow, coat loose at the shoulders, collar undone. No grin. No bravado. Just the brutal stillness of a man who had already made up his mind.

You rose slowly. “You said you weren’t here to start a war.”

“I lied.” It didn’t land like a threat. It landed like a truth, quiet, and crushing.

Your mouth fell open and he struggles not to bite you.

Before you could retreat, he stepped closer. “I heard what you said. To Hancock.”

Your spine went rigid. “You were listening?”

 “I was hoping,” he said, another step closer, “and now I’m done hoping.”

You stood frozen in that strange, suspended space between fight and surrender. He didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to.

“I came here to behave,” he murmured. “To follow the rules. Give you my best. But I’m not a hero. I’m a pirate. And pirates take what they want.”

He tilted his head, eyes locked on yours. “And I think we both know what I want.”

Now you saw it, the faint tension along his jaw, the crease at his brow that came only with danger. Or honesty. And he was both.

“If you never want to see me again,” he said, “say it. Say it now. Make it hurt. I’ll go.”

The silence stretched. Your pulse thundered. But no words came.

You didn’t want him to go.

A breath above cracked the stillness.

“Red-Hair.”

You looked up.

Boa Hancock stood on the high balcony, wrapped in imperial silk, her gaze cold as the night tide. Arms folded. Voice layered in thunder.

“You presume too much.”

Shanks didn’t flinch. “Maybe,” he said, eyes on you, making you blush. “But I’d rather beg your wrath than walk away empty-handed.”

“She is not foolish enough to belong to you.”

“No,” he said softly. “But I’m foolish enough to keep trying.”

You turned, heat rising to your cheeks. The scroll slipped from your lap, forgotten. Your soulmark pulsed beneath your skin.

The Empress’ gaze lingered on you. Then him.

“Be careful, Red-Hair,” she said coolly. “I won’t forgive such candor.”

With a final sweep of her hair, she turned and vanished into the palace above.

The moon hung low, a blade drawn clean across the sea. Its reflection trembled on the water like a warning left unsaid.

The palace held its breath.

Even the guards, exceptionally vigilant due to Boa’s new orders, had grown complacent. dulled by the stillness of two long weeks. They had mistaken peace for surrender, forgotten he was as wily as he was charming.

Shanks moved barefoot through the inner halls, his coat trailing like a whisper across stone. His shirt hung open, salt still clinging to his skin from a late swim meant to calm him. It hadn’t worked. The glow of his soulmark, your soulmark, flickered low and steady beneath his collarbone, like it was holding its breath.

He didn’t rush. Every step felt like a promise unraveling.

His fingers grazed the walls as he passed, as if to apologize to the island itself for what he was about to do. He’d sworn to respect their terms. To stay within bounds. To give you time. But time had become unbearable.

And you had given him so much hope.

He stepped into your room like a tide returning.

The air was warm, thick with the scent of jasmine and rain-polished stone. You lay curled on your side, lost to sleep, cheek against the curve of your hand. The soulmark beneath your palm beat in rhythm with his own. He watched it, watched you, for what felt like hours in the span of a minute.

You looked soft. And it broke him.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined it. Not how a love like this should begin, if it was actual love and if he hadn’t simply lost his mind to longing. But it was the only goodbye he could bear to give, one that was selfish, cruel, and entirely within his control.

Hancock had triples the guards after the terrace incident. He didn’t blame her.

But it didn’t matter.

His Haki rolled out gently, like a lullaby. Not sharp or punishing. Just… absolute. A blanket of silence settled over the palace like sleep.

No alarms. No footsteps. No one to stop him.

You didn’t stir when he knelt beside you, didn’t flinch when he touched your arm and gathered you against his chest. His embrace was careful. Reverent. As though you were something divine, he had no right to hold.

But he held you anyway.

A thief and a guardian both.

And then he moved you over his shoulder.

His pulse roared in his ears as he carried you through marble corridors strung with moonlight, past murals of queens and legends, past the inner sanctum where Hancock once vowed she’d never let him win. Past every line he’d be warned not to cross.

He crossed them all.

Outside, the tide welcomed him with foam-flecked arms. The dinghy waited where he’d hidden it, tucked against the rocks like a secret too dangerous to name. When his foot touched wet sand, the soulmark beneath his collarbone burned bright. On his shoulder, you stirred faintly. He patted your thigh. 

Your lips parted, your brow creased. “...Shanks.” You sighed dreamily.

He faltered.

The sound of your voice, still asleep, nearly undid him. He should have stopped. Should have laid you down, whispered a truth, and let you go. But he was already knee-deep in the one sin he could never regret. Wanting you.

He pressed his cheek against your temple, the night wrapping around both of you like a shroud.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispered. “But it’s not kidnapping if the universe agreed.”

Then he stepped into the boat, settled you across his lap, and pushed off into the tide. The oars moved silently through silver water. The soulmark tether glowed between your skin and his, a thin, radiant thread stretched taut between fate and rebellion.

You didn’t wake.

Not yet.

But you would.

And when you did, he would be there, waiting to face whatever came next.

Likely, your wrath.

[piastriprincess]

slow motion (i'm watching our love)  ⸻  lewis  hamilton  x  reader  .

featuring  lewis  hamilton  ,  past  relationship  ,  second  chance  romance  ?? word  count  2k author’s  note  my  first  lewis  fic  WE  CHEERED  !  requested  by  @lewismcqueen  -  lightning  ,  i  know  you  asked  for  a  drabble  but  sorry  !  this  one  got  away  from  me  .  i  can  only  hope  it  lives  up  to  your  gorgeous  work  .  your  writing  is  so  creative  and  daring  that  it  forever  inspires  me  to  explore  !!  i’m  so  so  honored  to  be  your  moot  <3  i  hope  you  enjoy  !!  please lmk what you think or just come chat to me i love hearing from yall !! title  is  from  supercut  by  lorde  (best  song  of  all  time  btw  .  that’s  how  much  i  love  lightning)

6:  a  crushed  velvet  sofa  and  a  video  camera  .

The apartment in Monaco feels emptier when the season slows down enough for Lewis to actually inhabit it. 

He’s been making himself busy in the months since the breakup, flying to Maranello every off weekend, relentlessly trying to fix whatever Ferrari has broken this week. Anything to keep himself in forward motion, to manage the hurt of missing you down to a dull ache. But somewhere between Montreal and Austria, the calendar thins and he gets stuck in the home the two of you had built together, stuck in reminders of the life you’d walked away from. He wanders through rooms you decorated that feel like they only know him in passing, touching surfaces that have gathered dust in his absence.

He finds it nearly by accident, digging through desk drawers he hasn’t had the chance to clean yet. The old Panasonic is half-buried under festival brochures and screenplay drafts heavily annotated in your loopy script. His fingers trace the familiar weight of it, the nicks and scrapes in the well-loved metal frame. How many times in your relationship had he rolled his eyes affectionately as you insisted on documenting everything — your filmmaker’s eye at work, always searching for a moment worth preserving? Shots of busy sidewalks, of sunlight filtering through paddock walls, of the overheard laughter of strangers. Just you and your camera, catching what everyone else’s mind forgot. 

He doesn’t really know why he plugs it in. Maybe he’s curious. Maybe he wants to see through your eyes for a minute. Maybe he just wants the chance to hear your voice again, the sound of your laugh. Whatever the reason, he finds himself digging around for a charger, watching the little camcorder hum to life before he plugs it into his laptop. 

There’s one file that pops up. Titled for L, like it’s a love story, or something. He presses play on instinct. 

The screen is black for a moment. Then all of a sudden, Lewis goes back in time. 

His hands on a steering wheel, golden sun slanting through the windows. Not a Ferrari, or a Mercedes, or even a McLaren — it’s your beat-up old Mini Cooper, the car you were driving when the two of you first started dating. He’d begged to buy you a new one for years, but you refused to get rid of it. 

The film is bright, dreamlike, overexposed, and he’s laughing already on screen when the clip starts. “You’re supposed to be navigating, love,” his voice says, trying to be stern and failing miserably. “Not making a documentary on my driving.”

“I can multitask,” your voice pipes up from behind the camera, and the mere sound of it makes Lewis’s breath catch in his throat. “I mean, it’s not every day you get behind-the-wheel footage of theeeeee Lewis Hamilton, two-time world champion.” Your voice is teasing as the camera pans up to his face, younger, more carefree. “Besides, your hands are so beautiful when you drive. Like, breathtaking. The way you hold the wheel…”

“You’re ridiculous,” past-Lewis says as he looks past the camera at you, smile soft and unguarded in a way it never is anymore. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, the love in his gaze so apparent that it feels like it could pour out of the screen.

Present-Lewis hits pause, chest tight. He remembers that drive — down the Cote d’Azur to that little town he can’t remember the name of anymore, when you were scouting locations for your first film. You’d just started dating, then, and everything felt perfect, all his memories bathed in that same golden hour light. 

He takes a deep breath and presses play again. 

The footage jumps through time, a mosaic of fragments of your life together. A late night in Singapore, both of you older, him grumbling into a pillow about a qualifying lap he barely remembers now. You zoom the camera in on him, giggling “You’re cute when you’re grumpy, Hamilton.” He rolls over and flips the camera off, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips, one that you put there. His hand reaches for the lens before it cuts to black.

Another clip, one he’s not sure you meant to film. The camera is laying on its side, trained on an overstuffed velvet couch. It’s his driver’s room, he thinks, from a few years ago. Then your voices, somewhere above the camera, unmistakable.

“I’m here. I’m trying, Lewis,” you say, breathless. “But it’s like nothing I ever do is enough for you.”

“But you’re not here, are you?” he snaps, voice low and sharp in a way that makes him wince to hear. “You’re still stuck behind your fucking camera. That’s what you’re thinking about. So don’t talk to me about being enough for me, when you can’t even be bothered to actually pay attention to what matters to me.”

There’s silence, for a moment. “I thought I mattered to you,” you say, voice small. 

He doesn’t respond. There’s the sound of a door creaking open, then slamming shut. A sniffle. And then the camera tilts dizzyingly and the film cuts to black again. 

When the screen lights up, it’s the two of you in the kitchen of your apartment, boxes still stacked in the corners. The camera is set up on the counter, so you’re in the frame for once.  Seeing you hurts in the best way. He’d forgotten how striking you were, how visceral your beauty always felt to him. You’re wearing one of his Mercedes hoodies, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, flattening out pizza dough on the counter. He’s behind you singing along to some 2000s R&B track he doesn’t remember the lyrics to now, a glass of wine in one hand and the other resting on your hip as he dances lazily with you. You hum along, rolling the dough a little too aggressively, and the camera falls sharply to the side. The two of you freeze, looking at each other, and then both burst into laughter so loud that the audio clips. He’s just wrapped you into his arms, nearly swinging you into the air as he peppers kisses against your skin, when the footage cuts again. 

In the next clip, you’re in a hotel room he doesn’t recognize. The camera is set up in the corner, the two of you lounging on a bed. Your bare legs are thrown over his lap, and there’s something playing softly on the TV that he can’t see. Your mouth is moving, but he can’t quite hear what you’re saying. Probably mouthing the words to your favorite quotes, the way you always did during your favorite movies. You knew practically every word of Casablanca, once upon a time. Lewis wonders if you still do. 

“Nerd,” he says fondly on screen, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He’s not even pretending to watch the movie.

You lean into his touch, eyes flicking between him and the TV. “You love it.”

“I love you,” he corrects, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. You sigh happily, hand wrapping around to the nape of his neck and pulling him back down to your lips again, movie forgotten. You’re about to pull him on top of you when the screen goes black again.

Then you’re back in the kitchen in the Monaco apartment, fully decorated this time. Past-Lewis is sitting exactly where present-Lewis sits, watching something on your laptop just like he is now. It’s trippy enough that it takes him a minute to focus on the conversation playing out on screen. You’d asked him to watch one of your films, he thinks. 

“What do you think about the ending?” you ask. There’s a note of nervousness in your voice that he didn’t notice then. Like even though he was hopeless with all the film stuff, couldn’t tell aspect ratio from frame rate, you really cared what he thought. 

His recorded self looks directly into the lens. “Honestly, love? I think it’s a cop-out.”

Your voice, sharp. Like a warning he didn’t quite catch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You always pull back when things get too perfect. Like you have to prove a point instead of letting yourself enjoy a happy ending.”

There’s a long pause. The frame trembles slightly, focusing on his face as he looks back at the screen. “Maybe,” you say, so quietly that Lewis has to rewind and turn up the volume on his laptop so he can hear. “Or maybe I just know happy endings don’t always last.”

The footage keeps going — Silverstone, Monaco, New York. It’s not a love story like he’d expected, not exactly. It’s something messier, out of order, more imperfect. Fights and kisses. Airports and cheering crowds. Double exposures, strange angles, that same dreamlike lighting. None of it plays like a highlight reel. It’s not curated to be beautiful. 

It just is. 

The final clip is of his car, sitting in your driveway. It’s raining lightly, the soft patter audible in the film, and Lewis has to squint for a moment before he sees himself in the driver’s seat. He’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white, head bowed with exhaustion. The footage goes on like that for several minutes before he gets out of the car, walking towards your door. He’s wearing the same outfit from that final day, when you walked out. When he let you. 

Lewis’s stomach drops as past-Lewis disappears from the frame. After a minute, there’s a hesitant knock on the door, but the camera stays trained on the empty car.

Then the screen goes black for the last time, and it’s like you left him alone in the apartment again. Nothing but deadly silence, and the ache of missing you. 

Maybe you’d been right. Maybe happy endings didn’t last. Maybe you were right not to trust them. But maybe that was never the point. Maybe the point is that a happy ending happened, at least for a brief and perfect instant. That between the frames of hurt and misunderstanding and falling apart, there were moments of beauty that you’d painstakingly captured, like you were saying this is real, this is worth saving, this matters. 

He’s picking up his phone and scrolling to your contact before he can think too hard about it. He may not remember the name of the town you drove to, or the lyrics to that song, or even what movie you were watching. But he remembers the way you laughed, how you felt in his arms, how you watched him like everything he did was something worth preserving. 

For the first time in a long time, Lewis really remembers how it felt to love you, to be loved by you. Even when it was messy. Even when it hurt. 

Found your camera, he types, fingers trembling over the letters. I remember everything. Everything that matters, at least. I guess what I mean to say is I remember you. I miss you, love. 

He sends it before he can second-guess himself, throwing the phone facedown on the counter like it might burn him if he holds it too long. You probably won’t respond. It’s been months now. You’ve moved on, surely, to your next film, your next subject. The thought makes his chest tighten. He shouldn’t have sent it. Maybe this was just your way of saying goodbye. It was stupid of him, reckless, selfish —

His phone buzzes against the granite, and when he flips it over, your name is glowing on the screen.

Like the first frame of something new. 

[initforthethrill]

okay so um i got carried away with this bot i was working on from a random thought that flit through my head of cate riding you while you're trying to play video games so here have this blurb and also an accompanying bot so you can fuck cate left right upside down and sideways as often as you please! i know i sure will <3

combo move aka distracting girlfriend!cate riding you into elder scrolls oblivion... tw: girlcock, g!p user, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, multiple creampies, dickriding, non-explicit oral, orgasm control/denial, daddy!user, brat!cate, submissive!user, dominant!cate, bottom!user, top!cate, very light degradation (barely classifies tbh) 4k+ words

It started with a tongue click.

Sharp. Deliberate. Echoing slightly off the cement walls of your dorm, like the warning shot of a girl who had been very patient and was now preparing to wage war.

You, predictably, didn’t flinch.

You were planted on the chair in front of your monitor, legs stretched long in that cocky sprawl you always did while zoning in. One arm hooked lazily over your knee. The other tightly wrapped around a controller. And your stupidly sexy jaw—clenched. Twitching. Focused.

Cate, meanwhile, was going insane.

She’d shown up half an hour ago. Kissed you hello. Kissed you again, just to be sure. And then got unceremoniously waved toward the bed with a mumbled, “Just gotta beat this boss first, baby, promise.”

That was twenty-seven minutes ago.

And now? Now Cate was straddling the edge of the mattress in a tiny little sweater that slid off one shoulder, a tennis skirt, and nothing underneath. Lip gloss applied. Hair curled. Bra tossed in your laundry hamper on purpose. And still—still—nothing.

You just sat there. Twitching. Grunting. Whisper-cursing under your breath.

Cate sighed dramatically. Loud enough to register. Still nothing.

Oh. Okay. That’s how it’s gonna be?

Fine.

She slid off the bed without a word, but this time she didn’t tiptoe. This time her steps were purposeful—clicky even, despite her socks. Like she wanted you to hear her coming. Wanted you to know a storm was building behind you. And when she reached the gaming chair you were currently sunk into?

She didn’t ask. She climbed.

One leg on either side of your thighs. A slow, dragging motion that made her skirt ride way too high and her intentions clear.

You froze. “Cate—”

“Nope,” she said sweetly, smiling down at you with all the warmth of a knife in a silk glove. “You said ten minutes. And then you said five. You lied to me.”

“Baby, it’s a boss fight, I can’t pause—"

Cate planted herself fully in your lap. Ground her hips down. Gave you the most sickeningly sweet smile she could muster. “Okay. Then multitask.”

Your controller hit the floor like it had burned you.

“Jesus Christ, Cate—”

“What?” she said, blinking, as if she were innocent. As if she wasn’t currently shifting on top of you with practiced intent, thighs squeezing your waist like a trap. “Am I in your way?”

You gripped her hips like you were bracing for an earthquake. “You’re gonna make me fucking lose it.”

“Not my fault you’re easy,” Cate chirped.

“I am not easy.”

Cate rolled her hips again—slow, taunting. “Really? 'Cause your dick says otherwise.”

You let out a strangled sound. One of your hands twitched. Cate grinned.

“Oh,” she purred. “There it is.”

“You’re evil.”

“You’re predictable.”

“You’re in trouble.”

Cate’s lashes fluttered. “Promise?”

You surged up like a wave. Mouth on hers, hands on her ass, game abandoned, pride in shambles.

And Cate? Cate just moaned into the kiss, smug as sin, victorious as hell.

That boss fight never stood a chance. Not when you kissed like you were trying to shut her up. Like if you pressed hard enough, deep enough, Cate might forget the petty little vengeance plot she’d just enacted.

Except—it only made her worse.

Cate moaned into it, smug and satisfied, hands tangling in your hair, tugging hard enough to earn a low groan from your chest. She felt it—every shift, every twitch. The way your whole body coiled beneath hers, the growing heat pressed between you, your fingers digging crescents into Cate’s thighs like you weren’t sure if you wanted to grip harder or fall apart entirely.

The headset still dangled from the desk, the controller long forgotten on the floor. And you—usually so cool, so cocky, so in control—were a wreck already. Mouth open, breathing ragged, like Cate had thrown off your entire equilibrium by simply existing on top of you.

Cate leaned back just enough to watch you. Flushed, panting, eyes glassy with want.

“You okay, daddy?” she teased, voice syrupy and deadly, her hips giving one more teasing grind.

Your head dropped back against the chair. “I hate you.”

Cate’s lips curled. “Liar.”

And then she leaned in again, this time slow and cruel, trailing kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. Her hands slipped beneath the hem of the beat-up t-shirt you always wore to game in—worn soft and a little too thin—her palms flattening over bare skin.

You hissed.

“God, you’re warm,” Cate whispered, more to herself than anything. Her voice was reverent now, almost dazed. “You get like this every time I touch you.”

You barely manage a response. Just one syllable, broken in half: “Cate—”

Cate smiled against your throat. “I know.”

She pulled back just far enough to hook her fingers into the waistband of your boxers. “Wanna take care of you,” she said simply. “Wanna make you forget that stupid game even exists.”

And then she sank down. Off her lap. To her knees.

You actually choked. Your hand shooting out like you were going to stop her, but Cate just batted it away with a smirk.

“Hands off. You’re in timeout,” she whispered, wicked and delighted. “Maybe next time you won’t ignore me for forty fucking minutes, yeah?”

Your response was mostly a gasp. And then a groan. And then a broken curse as Cate’s hands dragged your boxers down and her mouth followed, slow and lethal.

She didn’t rush. She never did.

She made you watch. Made you feel it. Made you fall apart one twitch, one shiver, one helpless please at a time until Cate had you trembling—practically begging—trying not to cry.

And when Cate finally came back up, crawling right back into your lap like a girl who had earned her crown?

You looked dazed. Stunned. Wrecked.

Cate tucked her fingers under your chin, guiding your gaze up. “Still think you can beat me?” she murmured.

You blinked once. Twice. Glanced briefly over to the screen like it might have an answer for you. “I haven’t even respawned yet.”

Cate laughed—gorgeous, triumphant. “You don’t get to.”

And then you were kissing her again, hands sliding beneath her sweater, pulling her closer like you’d die if you weren’t touching her. Like your only mission now was Cate Dunlap.

The game was over.

Cate had won.

But she was more than happy to let you try for a rematch.

You’d barely even caught your breath. Still slumped back in the chair, legs spread wide, eyes half-lidded like you’d been steamrolled by a freight train named Cate Dunlap. Mouth hung open just enough to show the ghost of a moan that hadn’t quite made it out. You looked flushed, trembling, totally undone.

It was gorgeous.

Cate, straddling your lap once more, wiped her mouth delicately with the back of her hand. Then she leaned in, teeth brushing your jaw like a threat wrapped in velvet.

“You good?” she whispered, smug and devastating.

You exhaled like you were barely alive. “You’re a menace.”

Cate giggled. “And you’re hard again.”

She felt it—pressed right against her through the flimsy cotton of her own panties. You twitched beneath her, trying to shift, to rock up into the friction you clearly desperately needed, but Cate just pressed down harder with her thighs, keeping you pinned.

“Oh, no,” she crooned. “You don’t get to just rut into me, baby. You’ve got to ask.”

You groaned, head tipping back.

Cate dragged her nails down your chest, slow and possessive. “Come on,” she whispered, voice low and sugary. “Use your words. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to stop fucking with me,” You grit out, hips jerking up on instinct.

Cate just laughed. “Then you shouldn’t have ignored me.”

And then—slowly, deliberately—she shifted. Pulled her underwear aside with one hand, slick and ready, and then sank down onto your cock with the kind of desperate ease that made both of you gasp.

You let out something between a curse and a sob.

Cate stilled, fully seated, her palms planted on your chest. Her head fell forward, blonde hair tumbling between you. “Jesus,” she breathed.

You looked wrecked. Fully ruined. “Cate—”

“Don’t. Move.” She ground down slowly, just once, and your whole body convulsed. “You get to sit there and take it. You wanted to act like your stupid game was more important than me? Fine. Then you don’t get to fuck me.”

Her voice dropped an octave. “I fuck you.”

And then she moved.

Slow at first. Torturous. A punishing drag, a perfect angle. Riding you in long, grinding rolls, thighs flexing, hair sticking to her collarbones with sweat. She was soaking, obscene, relentless. Your hands were planted helplessly on the chair arms, knuckles white, jaw clenched like you were fighting a losing war.

Which, of course, you were.

Cate leaned forward, bit your lip, moaned into your ear like a death sentence. “You’re not allowed to cum until I say.”

You whined. Actually whined.

“Oh my god,” Cate panted, speeding up now, chasing something deep and vicious. “You’re seriously gonna cum from me riding you in a chair, huh? Not even a bed, not even my mouth. Just this pathetic little gaming throne you love so much.”

You were gasping now. Whispering her name like a prayer. Your whole body trembling like you didn’t know what to do with the pleasure wrecking through you.

Cate was close. She could feel it building—tight, sharp, perfect. Her hands fisted in your shirt, eyes fluttering shut. “Now,” she breathed.

And you snapped.

Thrust up so hard the chair creaked, one arm locking around Cate’s waist like you couldn’t bear for her to leave, couldn’t even remember the rules. You came hard, violently, buried deep and shuddering beneath her, and Cate followed right after—gasping, shaking, whimpering into your shoulder as she fell apart.

The two of you didn’t move for a long time.

Just heaving breaths. Sweat. Shaking thighs and ruined pride.

Eventually, Cate peeled her forehead off your shoulder and looked at you—flushed, twitching, dazed.

The chair let out one last groan.

Cate grinned. “Think I broke your KD ratio and your pelvis.”

You huffed a laugh. “Think you broke my soul.”

Cate kissed you. “Good.”

Then she padded across the room like nothing had happened.

Just hopped off your lap, pressed a kiss to your cheek—so sweet it was sarcastic—and wandered barefoot to the corner where you kept her snack stash, humming some aimless little tune under her breath as she bent down to open the drawer.

You hadn’t moved.

Couldn’t, probably.

Still slouched in that poor, overworked chair, legs sprawled, head tilted back like you’d just survived a religious experience. Your shirt was bunched halfway up your chest. Boxers still down around your thighs, cock twitching helplessly against your stomach as you softened. Your soul was hanging somewhere above your head, trying to re-enter your body.

And Cate?

Cate was chewing a Twizzler.

“Jesus Christ,” You rasped, finally. Voice wrecked. “What the fuck just happened to me.”

Cate turned, all dewy cheeks and kiss-bruised lips, and smiled like she didn’t already know. “You lost,” she said simply.

You made a sound that could only be described as murderous longing. “I don’t even remember what game I was playing.”

“Exactly.” She twirled the candy between two fingers. “Your controller died…and so did your dignity.”

Your head thunked back against the chair. Utterly defeated.

Cate waltzed closer, absolutely infuriating in that tiny sweater and the fact that she wasn’t even winded. “You good, daddy?” she cooed innocently, leaning down just enough to kiss the tip of your nose.

You twitched. Cock and all.

Cate grinned. “What? You looked like you needed a title check.”

You groaned, covering your face with both hands. “You are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Cate plopped herself sideways in your lap again, ignoring the grunt of overstimulation you tried and failed to hide. “You love it.”

You didn’t argue.

Couldn’t.

Not when Cate was dragging a lazy finger along your chest, licking sugar off her bottom lip, and absolutely glowing from the satisfaction of bringing a whole-ass crime fighter to her knees using nothing but thighs, smugness, and the occasional perfectly-placed "daddy."

Cate leaned in, brushing her lips against your ear. “You know what the best part is?” she whispered.

You didn’t answer. Just tilted your head, curious but barely breathing.

Cate’s smile was all teeth. “I’m still not wearing panties.”

Your whole body tensed.

And Cate? Cate took another bite of her Twizzler and beamed like the little menace she was. “Better boot up that game again, babe,” she said sweetly, “’Cause next round? I’m playing support.”

The controller felt foreign in her hands.

Not because she didn’t know how to play—Cate was surprisingly decent at shooters, actually—but because her brain was still syrupy with orgasm glow and triumph, and her thighs were still wrapped around the twitching mess of a person who used to be you.

“Okay,” she said breezily, shifting her hips just enough to make you whimper beneath her. “So this is jump, this is aim, and this one makes you do the little roll thing, right?”

Your breath was ragged. “Cate—”

“Shhh, daddy,” she purred, rocking again. The slide of her still-wet cunt over your dick made you both shiver. “I’m just trying to help. Support, remember?”

Your hands clenched the sides of the chair like you were trying not to die.

Cate giggled—delighted, devious—and steered her character into what appeared to be live gunfire. “Oops. Did I do that?”

A soft buzz of failure lit up the screen. She died instantly.

You groaned. “You did that on purpose.”

“I’m new,” Cate said sweetly, bouncing once—just once—but it was enough to make you gasp like you’d been punched. “Be nice to me.”

“You’re not new,” You gritted out, face flushed, eyes darting between her and the monitor like you weren't sure where to look. “You’re evil, Dunlap.”

Cate hummed, wriggling a little on your lap, pretending to adjust her grip on the controller but very obviously not helping. “You love it.”

Another bounce.

Another involuntary twitch from your dick, still half-hard and hopeless beneath her.

She could feel you—sensitive, overspent, barely clinging to sanity. And every slight movement she made, every little wiggle or shift or stretch sent a lightning bolt of friction through the both of you.

“Cate,” you gasped, hands hovering like you wanted to grab her hips again but didn’t dare.

“Mm?”

“I can’t—” You choked. “I can’t focus like this.”

“Oh no,” she whispered, mock-sympathetic. “Is my soaking wet pussy on your very overstimulated dick distracting you from your precious little video game?”

Your eyes rolled back.

Cate leaned back, head tilted to the side, voice soft and merciless. “You let me rot for forty minutes while you hunted pixelated bad guys, baby. I’m just evening the score.”

You shuddered beneath her. Whole body rigid, muscles trembling, trying so hard not to rut up into her.

Cate nipped your lip before returning her attention to the game, “Touch me and you lose.”

You groaned, head thudding back against the chair.

And Cate?

Cate just smiled. Innocent. Vicious. Heavenly.

She guided her character back into the game, fingers dancing lazily over the controls. “Oops,” she said again, as her avatar immediately tripped a landmine and exploded.

She looked back at you, batting her lashes. “Maybe you should take over.”

You met her gaze—sweaty, dazed, feral.

And then growled, “Get your fucking hands off my controller.”

Cate squealed, delighted, as you grabbed her hips like a woman possessed.

Game time was over.

She didn’t move.

Not even when your hands closed around her hips like you were about to do something about it. Not even when your fingers dug in, sharp enough to bruise, desperate enough to say please, I can’t take much more.

Cate just smiled down at you. “No touching, remember?”

Your jaw clenched. “I remember.”

Cate turned around, leaning in until your noses brushed, lips barely ghosting across your cheek. “Then be good.”

She gave one slow, sinful roll of her hips. Just to prove who was still in charge.

You whimpered, hands dropping to the chair arms again—shaking with restraint, poor girl—and Cate cooed like she was proud of you. “That’s it. Good girl.”

That did something. Cate felt the twitch beneath her, felt your whole body jolt like your brain short-circuited.

“Oh,” Cate breathed. “You like that, huh?”

You refused to answer.

So Cate rocked again. A little faster this time. A little filthier. Just enough to press all the way down and let the slick sound of it echo in the still air of the room.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut.

And Cate just kept going.

Slow. Deliberate. Downright evil.

She wasn’t riding you for friction. She was riding you for control. For the pleasure of watching you—sharp-tongued, cocky, always two steps ahead—sit there absolutely wrecked, fists clenched, thighs trembling, face flushed with the kind of desperation Cate had designed.

“Fuck,” you gasped, biting your lip until it went white. “I—Cate—please—”

“Please what?” Cate teased, breath warm against your throat. “Please let you cum? Please let you touch me? Please let your stupid gamer chair survive this night?”

You only managed a strangled noise somewhere between a sob and a growl.

Cate giggled. “You’re twitching so much, baby. You gonna cum just like this? No help? Just me—wet and slow and mean on your lap?”

Your voice came out broken. “You’re so fucking—”

“Hot?” Cate offered, bouncing once, harder, dragging her nails down the back of your neck. “Cruel? Gorgeous?”

“All of it,” you gasped.

Cate moaned softly. “Say it.”

“You’re hot. You’re cruel. You’re—fuck, Cate, I’m gonna cum—”

“No,” she said firmly, sinking down onto your cock and freezing in place. “Not until I say so.”

You actually cried out this time, shivering beneath her like you’d been punched in the stomach by God.

Cate cupped your jaw. “One more round,” she whispered. “And then I’ll let you cum.”

You looked up at her like she was the devil in pink lip gloss. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Cate kissed her nose. “At least you’ll die happy.”

She could feel it in your thighs—how tight they were beneath her. How hard you were clenching, trying to keep from moving, from thrusting, from doing anything that would push Cate toward mercy she had no intention of offering yet.

“Look at you,” Cate purred, fingers trailing up the flushed column of your throat. “You wanna cum so bad.”

Your breath hitched. Your lashes fluttered. You were vibrating with need.

Cate rolled her hips again—slow, cruel, letting herself grind down with the kind of friction that made you both shudder. She was soaked. Still pulsing from her own orgasm earlier. And she could feel you inside her, still twitching, still far too sensitive, still leaking and desperate and helpless.

And Cate? Cate was euphoric.

She rocked again. “That one doesn’t count,” she whispered. “Wasn’t deep enough.”

You whimpered—actually whimpered—and Cate bit her lip to keep from grinning too hard.

She dragged her fingers down your stomach, over the soft dip of your navel, then back up beneath your shirt to trace lazy circles over your ribs.

“Poor baby,” she crooned. “Did you think I was just gonna let you cum after one round? After leaving me to suffer while you flirted with your kill count?”

“I wasn’t—fuck, Cate—please—”

“You were ignoring me.” Her voice sharpened, syrup turned to steel. “You knew how badly I wanted you. And you let me sit there soaking for you. All worked up. All patient. And you gave your game more attention than me.”

Your voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”

Cate’s smile returned—sweet and wicked. “I know you are.”

She lifted herself slightly, slow and trembling, then slammed back down.

You screamed.

Your whole body bucked, every muscle seizing up as you jerked against the chair—only barely resisting the urge to grab her, to thrust up, to take something back. But you didn’t. You’re being good. Obedient. Wrecked.

Cate moaned softly, closing her eyes, starting to move again in earnest now—still slow, but deeper, more purposeful. Each roll of her hips dragged over the thick, aching head of your cock, pulling sounds out of you that belonged in confessionals.

Cate grinned through it. “That’s it,” she whispered. “Just like that. Take it, daddy.”

You sobbed. Face blotchy, jaw slack, eyes wide and ruined. Your thighs trembled under Cate’s weight.

“I can’t,” you gasped.

“You can,” Cate whispered, curling her fingers into your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp. “Just a little bit more.”

And then she picked up the pace.

Harder. Sloppier. Cate was gasping now too, sweat sticking to her chest, hair clinging to her shoulders. The chair creaked under them like it was seconds from collapse. But Cate didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

She was so close. The angle was perfect. Your thighs were flexing helplessly beneath her, and she could feel every twitch, every involuntary pulse, and God—Cate didn’t even know if she was making sense anymore.

“Cum with me,” she whispered, breath stuttering. “Come on, baby. Now.”

And you did.

With a broken, strangled moan that cracked right through your chest, you came—hard, deeper than before, grabbing the arms of the chair like you might fly off it otherwise. Cate followed a heartbeat later, gasping your name like a prayer and collapsing forward, chest pressed to yours, shaking.

You sat like that for a long moment.

Breathing. Sweating. Ruined.

Cate could feel the mess between you. The warmth. The exhaustion.

She finally lifted her head, blinked down at your dazed, destroyed face.

“You okay?” she whispered, brushing sweaty bangs out of her eyes.

You let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Cate kissed her softly, smiling. Proud.

The room was quiet again.

The game was still paused—some explosion frozen mid-frame on the screen—but neither of them had the energy to care. Cate was curled into your chest now, your limbs tangled together, the gaming chair reclined as far as it would go without giving up and dying completely.

She could feel the rhythm of your breathing, the slow thud of your heart against her cheek. Still a little fast. Still recovering.

Cate smiled, tracing lazy patterns along the bare skin of your stomach, her nails featherlight. “You did so good,” she whispered.

You didn’t respond right away. Just wrapped an arm around her waist tighter, like you didn’t want to risk her floating away.

Cate pressed a kiss to your chest. Then another, just beneath your collarbone. “Took everything I gave you like such a good girl.”

That got her a soft noise—half whimper, half sigh.

Cate looked up. “Hey.” Her voice gentled. “You okay?”

You nodded, just barely. Your voice was gravel-soft. “I’m so in love with you, it’s disgusting.”

Cate giggled, shifting up to kiss your jaw. “Good. You better be.”

She nestled back down, lips still curved, fingers still exploring. “I like you like this,” she murmured. “All floaty and pink-cheeked and ruined. Letting me take care of you.”

You hummed low in your throat, eyes fluttering shut again.

Cate tilted her head. “You’re not falling asleep in this stupid chair.”

“M’tired,” you mumbled.

“So am I,” Cate whispered, dragging a fingertip over the dip of your hip. “But I still managed to destroy you, so...up we go.”

You groaned. “Carry me?”

Cate barked a laugh. “You’re twice my size.”

“You’re God,” you countered.

Cate kissed you again, this time slow and tender. “Fine. But you owe me snacks.”

Somehow, with minimal grace and a lot of laughter, you got yourselves upright and stumbled into bed—naked, messy, sore in all the best ways. Cate tugged the blanket over the both of you, curled herself into your side, and kissed the tip of your nose like a reward.

She could feel your smile against her temple.Cate whispered, “You really are the best toy I’ve ever owned.”

♡ | final boss

[imloyaltoscoups]

stop playing | jeon wonwoo

As the game's intense soundtrack filled the room, Wonwoo was fully immersed in the virtual world, his focus unwavering as he navigated through each challenge with precision. Meanwhile, you lounged nearby, feeling a mischievous urge to steal his attention away from the screen.

"Hey, love" you called out playfully, hoping to draw him away from the game for a moment.

But he was too engrossed, his concentration unbroken by your voice. Determined to grab his attention, you decided to up the ante. You slipped off your shorts and underwear, leaving yourself clad only in his oversized shirt. With a mischievous grin, you settled back, waiting for the perfect moment to make your move.

Finally, a brief pause in the game presented itself, and you seized the opportunity. With a swift motion, you reached over and began to undo his pants, your actions catching him completely off guard.

"Woah, what are you doing?" Wonwoo exclaimed, his eyes widening in surprise as he turned to face you, his hands hovering over the keyboard in confusion.

You met his startled gaze with a playful smirk, your fingers still working to remove his pants. "Just trying to get your attention, babe," you replied, your tone filled with mischief.

A mixture of shock and amusement crossed Wonwoo's features as he processed the situation, his lips twitching into a grin despite himself. "Well, you certainly got it," he chuckled, reaching out to gently tug you closer. "But maybe we can save this for after I finish this level?"

You pout slightly, feigning disappointment as you protest, "But Wonwoo, I want your attention now. I've been waiting patiently for you to notice me."

He chuckles softly at your playful protest, but his eyes still flicker back to the screen. "I know, babe, I'm sorry. This level is just really tricky."

Crossing your arms in mock indignation, you huff, "Fine, if you're going to keep playing, then I'll just... find something else to do."

As you start to turn away, Wonwoo's hand reaches out to gently grasp your arm, stopping you in your tracks. "Wait," he says, his tone suddenly serious yet tinged with a hint of mischief, "How about this? Why don't you... cockwarm me for a little while? It'll be like having your attention and letting me play at the same time."

You raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips. "Oh, so now you want me to multitask, huh?"

He grins sheepishly, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Well, when you put it like that..."

With a playful roll of your eyes, you give in, sliding closer to him and straddling his lap. As you settle down, you can feel the warmth of his body beneath you, and the mischievous glint in his eyes tells you that, despite his focus on the game, he's more than happy to have you close.

As Wonwoo's eyes remain fixed on the screen, his focus unyielding, you lean in closer, your lips brushing against his neck in a series of slow, teasing kisses. You feel a thrill of satisfaction as you hear his breath catch slightly, his body reacting to your touch even as he tries to maintain his concentration on the game.

You press your lips against his skin, sucking gently and leaving a mark in your wake, relishing in the small gasp that escapes his lips. But as you feel his cock growing beneath you, a surprised gasp escapes your own lips, and you can't help but voice your protest.

"Won, stop getting it big," you whine, your tone a mixture of surprise and playful annoyance.

Wonwoo chuckled softly, his laughter mixing with the ambient sounds of the game. "Sorry, it has a mind of its own," he teased, his voice laced with amusement.

Undeterred by his casual response, you continued to nibble and suck at his neck, feeling his cock twitching inside you in response to your touch. Sensing your own desire rising, you bit down on his shoulder to steady yourself, a low growl escaping from Wonwoo's lips as he felt the slight sting of your teeth.

As minutes tick by, your breath comes in heavy pants as you feel the wetness between your legs, a clear sign of your arousal building with each passing moment. Yet, Wonwoo's cock remains inside you, the throbbing sensation sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

"Do you want to move?" he teases, his voice low and husky with desire, his lips brushing against your ear.

You let out a soft whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders as you cling to him desperately. "Just hold on a little longer," you manage to gasp out, your own voice thick with need.

Wonwoo chuckles softly, the sound sending shivers down your spine as he tightens his grip on your hips. "If I kill the final boss," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin, "I'll fuck you so hard, you won't be able to walk straight for days."

His words ignite a fire within you, and you can't help but tighten your legs around his waist, craving the pressure and friction. He hisses in response to your actions, his own arousal evident as he presses closer to you, the sensation of his cock inside you driving you both to the brink of ecstasy.

"Please," you beg, your voice desperate and pleading, "I want you now."

Wonwoo's gaze flickers to you briefly, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "You need to learn to be patient," he chides gently, his attention still divided between you and the game.

You whimper softly in frustration, feeling your wetness continue to flow, the ache between your legs growing more intense with each passing moment. Despite your protests, Wonwoo's resolve remains unwavering, his attention firmly fixed on the screen.

As you wait patiently, resting your chin on Wonwoo's shoulder, your eyes flicker up to the clock above, marking the passage of time. Suddenly, you hear him shout in triumph, a victorious "Yes!" escaping his lips. You know that he's beaten the game.

Before you can fully register what's happening, Wonwoo's hands are on your waist, lifting your body and thrusting it down onto his cock. A startled moan escapes you at the sudden action, your body instinctively responding to his rough movements.

You've been waiting for this, craving his touch, and now that he's finally giving it to you, the sensation is almost overwhelming. But despite the roughness of his movements, you remain surprisingly composed, your desire driving you to meet his every thrust with eager anticipation.

"You really behaved the whole time," he murmurs, his voice low and husky as he moves your waist up and slams you harder onto his cock. "My baby needs a reward, right? For being such a good girl."

His words send a shiver of excitement coursing through you, and you nod eagerly, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. "Yes, please," you whimper, the ache between your legs growing more intense with each passing moment.

As he thrusts you roughly, your desire intensifies, and you find yourself craving the taste of his lips. With a sense of urgency, you seek out his mouth, and when your lips finally meet, it's like a spark ignites between you.

You clash your lips against his, a desperate hunger driving your movements. Sensing your eagerness, he responds eagerly, his own desire evident as he seeks to deepen the kiss even further.

With a soft gasp, you part your lips, inviting him in, and he doesn't hesitate to take advantage. His tongue slides into your mouth, dominating the kiss with a raw intensity that leaves you breathless.

In the midst of the heated exchange of kisses and thrusts, Wonwoo's voice breaks through the haze of pleasure, his praise sending a shiver of excitement down your spine.

"You're so good, baby," he murmurs between kisses, his breath hot against your skin. "Clinging to me like this, driving me wild."

His words only fuel your desire further, and you tighten your grip around him, reveling in the feeling of his body pressed against yours. Each thrust sends a wave of pleasure coursing through you, and you find yourself clinging to him even tighter, your nails digging into his skin in a silent plea for more.

As the intensity builds, Wonwoo's praises continue, each word driving you closer to the edge of ecstasy. "That's it, baby," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. "Just like that."

The intensity of pleasure builds between you, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge, you can feel the familiar sensation of climax looming on the horizon. Wonwoo's movements grow faster, more desperate, a silent acknowledgment that you're both teetering on the brink of release.

But just as he seems on the verge of letting go, he pauses, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he considers his next move. Sensing his hesitation, you lock eyes with him, a silent plea in your gaze.

"Release it inside me," you whisper urgently, your voice filled with need. "It's safe today."

Wonwoo's eyes widen slightly at your suggestion, surprise flickering across his features before a smirk spreads across his lips. Without a word, he resumes his movements, his thrusts growing even faster, more urgent.

As the pleasure builds to a crescendo, you feel him tensing beneath you, his release imminent. And then, with a guttural groan, he lets go, his hot seed spilling inside you as you clench around him, your own release crashing over you in waves.

As you catch your breath, resting your head against his neck, Wonwoo's hand gently caresses your head, his touch comforting and tender. "We should do this more often," he murmurs, his voice filled with a warmth that mirrors the love you feel radiating from him.

You nod in agreement, a contented smile gracing your lips. "Cockwarming while you're playing," you add with a playful chuckle, remembering the exhilarating thrill of the moment.

Wonwoo's eyes light up with amusement at your suggestion, a mischievous glint dancing in their depths. "Definitely," he agrees, his tone playful yet sincere. "It adds a whole new level to gaming."

But just as you're settling into the comfortable intimacy of the moment, Wonwoo suddenly remembers his earlier promise, the one that left you breathless with anticipation.

"You know," he says, his voice low and husky, "I did promise to fuck you until you can't walk straight for days, didn't I?" he says, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

Before you can respond, Wonwoo sweeps you up into his arms, carrying you effortlessly towards the bedroom. You gasp in astonishment, your heart pounding with excitement at the sudden turn of events.

"I wasn't kidding," he murmurs, his voice low and husky as he carries you across the threshold. "Consider this round one."

With a playful grin, you wrap your arms around his neck, eager to see where the night will take you.

As he lays you down on the bed with a tender touch, his lips meet yours in a series of soft, lingering kisses. Each touch is filled with promise, a silent reassurance that he intends to fulfill the pledge he made earlier.

....... ≿━━━━━༺MASTERLIST༻━━━━━≾ .......

[riveredmoon]

drunk running | s. geto

prologue: good time

synopsis: flashback: the night suguru let his feelings take over and yn repressed hers even further down.

warnings/genres: modern au, smau, smut - oral (f!receiving), fingering, alcohol use, cursing, kys joke, mdni

a/n: okay first smut piece and istg it almost killed me. but anywho, sugurito i would’ve said i love you back! #malewifesuguru

the two tequila shots are swimming in your bloodstream locked in battle with suguru’s mouth over what could make you feel more drunk. the taste of the beers he keeps tucked in his mini fridge is adding to the ever growing cocktail you’re swimming in. 

your senses are dragging, everything happening in slow motion. suguru’s cologne smells stale, like it’s been invading your nostrils for a couple days. the dim light from his desk lamp looks like it’s fighting to become brighter, losing the battle like a sun loses to an inevitable eclipse. 

you’re not sure if it is healthy for a kiss from suguru feel like days. 

the ceiling fan above the bed doesn’t help with how hot you are under him. even that seems to be moving slowly. your eyes are able to follow its rotation without getting dizzy. 

your shirt and jeans are already off, strewn over his desk, along with his forgotten textbooks. the corner of one sits right under you, something solid to bring you back down from the lightheadedness. something that doesn’t feel like days. 

suguru is in those grey sweats he wears when he’s feeling lazy and just wants to be in something comfortable. but nothing about his hand on your waist and his lips trailing down your jaw are lazy. 

the kisses feel more charged than usual. his hand softer than ever before. you almost shake your head to get rid of the tequila shots, suguru’s beer, the feeling that this is a little different than usual. 

you want it to be normal. fun and easy. getting what you came for and leaving with nothing more. but with the way he is kissing you, you ignore it.  

especially when you feel like you haven’t had him between your legs for weeks even though it’s barely been a couple days. you refuse to miss his body on yours, even if you lose a sense of what you stand for in the midst. 

“don’t you have to study, genius?” you huff out. suguru’s lips finding their way down your jaw to that sweet spot on your neck. your back arches, pressing you closer to his hovering body and you feel the ghost of a smirk on your neck. it’s slow growing. it's known.

“i told you where i study best, smartass,” he whispers, as his mouth starts to trail wet kisses from your neck to the valley on your chest. “also, i could multitask. unlike you,” his fingers are ghosting over hip bone and his lips continue their descent. 

your breath catches as one of his fingers hook into your thong, allowing some air to seep through where you’re so hot. so hot for anything of his to be. 

“fuck you,” you scoff, a laugh leaving your lips. your hands are in his hair, slightly pulling him closer to your chest. feeding into the heat of his body and the tequila shots still fighting for some dominance in their battle. 

you feel a smile creep on his lips, engraving themselves into your flushed chest. 

“yeah… yeah, right after this i’m all yours,” he says, his teeth grazing over the top of your bra. you shiver at the closeness of his teeth sinking into your chest. 

“and you didn't come here to watch me study,” one of his hands reached around your back, grabbing at the clasp of your bra. and instead of the hurried movements that usually happens, his fingers linger. softly grazing the spot in between your shoulder blades, before dipping down to rid you of your bra. 

you want to ask what that was, why his fingers feel more like a confession than a come-on.

and before you voice anything, your mind is fighting for an answer that you’re sure you don’t want to know. your bra is completely off and he is sucking a nipple into his mouth. warm tongue rolling over and you almost melt into the bed. 

he groans, as your hand tightens its pull in his hair and you want to push yourself closer. 

“suguru,” you gasp, low and hungry. his hand on your hip is moving so slowly towards where you need him most. you buck your hips wanting him to be closer, needing him to be a part of you. just for the night. just right now. 

“why are you taking so,” you sigh, his long trained fingers finally hooking your thong completely off, “…long?”

his lips are trailing down your stomach, his long hair tickling you as he crawls down. the bed dipping with his weight. your hands leaving his hair to grip through your own. you send him an eye roll. 

“i am studying,” he whispers, his breathing fanning over your wet cunt. you shudder at the feeling. 

“she’s so pretty,” he purrs. he is so close, you almost inch your hips up yourself to meet his lips. too aroused to care about how desperate it may seem. 

you could buck your hips in desperation. and suguru could continue to softly trace his finger along your hip and down your trembling thigh. and you’ll ignore his softness. as you have been doing lately. 

maybe you had more than two shots at the bar. and maybe he had more than one beer, the haziness growing in the air above you both.  

you throw your head back on to the flat pillow, the fan mocking you with its weak air exhaust. suguru’s head is perfectly lined up with your wet entrance. his broad shoulders pressed into the bottoms of thighs, grounding you a little more than this textbook under you. 

a fluttery kiss on the inside of your thigh. one hand holding on to your hip, like he's grounding himself to you. and the other one has his fingers pressing so tightly into your thigh, you’re sure his fingers would be bruised onto you for much longer than you’ll like.

your chest heaves, you just need him to meet you. right at your core. his mouth wet and hungry and your core open and allowing him to live there, willingly. no judgment. 

a kiss that turns to a long stripe of his tongue, leaving little room for you to gasp, even though you were waiting, even though you knew he was close. 

he licks into you, his own fingers tightening even more around your thigh. achingly. like he wants to keep you glued to this bed. right under him. you feel a little seasick and you have to swallow it down because he licks right on your clit, making a moan leave your dry mouth. no time to think about the bruise of suguru on your body. 

his tongue continues to work you open, slow and deep, like he’s learning you by heart, like he’s memorizing every sound you make. like he’s going to eat you, literally. the sounds escaping your parched lips mixing in with his heavy breathing and groans; like he’s getting more out of this than you are. like he’s finally appealing a craving he’s had for a month. 

his mouth is messy and the sounds of your slick and his tongue lapping are so loud. louder than the papers from his textbook flapping on the desk a foot away. louder than his neighbor’s tv playing some reality tv show a few doors down. 

his jaw is moving so slowly, but his tongue is doing its own dance. moving a pace that you’re sure is not out of drunkenness but his own furious hunger. and you feel that burning hot sensation right in the pit of your stomach. 

his tongue works along your slit, as if it was made for you. he hungrily pushes it inside of you and you slightly clamp your thighs, hiding his head between your legs. making him breathe you in. 

his hand that was lazily on your hip is now lower, reaching for himself in his grey sweats. the sight of his bulge making you even more excited than you are right now.

“suguru,” you gasp, your hands moving from being threaded in your own hair to his. his soft hair curling easily along your fingers as you grasp. “hurry up,” you wiggle your hips. 

he chuckles, his tongue not leaving your clit and the sensation speeding through you. you involuntarily yelp. 

“you’re a horrible study partner,” he hums, his mouth quickly moving to the side of your thigh. the lamp dimmed on the desk lightens up your slick on his hard jaw. you want to grab him and kiss it clean. 

“you’re going to fail if you don’t do something more,” you huff, wiggling your hips some more. impatiently. 

his face is still buried in between your legs, his plump lips ghosting wet, soft kisses and you want to move your thigh out his way. but his fingers are attached to you, no space or strength could get you out his grasp right now. it makes you feel small. weak, almost. 

the hand that was finding its way into his own sweats is crawling up to you. one of his long fingers sliding easily into your wet core and you arch your back. your chin on your chest as you stare down at him. 

he is drunkenly clinging onto your thigh, his tongue now trailing where his lips left those wet kisses. his eyes closed, cheeks flushed, breathing hard, a furrow in his eyebrow. 

it’s almost too much. you need him to not be so flustered with his fingers in you. they’ve been there before. they know their way around. 

he opens his eyes when you let out a moan, not out of want, but warning. a plea for him to stop being different. 

his eyes are taking you in, watching your chest fall, watching the distance that you want, trying to wedge itself between you two. 

you moan out his name, like a silent prayer only you two could hear. it’s almost embarrassing how you call out to him and he leans in. 

“don’t look at me like that,” you gasp, he adds another finger and he smirks. your hole clenches around him and you almost try to wiggle away.

“like what?” he shrugs, his usual indifference sparked with something more. like he’s nervous to let it slip like the way his fingers are so easily slipping in and out of you. 

“like you’re going to say…” another kiss on your thigh, his eyes not on yours anymore. “… something stupid,” a shudder runs through you, his thumb has found your clit. 

two fingers curled into you. a thumb rubbing small circles on your bunches of nerves. wet sloppy kisses trailing along your thigh. 

it’s almost too sexual. even for you. but your body reacts happily to it while your brain rages a silent war. 

you shouldn’t have gone out drinking tonight. maybe you’ll have your usual control over the intimacy that is engulfing you two. 

“okay,” his finger glides out of you and you feel like you could breathe again. but, he lines his face there once again. his cool breath sends chills down your legs. a pressure building in your stomach and chest. 

you notice his eyebrows furrow; like something is on the tip of his tongue, that isn’t you, and it wants to escape. escape into your heat and stay warmed there. 

“i,” he leans down, another stripe of his tongue and you fall back. your hands still in his hair. still gripping. he shudders at the grip you have and he almost leans into your palm. like he wants your hands on him regardless if they’re pulling at his hair or not. 

“…love you,” and with that, everything chills and your hands quickly escape out of his hair. the pressure in your stomach is gone but the one in your chest intensifies.

and his tone is normal, like he is wishing you a goodnight. 

a croak, a gasp and laugh getting mixed together gets stuck in your throat is the only sound heard. 

what the fuck?

you try to pull back, to breathe. but his fingers press in, holding you like the words you can't say. you’re frozen under his body, under his stare and you hate it this time around. those two things usually bring a good time. 

his breathing fanning over your aching core. it's so warm, contrast to the coldness wrapping around your legs on top of his warm shoulders.  but you don’t want him there right now, despite how you’re leaking for him. 

you feel so weird. you can’t explain it and you almost want to look around the room for any hidden cameras. to make sure you're not getting pranked. 

the room is so quiet, you don't think you could hear yourself breathe. 

“how many beers did you have?” you whisper and you hate how soft your voice is right now. this is a joke, and he is going to tell you that in a minute. you know it. 

“why does it matter?” his voice is as soft, a twinge of something you thought you'd never grace suguru’s prowling voice. regret. but you catch on to the slurring at the end, something your drunk mind missed. he has to be drunk too. or maybe the only one drunk right now. 

you humorlessly laugh, your eyes trained on the ceiling fan. you feel the bed shift below you but you don’t want to look. you don’t want to see your slick on his mouth and the burning emotion in his eyes.  “don’t do that,” you roll your eyes. you ignore his question and the way he's staring at you. the bottom half of his face is still hidden between your legs. just his hooded eyes watching you. a softness in them that's making you feel sticky, along with the slick sweat starting to drip down your back. 

“do what? say that i love you?” he rests his cheek on the inside of your thigh, laying his head for your body to take. like he's never wanted anything more than to die between your legs and wake up next to you. 

“make this mean more than we agreed too,” you ignore it the second time. not wanting to give it attention, because it will become more real. and you’re barely recovering from the first time he said it. your voice is raw, tired. you're almost begging him. 

you feel like you're wearing an itchy wool sweater and you need to get out of it. 

“why not, yn?” he sighs dreamily, like he has this all figured out. something glimmers underneath the casual look in his eyes. like a flicker of hope. and you feel like a super villain knowing you’ll crush that hope. most likely tonight. 

“because,” you shrug. you need to leave. the same conversation, but this one is going to hurt. the first time it would ever. and you feel like crawling under his bed and sleeping off your drunkness. even though, you’re sure this sobered you up. you could probably drive home if you had a car. 

“i know you love me, duh,” you try to bring that playful tone back in your voice. you don’t think it’s working. “we’re friends. friends love each other,” you hear him breathe through his nose. 

“they don’t fuck like we do,” he says. a little more slurring. just how many beers did he have? but his eyes are still hopeful. 

“that’s where you're wrong,” you throw your hands into your hair, wanting it to shield you. “We are proof that they do,” you don't sound too convincing. 

you’re trying to ease up on him. you’re trying to get in control again. control of everything. it’s just the beer talking. you two are going laugh it off tomorrow and fuck like normally. you’ll run out as he tries to play with your hair to fall asleep. like normal nights. 

creating space. the space you’re desperately trying to create now. but his hands are caging you to his bed. caging you to him. 

“i don’t expect you to say it back,” his voice is soft and low and you want to look at him so badly, but the fan seems like it deserves to be watched the way suguru is watching you. “but i am sure you feel it too,” he places a chaste kiss on your thigh. he almost looks like he is about to fall asleep, right here in the comfort of your legs and the intensity building in your bones that you're sure is going to keep you up tonight. 

he’s ignoring your discomfort. his voice steady, despite the slurring of the last word of each sentence. no tremble in the fingers etched to your thigh. but you catch the way his breath trickles on your heat, a little stutter, not a simple in and out breathing cycle. almost like he’s counting his breaths. 

you shake your head, and it feels so heavy. like a gallon of water has been put into your brain and it's swirling around. “well i'm glad you didnt expect that,” he tenses. “..because i wasn’t planning on saying it at all,” you cringe at the tone of your voice. hard. regretful in a way. that pressure must be what impending doom feels like because you think suguru’s dorm room is about to cave in on you, and you alone. “you know i can't feel the same way.” 

“i cant give you whatever you think you may want,” your voice is low and aching.

the words feel weird leaving your lips this time around. and you swallow a knot. did it feel weird because you don’t believe it? or because suguru is staring at you so intently, that you feel like he’s trying to paste you to his bed. 

but then he moves. quick and graceful. you ignore the way you miss his absence as he sits up. still between your legs but his breath is missing from your core. his fingers on your thighs aren’t as tight anymore. a ghost of how tight they were just a few seconds ago. just before he said things he can’t take back. 

“or do you just not want to?”

the room is quiet with nothing but your heavy breathing. it’s so quiet, you think you could hear suguru’s blinks as he stares down at you. and because you’re part coward and a strong contender in knowing who you are, you don’t meet his eyes. especially when his question is scratching up your back. 

you don’t want to look a him. you don't know how to answer his question. 

“this situation,” you close your eyes. your hands pointing between your naked body and suguru’s tense one still above you. “…was supposed to be easy. i'm sorry if you felt that it was becoming something more,” you hate how small your voice sounds. it’s usually strong during this conversation. overpowering at times. 

once again you’re met with silence. and now, the uncomfortableness of suguru’s confession is mixing with an annoyance. one, that despite suguru knowing the implications, you feel guilty about. 

and with the tequila creeping up your throat, you finally open your eyes and stare back. he’s sitting back on his heels. his chest bare and pale in the dimmed room. if you train your eyes hard enough you could see his heart beat.

and then his eyes; they're heavy and searching. like your naked body has the answer he was hoping to hear. the words he knows won’t leave your mouth.

however, his facial expression is its usual cool one, it’s just missing the easy grin that lives on his lips. instead it’s a straight line. little dips at the corner, like he’s fighting a pout. 

he shrugs. an easy action, but you pick up on the shiver he’s hiding. especially with eyes filled with an emotion you don’t even know and the impending end of this situation crawling between you. you eye his books on the desk, not having the guts to look back up at your friend… suguru geto. 

“i should go,” you huff out. taking your eyes off his things, looking for your own belongings. 

once again no verbal answer. but a huff of breath that wheezes out his nose. like an old man pulling his body weight to sit up. and somehow, that says more than anything either of you could say right now. he crawls back a bit, giving you more space. 

“good luck on your exam. we could talk tomorrow?” you say over your shoulder as you tuck out of his bed. his body not moving. your limbs slightly brushing his and you wonder if he feels that weird static too. 

not bothering to hear his answer but also knowing, you weren’t going to get one. you don’t even bother putting your clothes in his line of sight. running off to the hallway, to get out of the room caving in. 

you didn’t even get to cum and it scares you that that is the last thing on your one track mind right now. 

taglist: @re-tired-succubus, @luvvcho, @iluvujt, @smolcooki33, @candy-s72, @starmapz, @shokosbunny, @emlient, @loveyislost, @whatismatildethinkingabout, @shibataimu, @11thlife02, @se-phi-roth,

[astroeleanor]

°💸⋆.ೃ🍾࿔*:･Your 2H Sign = How To Make More $$$ 💳⋆.ೃ💰࿔*:･

Your 2nd house is the part of your chart can show you the best side hustle ideas to increase your income. Look at the sign on your 2nd House cusp, its ruling planet, and any planets sitting there. They symbolize out how you monetize.

The 2nd House is the House of Possessions: movable assets, cash flow, food, tools, anything you can trade. The sign on the cusp sets up your style of 'acquisition' (Taurus = slow‑build goods, Scorpio = high‑risk high‑reward holdings), while the ruler’s dignity and aspects describe reliability, or lack thereof, of income.

Planets inside the 2nd act like tenants shaping the property: Jupiter here inflates resources, Saturn conserves but can pinch, Mars spends to make, Venus monetizes aesthetics.

Because the 2nd is in aversion to the Ascendant (no Ptolemaic aspect), you often have to develop its promises actively: wealth isn’t “you,” it’s something you must manage. So, let's look at the kind of side hustles you can do to increase your revenue!

♈︎ Aries 2H: Physical, Fast, ACTION-Driven

(Aries rules motion, competition, fire, physical activity, force)

Personal trainer or group fitness instructor.

Manual labor gigs like junk removal, or yard work (physical and gives instant results.)

Motorcycle/scooter delivery (Uber Eats, DoorDash): speed + autonomy? Very Aries.

Selling refurbished sports equipment.

Pressure washing services, which is oddly satisfying AND includes aggressive water blasting lol.

Fitness bootcamps in local parks (Mars rules the battlefield… or, in this case, bootcamps)

Pop-up self-defense workshops

Bike repair and resale (hands-on + quick turnaround)

Car detailing (mobile service). You vs. grime. Who wins? You.

Sell custom gym gear or accessories.

♉︎ Taurus 2H: Sensory, Grounded, Product-Based

(Taurus rules the senses and the material world, it’s a sign connected to beauty and pleasure)

Bake-and-sell operation (bread, cookies) at markets. Taurus=YES to carbs and cozy smells.

Meal prep or personal chef (nourishing others = peak Taurus.)

Sell plants or houseplant propagation, you’re growing literal value.

Create and sell body care products: lotions, scrubs, soaps… (Venus-ruled.)

Furniture refinishing for resale.

Offer at-home spa services (facials, scrubs.)

Curate and sell gift boxes (Venus loves a well-wrapped present.)

Do minor home repair or furniture assembly.

Build and sell wooden plant stands or decor (wood + plants + aesthetic = Taurus.)

♊︎ Gemini 2H: Communicative, Clever, Multi-Tasking

(Gemini = ruled by Mercury = ideas, speech, tech, variety, teaching)

Freelance writing or blogging.

Transcription or captioning services.

Resume writing/job application support.

Social media management (multitasking + memes.)

Sell printable planners or flashcards (info = money.)

Offer typing or data-entry services, which are low lift & high focus

Sell templates for resumes, bios, or cover letters, Mercury loves a system!

Write email campaigns for small businesses, you can become the voice behind the curtain.

Teach intro to AI tools or chatbots (modern Mercurial real-world applications.)

Create micro-courses on writing or communication.

♋︎ Cancer 2H: Caring, Cozy, DOMESTIC

(Cancer rules the home, food, feelings. It’s the nurturer through and through)

Home organization services, give cluttered homes and their owners love.

Baking and delivering comfort desserts (cookies = hugs in edible form!!)

Make and sell homemade frozen meals, nourishing the body AND soul.

Offer elder companionship visits (heartfelt and so needed.)

Run a daycare or babysitting service. Moon=family.

Run a laundry drop-off/pickup service.

Custom holiday decorating (homes or offices), make it feel like home anywhere.

Help seniors with digital tools (basic tech help.)

Create sentimental gifts like memory jars or scrapbooks.

♌︎ Leo 2H: Expressive, Bold, Entertaining

(Leo rules performance, leadership, fame, visibility, and the desire to SHINE)

Portrait photography (kids, pets, solo, couples.)

Event hosting or party entertainment.

DJ for small events or weddings.

Basic video editing for others (help THEM shine!)

Personalized video messages. charisma = income.

Teach short performance workshops (confidence, improv) to help others own a stage.

Become a personal shopper.

Sell selfie lighting kits or content creator bundles.

Host creative kids camps (theater, dance, art.)

Make reels/TikToks for local businesses (attention = currency.)

♍︎ Virgo 2H: Detailed, Service-Oriented, Practical

(Virgo rules systems, refinement, discernment, organisation, usefulness)

Proofreading or editing work. Spotting a comma out of place or “their/they’re” being misused = Virgo joy.

House cleaning or deep-cleaning services.

Virtual assistant (email, scheduling, admin.)

Sell Notion or Excel templates. Virgo: spreadsheets.

Bookkeeping for small businesses.

Create custom cleaning schedules or checklists.

Offer “organize your digital life” sessions.

Specialize in email inbox cleanups.

♎︎︎ Libra 2H: Tasteful, Charming, Design-Savvy

(Libra = Venus-ruled = style, beauty, balance, aesthetics)

Styling outfits from clients’ own wardrobes.

Become a personal shopper.

Bridal/event makeup services (enhancing natural beauty = Libra.)

Teach etiquette, the power of grace

Curate secondhand outfit bundles.

Custom invitations or event printables that are pretty AND functional.

Offer virtual interior styling consultations.

Sell color palette guides for branding or outfits.

Create custom date night itineraries (romance, planned and packaged=Libra!!)

Style flat-lay photos for products or menus.

Do hair, make-up, nails, etc.

♏︎ Scorpio 2H: Deep, Transformative, Private

(Scorpio rules what’s hidden, intense, and powerful, alchemy, psychology)

Tarot or astrology readings.

Energy healing or bodywork.

Private coaching for money/debt management.

Online investigation or background research (Scorpio = uncovering hidden information)

Teach classes on boundaries, consent, empowerment, etc.

Sell private journal templates for deep self-reflection.

Moderate anonymous support groups or forums.

Specialize in deep-cleaning emotionally loaded spaces (yes, THAT kind of clearing.)

♐︎ Sagittarius 2H: Expansive, Global, Philosophical

(Sag rules teaching, travel, and BIG ideas)

Teach English (or any other language) or become a tutor online

Sell travel guides or digital itineraries, help others travel smarter=Sag

Rent out camping gear or bikes (freedom for rent lol.)

Ghostwrite opinion pieces or thought blogs, say what others are thinking!

Create walking tours for travelers or locals.

Sell travel photography.

Become a travel influencer on the side.

Translate travel documents or resumes.

♑︎ Capricorn 2H: Strategic, Structured, Business-Minded

(Cap rules time, career, limitations, long-term value)

Resume or career coaching, help others climb the “mountain of success”.

Freelance project management.

Property management or Airbnb co-host (passive-ish income.)

Sell templates for business (contracts, invoices).

Create accountability coaching packages.

Sell organizational templates.

Freelance as an operations assistant (the CEO behind the CEO.)

Build a resource hub for freelancers or solopreneurs (structure = empowerment.)

♒︎ Aquarius 2H: Innovative, Digital, Niche

(Aquarius rules tech, rebellion, and the future. But it’s also connected to community!)

Tech repair or setup.

Build websites for local businesses, or anyone else for that matter.

Sell digital products (ebooks, templates).

Run online communities or Discords.

Host workshops on digital privacy or tools. Collective knowledge (Aqua)= power

Build and sell Canva templates for online creators.

Curate niche info packs or digital libraries.

Help people automate parts of their life or business.

♓︎ Pisces 2H: Dreamy, Healing, Imaginative

(Pisces rules the sea, the arts, spirituality, dreams, and all things soft)

Pet sitting or house sitting, caring for beings + quiet time? It’s perfect for this energy.

Sell dreamy artwork or collages.

Offer meditation classes or hypnosis.

Teach art to kids or adults.

Custom poetry or lullaby commissions (very niche tho.)

Sell digital dream journals or prompts.

Make downloadable ambient music loops.

Create printable affirmation cards.

Design calming phone wallpapers or lock screens.

Offer spiritual services (tarot or astrology readings, reiki, etc.)

Thank you for taking the time to read my post!Your curiosity & engagement mean the world to me. I hope you not only found it enjoyable but also enriching for your astrological knowledge.Your support & interest inspire me to continue sharing insights & information with you. I appreciate you immensely.

• 🕸️ JOIN MY PATREON for exquisite & in-depth astrology content. You'll also receive a free mini reading upon joining. :)

• 🗡️ BOOK A READING with me to navigate your life with more clarity & awareness.

[rafmeow]

𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯 You & Xavier adopt a bunny !

pairings : xavier x non-mc! reader

word count: 2.7k

summary : the non-mc (you) goes to the store and take the long way home to check out the weekly vendor booths and a booth selling animals catches her eye, leaving her to want to buy a animal that reminds her of a certain someone!

music : lily of the valley by daniel, foreverymoments by kim daniel, shower by yebit, and the flower garden by joe hisaishi.

In Linkon City, it was such a day, the sun lazily spilled through apartment windows and even the sky moved in slow motion, casting long shadows that weaved between the high-rise buildings.

Crowds of pedestrians strolling each walkway of the city, others stopping to browse each street vendors stall and checkout out what they are selling.You had just returned from the local grocery store, arms full of fresh ingredients and curated snacks that you knew Xavier liked, buying them even if he explicitly never asked for them.

Making your way back to the apartment complex with automatic doors that slid open with a soft hiss, as you were cautious with each step into the quiet and vacant hall.

You let out a small sigh of relief, adjusting the weight of the bags in your arms before carefully unlocking the door to your shared apartment. After setting the groceries down in the kitchen, you padded quietly toward the living room and peeked over the back of the couch.

Xavier barely stirred at the sound of the unlocking door and the hallway sensor’s gentle chime. He had passed out again, arms loosely crossed, his star-kissed eyes half-lidded and drowsy, whilst slightly slouched towards the arm rest of the couch.

A faint glow from the datapad beside him illuminated his relaxed features, the screen still open to his most recent completed mission logs and chiming. “You’re finally home,” he murmured, voice low and even, eyes still mostly closed.

You stepped closer to the couch.

“Did you fall asleep again?” you asked softly, already knowing the answer to the dumbest question you have asked.

“I was resting my eyes,” he replied, a familiar excuse you’d heard countless times.

You walked to the closest to grab a throw blanket before walking back over to him and throwing it over his legs, before glancing at the datapad beside him, still displaying the summary of his latest mission.

Reaching over, tapping the screen, to turn it off in order to keep the soft chime from looping again. Xavier didn’t react, but you knew he appreciated the small things you did even if he rarely said so out loud.

You looked down at him, amused. “You fell asleep in the middle of reviewing the logs.”

“I was multitasking,” he replied evenly. “Processing data and recharging..”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You always fall asleep when I’m not here.”

“It’s quieter without distractions,” he said, and then after a pause, added, “but less comfortable.”

That made your heart skip a little.

His voice hadn’t changed tone, but you knew what he meant.

“Well,” you said, draping the blanket a little higher over his legs, “you can sleep properly after dinner. I got ingredients to make something you’ll actually like this time.”

“I like everything you make.”

You raised a brow. “That’s rich coming from someone who thinks boiling water is a culinary achievement.”

“I never claimed to be a chef,” he replied calmly. “But I am a reliable taste tester.”

“You once asked if soy sauce could be used as soup.”

He blinked slowly, unbothered. “It smelled savory.”

You stared at him.

“It was a logical assumption,” he added, voice still flat, as if he hadn’t just admitted to the worst food crime imaginable.

You shook your head, turning back toward the kitchen. “You’re lucky you’re a pretty boy.”

“I’m lucky you’re patient,” he said.

You paused, glancing over your shoulder at him with a smile. “That too.”

He closed his eyes again, arms folded across his chest. “Wake me up when food’s ready. Or if the stove starts emitting unnatural sounds.”

You sighed fondly and muttered under your breath, “Which it will if you go anywhere near it.”

“I heard that.” You said as you looked back from the kitchen

“I hoped you would.”

You shook your head, turning back to the counter, starting to unpack the rest of the groceries, and finding its place in its cabinets. Only the sound of rustling bags and the low hum of the refrigerator filled the space. But then you paused, letting the sentence hang for a moment as you closed the fridge and leaned against the counter, watching him.

“I didn’t plan on stopping by the weekend market, but something about it pulled me in,” you continued, voice softer now. “The booth was tucked between a kettle corn stand and a table selling wind chimes. Easy to miss.”

Xavier didn’t speak, but you saw the subtle way his fingers shifted against the blanket—still listening.

You hesitated, glancing around the apartment.

It was warm, familiar, filled with shared routines and comforts… but sometimes, the silence sat a little too still.

You felt as if something was missing because the space of the apartment had started feeling empty.

“I saw this bunny,” you said at last, careful with your words.

“He was small. A creamy beige color, I think. He was in the back of his pen in a loaf like the world didn’t concern him. He was just… existing and not doing much, not wanting anything.”

You smiled faintly to yourself. “He looked so calm and unbothered. But when I stopped, he turned and looked right at me.”

At that, Xavier opened one eye, slow and deliberate. “Must be a coincidence,” he murmured.

“Maybe,” you said, “but it made me think.”

He blinked. “About what?”

You met his gaze. “About how quiet it is here sometimes. Not in a bad way, but just… quiet. Don’t get me wrong It’s nice, but I think it could be even nicer.”

Xavier didn’t respond right away. The datapad chimed again beside him before he finally spoke.

“And you think a bunny will fix that?”

“I think he might make it feel more alive,” you replied. “Just a little.”

There was a long pause.

“Do you want it?”

You nodded once. “I think I do.”

Xavier let his head fall back against the couch cushion, eyes closing again. “Then we’ll go pay the vendor a visit.”

You smiled, quietly touched by how easy he made it sound.

“I thought you’d need more convincing,” you teased.

“I don’t see a reason to argue,” he said simply, his voice low and even. “You want him. That’s reason enough.”

You tilted your head, watching him. “You’re being suspiciously agreeable.”

Xavier cracked one eye open again. “He’s a bunny, not a threat.”

You laughed under your breath. “Just wait until he starts sitting on your side of the couch.”

“I’ll move.”

“And stealing your spot in my lap.”

His eye stayed open a moment longer. “I’ll reclaim it.”

You raised a brow, amused. “So you are a little territorial.”

“I prefer ‘strategic.’”

You crossed the room, crouching beside him to smooth out the throw blanket across his legs.

“You’re lucky it’s small. You can probably stare it into submission.”

“I don’t lose staring contests,” Xavier replied, deadpan.

“Oh no,” you said with mock solemnity. “He’s doomed.”

He didn’t answer, but there was the smallest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth—barely a smile, but it was there. You leaned forward and brushed your lips against his temple, letting the moment settle between you both.

“I’ll take you tomorrow,” he said softly. “Before the booth closes.”

You pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

His hand found yours beneath the blanket, fingers curling loosely around your wrist in his usual quiet way. “Just don’t forget who was here first.”

You grinned. “You’re seriously getting jealous of a bunny?”

“I’m not jealous,” he replied, eyes closing again. “I’m observant.”

You shook your head, resting your cheek against the edge of the couch.

“Sure. Observant,” you whispered, already picturing the inevitable standoff between Xavier and a round, loaf-shaped rabbit—silent, stubborn, and just as possessive of your attention.

Tomorrow was going to be interesting.

~

The next day nearing towards it being the afternoon, the two of you walked side by side through the heart of the street market. It was busier than yesterday, so there was more voices chattering, and more vibrant colors were everywhere.

Xavier kept a slow pace beside you, holding your hand. His gaze shifted quietly from stall to stall, taking in the sights without a word, but never straying far from your side.

You tried to keep your expression neutral, but doubt tugged at the edge of your thoughts. You hadn’t called ahead. Hadn’t asked the vendor to hold the bunny.

‘Maybe it had been a one-day setup?’

‘What if someone else had seen the same calm little bunny and taken him home?’

You thought to yourself, as Xavier felt the doubt he had squeezed your hand two times to signal to you it will be okay.

You reached the end of the row of booths, weaving past a stand selling woven scarves and another stacked high with steamed buns, your eyes found the familiar striped canopy.

And there he was. He was still there !

Still resting in a loaf at the corner of his pen—ears drooping gently, eyes half-lidded, entirely unbothered by the world around him.

Your heart eased, as you squeezed Xavier’s hand.

“He’s still here,” you murmured excitedly.

Xavier followed your gaze. “Of course he is,” he said quietly.

“He was waiting for his savior.”

You tugged gently on Xavier’s hand and stepped closer to the booth. The vendor gave a polite nod in recognition but didn’t interrupt, sensing your attention was already elsewhere.

The bunny hadn’t moved much since you first saw him.

He curled up near the corner of the pen, nestled into a shallow bed of straw. His fur was slightly tousled, and his relaxed posture made him look like he might melt into the floor. As you crouched beside the pen again, his half-lidded eyes flickered lazily in your direction.

“He’s exactly the same,” you whispered.

“Still acting like the universe has no hold on him.”

Xavier knelt beside you without a word, observing in silence.

His head tilted slightly.

The bunny stared back at him—expressionless. Unmoving.

A few minutes has passed.

Then another, as you glanced between them.

“…Are you two having a moment?” you asked.

“No,” Xavier replied, still watching the rabbit. “He’s evaluating me.”

You tried not to laugh. “And?”

“He hasn’t decided yet.”

You reached into the pen slowly, palm up.

The bunny blinked—once—then shuffled forward with no urgency, placing his chin in your hand just like yesterday. You could feel the warmth of him, soft fur and quiet trust.

Xavier remained still, his expression unreadable. But when the bunny flopped dramatically onto his side against your palm, all comfort and laziness and claimed space, Xavier spoke again.

“He’s forward.”

You raised a brow. “Jealous?”

“I don’t get jealous of small mammals.”

You grinned. “So… you’re saying it would be different if he were taller.”

Xavier looked at you out of the corner of his eye. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

The vendor finally stepped forward, clipboard in hand.

“He seems to like you. He’s been picky with people, but he went right to you yesterday.”

“He seems pretty set on staying calm,” you said, stroking behind the bunny’s ear. “He’d be okay in a quiet place?”

The vendor nodded. “He’s easy. Not much fuss. Eats well, sleeps most of the day, barely makes noise.”

You felt Xavier shift beside you. “You’re describing me.”

The vendor blinked. “Oh.”

You laughed quietly. “I think that’s why I liked him so much.”

Xavier said nothing, but when you looked back at him, he was still staring at the bunny—this time with a subtle squint. Not hostile. Not annoyed. Just… processing.

Possibly even assessing whether or not this tiny creature could become a legitimate rival.

You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “Xavie? You good?”

“I’m fine,” he replied.

there was yet another long pause. “He can stay.”

You turned back to the vendor, smiling. “We’ll take him.”

As the paperwork was filled and a soft travel crate prepared, you carefully picked up the bunny, tucking him against your chest. He didn’t squirm, protest, and all he has done is simply just blinked slowly at Xavier like he’d already claimed his spot.

Xavier looked down at him, then at you.

“He’s going to follow you everywhere,” he murmured.

You smiled, brushing your hand through the bunny’s fur. “Maybe he’ll follow you, too.”

Xavier met the bunny’s gaze. “We’ll see.”

The trip home was quiet. The bunny sat calmly in your lap the entire time, paws tucked under, eyes half-shut like he was already settling in. Xavier glanced over more than once, gaze unreadable, but he didn’t say a word.

Back at the apartment, the bunny explored briefly—sniffed the rug, ignored the couch, and eventually flopped beside the window like he owned the place.

You sat beside him on the floor, gently stroking his back. Xavier leaned against the doorway, arms folded.

“He’s not very affectionate,” Xavier noted.

“He’s subtle,” you said. “Like someone else I know.”

A pause.

Then, softly, “I’m more affectionate than that bunny.”

You looked up, smiling. “Prove it.”

Xavier crossed the room, dropped down beside you, and without a word, rested his head on your shoulder. His hand found yours, fingers slipping between with practiced ease. The bunny blinked at him, unimpressed.

“He’s judging me,” Xavier muttered.

“He’s just trying to figure out his place.”

Xavier’s voice was low. “He already took mine.”

You leaned your head against his. “No one could.”

A long pause, filled with soft breathing and the quiet hum of the apartment.

The bunny shuffled closer, pressing up against your leg.

Xavier stared. “This is war.”

You laughed. “It’s home.”

And for a while, no one said anything else. The apartment wasn’t so quiet anymore. It was calm—peaceful, but full. Alive in a new way.

Which was just right.

@rafme0w — NO STEALING, PLAGIARIZING, TRANSLATING, OR REPOSTING/COPYING MY WORK ON ANY OTHER FORM OF MEDIA!

reblogs are very much adored and appreciated <3

[silver-inked-quill]

Hi can I make a Loki or a Bucky or to be honest anyone request.

Can the reader just be all sweet and quiet but loves to read absolutely filth (I think you know what I mean ) and one day she leaves a book out or something and whoever picks it up and expects it to be all sweet and lovely but it’s just filth

Thanks in advance x

Love the work by the way and i hope you are having a great day x love ya

Pinned

Words: 1010

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warning: mentions of intimacy but mostly fluff

requests are open | masterlist

Bucky Barnes

I unlocked the door at the house, it was dimly lit. “Y/N?” I called, my voice lowered. I knew she was working over time these days and she was returning home later than usual. I walked further to the living room to see her curled on the couch. The laptop open in front of her but her lids shut. i let out a slow chuckle setting the computer aside and slowly removed her glasses, setting them next to her. She looked so peaceful and eased. It was a rare occasion for her to sleep throughout the day. She is usually so energetic and multitasking, like cooking for the next day while analysing the DNA results of a sample given to her in her lab.

I leaned in and kissed her forehead and walked to our bedroom ro change into something comfortable and take a blanket, as I gently unfolded it to cover her figure a book fell, it was one of those literary choices she always bought but I have never seen her read… I rested the blanket on her and she gently got it and covered herself over her head. I took the book, too curious for my own good as I sat in the kitchen to read her book-

Reader

I stretched, the familiar scent of the blanket that tucked around me and I smiled as I knew that Buck had come back. I sat on the couch, wearing my glasses and dragged my feet to the kitchen following the smell of something that was being baked. “Smells like pizza” I murmured rubbing my eye as I smiled at his sight in the kitchen. “Look who is awake” he commented and kept doing something on the counter without allowing me to see it. I approached and snuck my hands around his waist cuddling behind him. “What are you preparing?” i asked, my head rested on his back. “Perhaps… i will let you sneak a peak-” he said and i tried to sneak in under his arms but he turned around and held my waist pinning me on the island counter top behind me. Buck hovered above me, his hands stroking my waist “now now… I didn't way you could see did i?” he said as one hand tilted my chin upwards, i let out a nervous chuckle and looked up at him. i blushed “Buck- are you okay?” i asked and he leaned down close to me “Why?” he said, i could smell his breath “you are weirdly on? not- not that i am complaining” i giggled and looked up at him. He smirked and his lips brushed mine in a slow but savoring kiss.

I let out small whimper my hands around his neck, it was a reflexive motion, his one hand wrapped around my waist and his other holding my jaw. He broke the kiss looking down at me “are you alright?” i asked looking up at him flushed by the kiss. He smirked “again pretty why would you ask?” he said and i raised an eyebrow. “Because you are mysterious… i mean more than usual and in a very interesting way that makes me-” i was to say but i pause trying to find a polite way to say how hot he is. “makes you what love?” he asked me and i looked.

I swallowed, my eyes flickering to his lips before meeting those stormy blues again. “Makes me… weak,” I whispered, a small, shy smile tugging at my lips.

Bucky’s smirk deepened, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip. “That so, doll?” he murmured, leaning in to press another kiss to the corner of my mouth. It was slow, lingering — like he wanted to memorize the feel of me under his touch.

Before I could answer, he reached behind me, and to my utter horror, pulled out the book I’d left on the couch.

My eyes widened. “Wait — Buck! You didn’t —”

“Oh, I did,” he cut me off, holding it up like evidence in a trial. “You’ve been hiding this from me, huh?” His grin was wicked now, playful and full of mischief.

My face flushed hot, and I buried it against his chest, groaning. “I can’t believe you read that!”

“I didn’t say I finished it,” he teased, his hand rubbing soothing circles on my back. “But enough to know you’ve got… interesting taste.”

I peered up at him through my lashes, mortified. “It’s just a story!”

“A story, huh?” he chuckled, brushing my hair back behind my ear. “Didn’t peg you for the type to read about forbidden kisses in hidden gardens and dangerous, brooding men who pin their lovesick heroines to walls.”

“Oh my God,” I groaned, my hands covering my face as heat flooded my cheeks.

He laughed, pulling my hands away gently. “Hey, no need to be shy. Kinda flattering, actually. Guess I didn’t know you liked that sort of thing.”

“I… might,” I admitted in a tiny voice, and Bucky’s gaze softened, though that smirk never left his lips.

“Well, lucky for you, I’ve got a little practice being the brooding type,” he teased, leaning in so his nose brushed mine. “And I can definitely handle the pinning-you-up-against-things part.”

I bit my lip, smiling despite my embarrassment. “You already do.”

“Damn right I do.” His voice was low, rough with affection. He kissed me again, this time slower, deeper — like he was trying to wordlessly tell me just how much he adored every single part of me, even the ones I tried to hide.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against mine. “Keep reading those stories in your head, sweetheart. Maybe one day you’ll let me be the main character.”

“You already are,” I whispered back, smiling as his eyes darkened and his arms tightened around me he pinned me upon the counter before wrapping my legs around his waist. I turned the stove off as he led me to the bedroom

Hey there gentle reader,

Sorry it took so long, I just hadn't had time to proceed with this one because i really liked it and enjoy it. I hope you enjoyed it as well. Requests are still open, i may be slow but i always pull through :)

Please tell me your opinion, your feedback is always appreciated and welcome, other than that i wish everyone to be well!

yours

Silvermist

[alldthoughtsinmyhead]

"All Your Fault"

Summary: Interrupting his business call with your shenanigans has its consequences.

Warnings: Smut.

Daddy was on a business video call when I opened the door to his home office. He had put on a shirt, tie, and jacket to look every bit the boss he was — but below, he wore loose cotton boxers. The sight made me giggle softly. As I watched him play with his billions, a naughty thought crossed my mind: Just how much of a multitasker is my beautiful Aaron? I sashayed into his office, tossing him a nonchalant look when he arched a shapely brow, eyeing me with suspicion.I rounded his desk, dropping to all fours, the cool hardwood beneath me a sharp contrast to the warmth of my skin. Carefully, I avoided the webcam, placing a hand on his knee and nudging him gently — signaling that I wanted space beneath his desk. With a dramatic sigh, he dragged a hand over his face in feigned exasperation, but I could feel the corners of his lips twitching. He rolled his chair back just enough for me to slip underneath, his eyes locking onto mine with a silent challenge. Once I was in place, he rolled back into position, the hum of the laptop now the only sound between us.

Kneeling carefully between his legs, I pressed a soft kiss to the inside of his left thigh, my lips brushing over the sensitive skin. A smug smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I watched goosebumps ripple across his skin.

Settling onto my haunches, I let my hands glide upward along the insides of his thighs, slipping beneath the loose fabric of his shorts. My fingers curled gently as I gave a firm squeeze, eliciting a subtle hitch in his voice as his body betrayed him.

The faint twitch of his arousal sent a wave of satisfaction coursing through me. With deliberate slowness, I withdrew my hands, teasingly avoiding the one place I knew he wanted my touch most.

He slumped back in his chair, his hips shifting closer to me in silent invitation. I muffled a giggle, the corners of my lips curling mischievously. Leaning in, I pressed a lingering kiss to the tip of his growing hardness, savoring the way he cleared his throat, his composure wavering ever so slightly.

A giddy sense of control surged through me, the power I held over him intoxicating. How long would it take before he surrendered completely?

My hands found their way up his thighs again, deliberate and unhurried. Wrapping my fingers around the base of his warmth, I let my teeth graze his glans lightly, eliciting the smallest twitch of reaction. The smooth, silken heat of him felt perfect against my palms. I gave a firm, deliberate squeeze, my glazed eyes fixed firmly on his face.

A slight jerk of his hips told me he felt that... so I did it again. This time, I dragged my tongue over the cotton-covered head of his hardness, savoring the subtle shift in his breath.

My body buzzed with a flood of sensations, each one amplifying the heat pooling between my thighs. Moisture gathered in waves, the anticipation almost unbearable as I reveled in his barely contained reactions.

I was starting to get sticky, the damp heat between my thighs becoming impossible to ignore.

I had just begun to move my hands up and down his length when one of his large hands covered mine. I paused and looked up at him, unsure if he wanted me to stop. The answer came quickly—he tightened his grip over mine, guiding my movements as he used my hands to stroke himself.

A muffled moan escaped my lips despite my efforts to stay silent. I loved it when he took control like this. After three deliberate, powerful strokes, he released my hands and freed himself from the confines of his boxer shorts.

Gripping his hardness at the base, he tapped it gently against my face. I parted my lips, letting my tongue reach out to meet him.

The instant my wet tongue made contact, he thrust forward, filling my mouth in one smooth motion. His fingers tangled in my hair as he took control of my movements, a harsh exhale escaping him as he set the rhythm.

I heard one of his executives ask if he was alright, and I couldn’t help but giggle.

My stoic baby is crumbling.

His hand left my head momentarily, only to pinch my cheeks in silent reprimand, cutting my giggle short.

I tilted my head up to look at him from beneath the desk. His eyes met mine as he lowered his head and silently mouthed, “Shhh.”

In response, I gave him my most innocent puppy-dog eyes before taking him fully in my mouth and sucking him with earnest intent.

I watched his face tighten as he fought to keep his composure, scrambling to turn off his webcam in the middle of the call.

If his length wasn’t currently lodged deep in my throat, I might have laughed outright at his sudden panic.

His head fell back against the chair as his fingers tangled deeper into my hair. He’d stopped actively participating in the conversation, his silence only encouraging me to work him harder than I ever had before.

I had a point to prove.

I had just started lavishing attention on the sensitive underside of his length when he abruptly ended the call. His chair screeched back, and he pulled out of my mouth with a loud, wet pop.

I wiped the saliva from my mouth and chin, my heart racing a mile a minute. His expression was unreadable for a beat, then it twisted into something dark and furious. My heart sank—or maybe it was my coochie, because it mimicked the frantic rhythm of my pulse.

I recognized that look.

“What kind of game is this?” His voice was low, dangerous. “You think this is funny?”

My throat was too dry to answer. I could only stare, a mix of excitement and apprehension freezing me in place.

With lightning speed, he cleared the desk of everything in his way. The angry serpent at his groin led the charge, promising I’d regret ever testing him.

Grabbing me firmly by my underarms, he lifted me effortlessly, flopping me stomach-first onto his desk.

Even though I anticipated the move, I still yelped when his palm came down hard on my backside.

Before I could fully process the sting, he spread my legs wide against the cool surface of the desk. His hand came down again, this time landing directly on my engorged lips and sensitive clit.

A guttural groan tore from my throat, wild and unrestrained. The vibrations rippled through me, tingling all the way to my curled toes. My body responded instinctively, clenching hard as another wave of moisture soaked through my already damp boy shorts.

I felt the heat of his presence withdraw momentarily and heard the unmistakable rustle of fabric. My breath hitched—I knew he was getting undressed.

“Baby...” I hissed.

“I don’t want to hear you right now!” His curt voice cut through the haze, making me whimper softly and bite down on my lip.

My body burned with need, trembling with anticipation. I needed him to hurry, to finish what he’d started.

I barely restrained myself from risking another word, even though every nerve in my body screamed for his attention.

And then—he left the office.

I had just started to writhe in frustration when he returned.

“I see you kept your legs spread for me,” he purred, his voice a velvety caress that sent shivers down my spine.

Before I could respond, his middle finger pressed against the wet crotch of my shorts, pushing the soaked fabric into my love tunnel. “Good girl,” he murmured, his tone dripping with approval.

He worked the material deeper into me, twisting his finger as I clenched and unclenched around his thick digit. The soft fabric pulled taut against my aching clit, amplifying every sensation.

He paused, holding me on the edge of blissful agony, then slowly withdrew his finger. The cloth followed, sliding out of me millimeter by tantalizing millimeter, dragging along every nerve ending with deliberate precision.

It was exquisite torture. Every inch felt like an eternity, leaving me trembling on the precipice of release.

I thought I might die from the intensity of it.

I wanted him to hurry, to finish me off, but at the same time, I craved every second of this agonizingly slow dance.

What felt like minutes—but was probably only seconds—passed before I felt the faintest tension against my shorts, followed by the unmistakable sound of fabric tearing.

His hands gripped my hips firmly, lifting me just enough for his tongue to take a long, leisurely swipe up my soaked center.

A shiver ran through me as my hands shot out to clutch the edge of the desk, bracing myself for the inevitable. I was ready to be devoured.

But the heat of his tongue vanished, replaced by the cool, unfamiliar sensation of metal slipping inside me.

I gasped, a mix of surprise and disbelief flooding my senses. He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t.

The first vibrations shattered that illusion. They coursed through me, and my body reacted instinctively, clawing at the desk in an attempt to escape the overwhelming sensations.

Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

He pressed a button, silencing the device, and I whimpered at the sudden absence.

“What’s wrong?” he drawled, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “I thought you wanted to play. Let’s play.”

He moved around the desk to stand in front of me, prying my hands off the edge before flipping me over effortlessly. With a firm tug, he pulled me until my head dangled off the table, perfectly aligned with his proud majesty.

He tapped it lightly against my forehead, smirking as my lips parted instinctively. My mouth opened, eager to take him, but instead, I wrapped it around his balls, sucking gently as my tongue teased them.

“Fuck… my girl,” he groaned, the deep timbre of his voice sending a fresh wave of heat through my body as I juggled his weight in my mouth.

After a few indulgent moments, he withdrew, only to replace them with his length. He slid in steadily, pausing only when he was fully lodged in my throat.

Before I could adjust to the sensation, the vibrator roared back to life inside me.

I groaned helplessly around him, the vibrations coursing through my throat and sending a new ripple of pleasure through him.

“Yeah… like that,” he moaned, his voice breathless with satisfaction. “I love it when you sing on me.”

He repeated the motion, thrusting into my throat while the relentless buzz within me kept my body on the edge. Each wave of pleasure brought another tremor, another mini orgasm.

Finally, he pulled out completely, leaving me gasping for air. My face was soaked with spit, sweat, and tears, my body trembling uncontrollably. I’d lost count of how many peaks I’d hit, each one leaving me more wrecked than the last.

With a deliberate slowness that sent shivers through me, he reached between my legs and removed the vibrator, leaving me momentarily empty and trembling from its absence.

Gripping my hips firmly, he pulled me further down the table, tilting my body so my head was no longer hanging over the edge. His eyes roamed over me, dark with desire, as if savoring the sight of me completely at his mercy.

When he came back around and positioned himself at my entrance, I felt the slow, deliberate pressure of him nudging inside. Inch by inch, he slid his enormous length into me until he was fully lodged, the tip pressing firmly against my cervix.

Leaning over me, he captured my mouth in a heated kiss, his lips and tongue insistent as he began to move. His thrusts started slow and deliberate, each one sending a jolt of pleasure through my trembling body.

He pushed his tongue deep into my mouth, mirroring the rhythm of his strokes. I clung to his veiny forearms, my fingers digging in as I tried to ground myself against the overwhelming sensation.

His movements quickened, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. His breath came in short, ragged gasps against my face, and I felt the tension building in every muscle of his body.

Breaking the kiss, he shifted his focus. His hands slid down to grip my thighs, spreading them wider before pushing them forward, folding me nearly in half as he drove even deeper.

His weight came down on me, his thickness buried to the hilt inside me. His groin pressed flush against mine as he held me completely open, vulnerable to his every move.

He rested his forehead against mine, his body jerking with each deep thrust that kissed the very depths of my womb. His shut eyes and labored breathing told me he was fighting for control.

The last time he lost that battle, I was walking funny for nearly a week.

I wanted him to lose it again.

Watching his face carefully, I gathered every ounce of strength from my Kegel lessons and clenched tightly around him.

His eyes flew open, locking onto mine, and for a moment, something flickered there—sympathy.

A small, almost apologetic smile curved his lips as he whispered, “I’m sorry for what I’m about to do to you. But this... this is all your fault.”

His hands closed around my throat, firm but measured, as the sound of rhythmic claps filled the room.

A light flickered in the back of my mind, dimming with every ragged breath I took. His guttural, animalistic grunts as he powered into me were the last thing I heard before darkness claimed me.

Several earth-shattering orgasms later, I was limp, my body humming with aftershocks. His weight pressed against me, his breaths hot and ragged against my skin, grounding me in the aftermath of the storm he’d unleashed.

As I blinked through the haze, he carefully withdrew, his hands sliding under me to lift me effortlessly. I let out a soft sigh as he cradled me against his chest, the contrast between his earlier ferocity and his current tenderness making my heart ache in ways I couldn’t describe.

He carried me into the bathroom, his steps deliberate and sure. Gently, he set me down, the cool tile beneath me a welcome reprieve from the heat that still lingered in my limbs. With meticulous care, he began to clean me up, his touch light and reverent.

I gazed up at him, my eyelids heavy, already feeling sleep pulling me under. I knew I’d be out long enough for him to return to his business call and finish what I’d interrupted.

But right now, I didn’t care. Right now, I was completely his, body and soul, and that was all that mattered.

I'm making this open so you can attach anyone to it. My muse was Aaron Pierre, though, lol.

[melanieph321]

Ruben Dias x Reader - Fake Love Part 8/8

This story will have an Epilogue!!!! 😭

⚠️Warning ⚠️

18+

Reader is a kindergarten teacher. Nothing more nothing less. But following an accident whistle vacation in Dubai she somehow makes her boyfriend believe that she does somthing else for a living, something that earns her way more money than she has. Her boyfriend, Ruben, is just happy to have found someone who understands him so well, someone who doesn't want him for his money since money isn't an issue for neither reader or himself. Or so thinks. Would finding out the truth ruin their newfound relationship? Readers thinks so, and does everything to keep up the lie, although it has some bad people from the middle east looking for her.

Enjoy!

Apperently Ruben and his team were already in London when he called you yesterday. Stevenage was only an hour away by car, so now he was here, asleep in your bed. You watched him when he slept, his chest heaving up and down with his slow breathing. You placed a hand to his naked torso, running it down his washboard abs. Ruben's body stirrded with your motion, but did not awake, or at least he did not open his eyes.

"What time is it?" He grunted, voice deep and heavy in the morning.

"Early." You smiled.

One eye flung open. "Too early to cuddle?"

You bit your lip and shook your head.

Ruben's arms stretched for you across the matress. He pulled you closer, your chest against his chest. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Ruben."

"You look beautiful."

"Don't lie."

He frowned.

"No one looks beautiful in the morning Ruben, well....maybe except for you."

"And you." He tugged you closer, although it was physically impossible. "We're both beautiful people. Life is such a struggle for us."

You giggled, then made the effort to get on top of him. His eyes were fully open now as his hands moved up and down your thighs.

"Good morning."

"You already said that."

"I know." He grinned. "I'm just a messenger, someone else wants you."

You gasped a little as something pocked your back. Looking behind, you saw Ruben's full fledged erection trying to escape his boxers. You turned back to him. "I want you to meet my parents today."

"Um, okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." He nodded, a bit distracted.

You pushed your palms against his chest, sliding backwards until you had his cock between your legs. "You must know that they're just normal people my parents."

"Mhm...sure baby."

You were grinding your hips, moving them slowly against his shaft.

"Normal people, like you and me?" He asked, trying to keep up with what you were telling him. But as you've come to learn through your facetime calls, Ruben was terrible at multitasking when horny.

"No, normal people like me." You mumbled.

Ruben threw his head back, his hands helping guide your hips to rock themselves faster against him. You paused. "Do you want to come like this or inside me?"

He raised his head from the pillow, meeting your eyes. "Inside." His head bobbed up and down. "Definitely inside."

You raised yourself to sit in a crouching position, legs spread for Ruben to see you push your panties aside, revealing how wet you were for him. You sat back down but struggled to have him inside you right away.

"Slowly baby, take it slow."

He was big, big and wide.

"Fuck, you feel so good." His hands went under your shirt, groping your breast. "So fucking good."

You were enjoying yourself, but the focus was to please him, to make him feel good.

"Baby not that fast, I'm gonna come right away."

"I want you to come." You let his cock slide in and out of you with the rocking motion of your hips.

"But baby..." He groaned, a vein visible against his throat. "Baby please, don't..." It was too late. Your motions increased, making Ruben sprout his seed into your womb. Of course, the pill you were taking would take care of that asap.

Ruben flipped you over to lay on your back, regarding you curiously. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Make me come so fast?"

You turned to lay on your side, your head resting in your hand. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

Ruben swiped his thumb across your cheek, removing a dead eyelash "I wanted both of us to come, together."

You shrugged. "Would've taken us too much time."

He frowned. But you ignored him and got up and out of bed. "I have some work to take care of today. We can go to my parents house when I return, but it's best for you to stay in the apartment in the meantime." God knows if somone spotted him outside. Ruben was sitting on the edge of the bed with the sheets between his legs, when you turned back to look at him.

"Can I ask you something?" He said.

"Sure."

You were going through your closet, searching for an outfit to wear for the day. You were glad that Ruben didn't ask so many questions as to why you had so much of your stuff in "Alicia's apartment."

"Yesterday on the phone..."

You stiffened knowing just where the conversation was going.

"....I told you I loved you, but you didn't say it back?" He looked confused, sad and confused. You left the closet and approached him. "Oh bay, I was just stressed. Of course I love you too." You bent down and kissed him, glad that he was kissing you back with equal amount of passion. His words were spoken against your lips. "Good, now let me make you come."

You squealed as his arms wrapped around you, wrestling you back down against the matress. Ruben stayed on top, pulling down the front of his boxers to reveal how hard he still was for you.

"And I'm gonna take as much time as I want with you, got it?"

You smiled. "Yes sir."

********************************************

You went about your day, quite happy with how it started. Ruben knows that you love him and when you introduce him to your parents later tonight you're also gonna tell him the truth about who you really are. He deserves to know.

"Miss?"

"Miss?"

"Yes Simon?"

You peered over your desk to see the little boy, once again, with a pen up his nose.

"It's stuck."

"Of course it is."

You took him to the nurses office, appointing another teacher to guard your class. Upon returning to the classroom  you bumped into...

"Y/N, can I talk to you?"

"If you make it quick Byron?"

He looked remorsful, as if...

"I regret the way I ended things last night. I'm sorry."

You sighed, really having nothing personal against Byron. "Apology excepted. I have to get back to my class."

"I'll lend you the money!" He blurred out.

"Really?"

He nodded.

You folded your arms. "What's the catch?"

"No, catch. You seem to really need it and I'm stupid for not realizing that last night. I put you in an even more uncomfortable spot and I'm sorry."

You uncrossed your arms and approached him. "Enough apologies." Byron's cheek blossomed when you pressed your lips against it. "Thank you. This means more than you know."

It meant the world. All was well. You were gonna pay Mr Siddiq back everything of what you owe. And then you would...."

"Whatta hell is going on?"

"Nina?"

It was your boss, the school principal, marching towards the two of you down the hall.

"Where are all the children?"

"What do you mean?" You looked to Byron who peered into one of the classrooms. "They're gone." He said.

"No shit." Nina hissed. "And where is the rest of my faculty?"

An open window revealed commotion in the school yard. You, Byron and Nina rushed out to see what it was all about.

"Alicia?"

It was Alicia, alongside Ruben. The children and some members of the faculty were surrounding him, asking, no begging him to sign anything of their belonging, shoes, backpacks...

"What are you doing here and why did you bring Ruben?" You asked, through clenched teeth. However your expression softened seeing the look of terror in Alicia's eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I'm so sorry."

You frowned. "For what?"

"They got em'." She sniffled.

"Got who? Who's got who Alicia?"

"I dunno, the fucking national guard or something. Apparently they raided your parents house in search for you. The local police has brought them in for interrogation."

"W...what?" A lump in your throat. Just then Ruben managed to escape the children. "Y/N, what's going on?" He looked both angry and confused, Alicia must have told him the truth.

"Y/N!" The voice of your boss sparked behind you. "What is all this?" She was looking at Ruben and so did Byron. Ruben who was getting ambushed by the children again.

"I...I can explain."

"There is no time." Alicia said, grabbing your hand and dragging you to her car. Ruben fought himself free and ran after you. "Y/N, can you please tell me what's going on?"

It hurt so much, seeing the confusion in his eyes, the confusion you had caused. "I'm not...." You inhaled. "I'm not who you think I am."

He froze, not quite sure what any of that meant.

"I'm a liar Ruben, a fucking liar. I've lied about everything to you. I'm not rich, I'm a kindergarten teacher.

"But...Portugal." He stuttered.

"Portugal was a lie. Everything you saw me buy it was all a facade, all a game to impress you. I've been borrowing money from a man named Muhammed Siddiq, money I can't pay back. And now I've got to the police and turn myself in."

Alicia continued to drag you towards the car.

"Y/N wait!"

He didn't give up. Ruben just refused to let you go. "You and me? Everything that happened between you and me, was that also a lie?"

You shook your head, knowing there was only one way to end things. "I'm sorry. "

His shoulders fell, finally accepting the betrayal.

"Goodbye Ruben."

You and Alicia drove off. Off to confess your many sins.

The End

[fairyniceyeah]

🧭🐺🦊Day 13: "Wait!"

Sacrifice/Adrenaline/Cornered

@juneofdoom

Day 12: "I can't stand seeing you like this"

Summary: Jeongin nearly falls off the stage.

CW: minor injuries, guilt

Whumpee: Jeongin + Chan Caretaker: Stray Kids ensemble

“Be careful”, Minho said as they spread out on the stage. It was the third week of concerts in Europe and they were checking out a new stage - again. Jeongin knew that it was important to get used to the stage before they performed, the grip, the ability to slide, the size itself, tripping hazards and more stuff they needed to know for a smooth performance. 

Nonetheless, the maknae was tired of reworking their choreo to fit a new stage every second or third day. With all the travels he had even forgotten the name of the city and the country they were in. He’d have to ask Chan later. 

“The stage is much smaller than we are used to”, the dance leader added worriedly, looking around. 

So much was true. It had been some time since they had performed on a stage that small. It was definitely a sign of their success but it was also a reminder of the old days. 

Once the stage was inspected they got into positions for the first song. They had to rearrange a few minor things but it went well. It went suspiciously well. 

Jeongin, having a lot of excess energy from sitting around at the airport all day the day before, couldn’t help but enjoy the dancing. It felt good to move around. His hyungs weren’t all as enthusiastic as he was and multiple times he was reminded that he should not overuse his energy and save some for the show tonight. But he couldn’t help but use the energy to annoy them.

Seungmin rolled his eyes at him, the moment Jeongin poked him during Case 143 and distracted him. The older vocalist was on vocal rest so Jeongin took the opportunity to bother him without retribution. 

Felix was having issues with his back and so he did every movement very carefully - Jeongin tried not to get in his way. Hyunjin was focused on his dancing but also managed to look bored to death during it. He seemed scary that way, so Jeongin stayed far away. Minho was totally focused on dancing and … well, butt-hunting, but he also had a hawk eye on any issues that might arise from the stage size. Jeongin was always surprised by his ability to multitask but didn’t dare test if he also could stuff tissues into his mouth while dancing perfectly during the dance break in Miroh.

Han was about as energetic as Jeongin felt and a few times they snuck up on Chan, messing with the older rapper, acting innocent as soon as he turned around. Changbin - who had just gotten over a bad bout of the flu and was to rest before the show tonight - was monitoring from the side, conversing with a manager. 

Maybe Jeongin went too far when he stole Chan’s prop mic shortly before the rapper needed it - kind of like he had seen with Mingi-hyung and Hongjoong-hyung on their Better-stage - but the exasperated yelp and the “I.N.-aaaaah” was indeed funny. The next moment the maknae had his own “oh-shit”-moment. Chan - in a moment of playfulness, indulging his youngest member - decided to give chase, ignoring the protest from Minho when he broke position, and ran after Jeongin, yelling fondly but annoyed nonetheless.

They laughed, chasing each other around the set. Changbin and the manager were shaking their heads, as far as Jeongin could see but he also heard cheers for Chan and himself. He turned around to look who was on his side.

That was when Chan yelled: “Jeongin, wait!” The maknae laughed, thinking it was in good fun. He realized a second too late that his hyung’s face was twisted into worry.

Then he was in limbo. 

It was like slow motion - he felt himself falling but also not. A jolt went through his body, a rush of adrenaline maybe, but then he realized that somebody had grabbed onto him. Chan pulled him into his direction and, at the same time, turned his body for a better momentum. 

Suddenly everything sped up again and the first thing the Jeongin registered was the pain he felt when his body connected painfully with the stage. Hands were upon him and he was rolled onto his back, blinking up at his hyungs, dazed.

“Minho-hyung?”, he asked, confused. He didn’t quite understand what had happened.

“Are you alright, Jeongin-ah? Are you hurt?”, the dancer asked, a frown on his face. Jeongin took stock of his body. His side and his arm hurt, having fallen onto them but that was it. He shook his head.

“Only a bit bruised if even that”, he replied, a bit breathlessly. “Hyung, what happened?”

Minho’s frown deepened. “You don’t know? Did you hit your head?” Immediately hands were in his hair, searching for a bump on his scalp. Jeongin swiped at the hands - Seungmin - he realized, like an annoying fly.

“I didn’t hit my head, hyung”, he said hurriedly. “I just … wasn’t I just running away from Channie-hyung?”

“Yeah”, Hyunjin said, kneeling down next to them - after a moment of careful consideration - as well with a sigh. It was suspicious really, like he was trying to block Jeongin’s view. “Why don’t we go backstage and rest for a moment?”

“Hyung, I’m not hurt”, he said and as Minho glared at him, he added a soft, “okay, not that badly hurt. What are you hiding?”

That was the moment he heard the protesting voice of Chan. “Lixie, I am fine, relax.”

Shit. Was Chan…? Had he …?

With that Jeongin was able to puzzle together what had happened. The stage, much smaller than they were used to, had ended where he had run trusting it to be bigger as usual. Chan must have saved him from falling down. And where the stage was smaller than normal, it was also higher - a terrible combination really. Had Chan fallen? That must have been two meters at least.

“Channie-hyung?”, Jeongin called, uncaring of his hyungs around him tensing. He jumped to his feet - ignoring the slight pain he felt and rushed to the edge of the stage. Below him, Chan was propped up against the side of the stage with Changbin, Felix and Han hovering around him. 

The rapper had a hand pressed to his shoulder which he quickly took away the moment he noticed Jeongin peering down at him. Changbin was fussing over him, looking at the hand that wasn’t holding onto the injured shoulder, trying to move the fingers. Even from above Jeongin saw Chan wince and the way he went paler. His pinky, ring finger and middle finger were all swollen and blue.  

“I … I am so sorry”, Jeongin stuttered, falling back onto his butt as he leaned away from the edge. “I … if I hadn’t …” 

Tears rushed to his face and he, for once, did not make a move to wipe them away. Hyunjin pulled him close, sitting behind him and nuzzling his chin into the maknae’s hair. 

“It’s not your fault, I.N.-ah”, he said but it fell on deaf ears. 

Jeongin had never intended to hurt his older brother. He hadn’t thought that a simple prank could turn into this … his hyung falling down the stage and getting injured. All because of him.

“It is”, Jeongin potested, whimpering. He had never felt so guilty in his life - not even when he had accidentally spilled coffee on Chan’s laptop. The data on the laptop had been fine after all - unlike Chan was now. He didn’t want to hurt his leader. Again.

“Well, you shouldn’t have run on an unfamiliar stage without looking around. Your spatial unawareness surprises me everyday anew”, Minho said. He didn’t have a scolding tone but it still made the maknae feel smaller than he ever had.

Then his voice got gentler as he added: “But you didn’t mean for him to fall. You wanted to make practice fun and it was. Mistakes, accidents happen. And Chan chose to save you, you could have gotten really hurt this unprepared for a fall. He was prepared and he will be fine.”

“Still, I’m sorry”, Jeongin whispered.

“Why don’t we go to the waiting room so you can see for yourself that he will be fine?”, Seungmin suggested, breaking his vocal rest and earning a loud slap on the butt for his troubles from - who else? - Minho. He glared at the older and stuck out his tongue in defiance when Minho turned away.

“I saw that, Kim Seungmin”, Minho said. Jeongin giggled at the terrified expression on Hyunjin’s face - he seemed much more bothered than the culprit himself. 

Seungmin rolled his eyes and tucked on Jeongin’s hand - clearly not keen on talking and getting slapped again. Come with me, his eyes seemed to say.

Their fingers interlocked, his best friend led him to the waiting room where Changbin was still fussing over Chan while Felix and Han were … fighting over a cookie? Jeongin really didn’t want to know.

“Channie-hyung”, he whispered as he saw the older man. His hand was getting splinted by a medic and Changbin was pressing ice to his shoulder. Neither of these circumstances stopped the leader from spreading his good arm and calling: “Come here, I.N.-ah. Next time, please be more careful. For now - as punishment - you need to cuddle your old hyung.”

Normally not a fan of skinship at all, Jeongin found it wasn’t that much of a punishment really. 

Day 14: "What were you thinking?"      

Masterlist links: Fairy's Masterlist 2024 Fairy's Masterlist 2025 Fairy's June of Doom 2024  

Notes: for the amazing @dudadragneel

[fuckwonderlandthisiswar]

Hey there,

If you've ever wondered what it looks like to short circuit irl, I once watched my father attempt to multitask, making breakfast while also brewing his first cup of coffee....I watched in slow motion as he placed a butter pat into the hot pan and proceeded to crack an egg into his coffee and stir it before he stiffened at the realization of what he'd just done.....so yeah, it happens to everyone.

[musicalhell]

And now my mind is going down a rabbit hole of what a "Clocks" Tarot suit would look like.

Ace (beginnings, potential, opportunity): free time, new calendar cycles, the "right moment"

Two (duality, balance, choices): scheduling and time management

Three (expansion, growth, community): making time for oneself, investing time in important people or projects

Four (stability, rest, retreat) downtime, pausing, regrouping

Five (instability, chaos, conflict): running out of time, overscheduled

Six (regrouping, contemplation, meditation): prioritizing, slowing down to appreciate life

Seven (experience, leadership, independence): delegating responsibilities, releasing unimportant tasks, using time wisely

Eight (forward motion, action, accomplishment): meeting deadlines, milestone events

Nine (completion, fulfillment, endings): rest, relaxation, sleep

Ten (perpetual cycles, reflection, legacy): retirement, old age, history

Page (curiosity, learning, playfulness): leisure time, procrastination

Knight (action, impulse, passion): multitasking, tackling new projects

Queen (wisdom, nurturing, inspiring): project management, work/life balance

King (leadership, mastery, control): Organization, planning, understanding of cause and effect

Nervously, I pull from the tarot deck. It's the Nine of Clocks. My fate is revealed to me: It's my bedtime, and I gotta go to sleeps

[ledenews]

This morning, listening to the news, they mentioned a crazy statistic. There have been 150,000 vehicle incidents in Ohio due to speed since 2020. That stuck with me. Lately, I have been asking myself the same question nearly every time I get behind the wheel. Why is everyone in a rush? Where are they all going? Why do they want to get there so quickly? It seems like every road has turned into a speedway. The posted speed limits feel like suggestions rather than the actual law. While I have always accepted that some people push the boundaries a little, and have been one known to recite “nine you’re fine; ten you’re mine”, the level of speeding I have been seeing lately is alarming. I am not talking about just a little over the speed limit. I am talking about people flying down Main Street in Wheeling or out National Road like they are running a qualifying lap. Even more disturbing is the number of drivers blatantly, unapologetically running red lights. Every Single. Day. Some days, I may see one or two. Other days, it is four or five, but it is every day. I don’t mean slipping through on a yellow or mistiming a light by half a second. I mean completely red. As in, the cross traffic has already started to go and someone still barrels through the intersection, eyes straight ahead, foot on the gas. I notice this daily as people navigate the intersection between Mt de Chantal Road and the left turn onto National Road. I often wonder if some drivers completely miss the traffic signal right in front of them, often moving when the light at National Road turns green. It is not just dangerous. It is terrifying. But as troubling as the speeding and red-light running are, what makes it all worse is the growing number of people doing it while completely distracted. I used to think distracted driving was mostly about texting. Do not get me wrong, I still see plenty of people tapping away on their phones while drifting into my lane. I have a friend who has often complained to me when I was in elected office about people driving with pets on their laps. I sympathized with him and brought it up as an issue with colleagues. Unfortunately, you really cannot legislate stupid. But goodness knows, plenty try. But distraction has evolved. Now it is people FaceTiming or watching shows with a phone propped on their dash. It has turned to drivers scrolling social media at stoplights and not noticing the light has turned green. It is people looking at their GPS while turning corners, or eating breakfast with one hand while trying to merge with the other. I think what troubles me most is how normal it has all become. We have created a driving culture where multitasking is expected, patience is optional, and the rules of the road feel negotiable. When did we stop treating driving like the life-or-death responsibility it is? When did five minutes become more valuable than someone’s safety? We all live busy lives. I get that. We may be running late to work. Trying to pick up kids. Getting dinner on the table. But let’s be honest. Most of the rushing is not really about urgency; it is about habit. We have forgotten how to slow down. We are addicted to being in motion, on the move, always connected and productive, even behind the wheel. We need a reset. Because no text, no appointment, no playlist or podcast or perfectly timed green light is worth risking someone’s life, especially not your own. Yet, every day, I see people gambling with it. Not just their own safety, but mine. Yours. Our children’s. Our neighbors’. Law enforcement cannot be everywhere. Most of us have driven long enough to know how to avoid getting caught. So, it is up to us. If we want safer roads, it starts with us driving like they should be safe. That means putting down the phone. That means treating red lights like they matter. That means driving the speed limit, not just when we see a cruiser in the rearview mirror. What if we all agreed to stop accepting reckless driving as just part of life? What if we decided that being a safe driver was something to be proud of?  What if we drove like the people we love most were in every other car around us? Let’s slow down. Let’s pay attention. Let’s stop pretending that distracted, dangerous, high-speed driving is just the new normal. Because if this is normal, we are in serious trouble. Read the full article

[aaacourse]

Acceleration and Braking

Curve ahead

Not only are you slowing down for the hill, but you are also in a turn which makes it more tricky

It's easy to overload the tires and start a skid

Take it easy

Multitasking

Ideally, you should do only one thing at a time

Brake downhill, then roll into the curve

But this may not be possible with stopping traffic ahead

Be careful and very smooth with your steering and braking

Idle Acceleration

Idle acceleration is simply releasing pressure from the brake pedal that can cause the vehicle to move slowly forward or backward

An example is when moving from a stopped position, such as a parking space

Light acceleration

Light acceleration is used to maintain slow forward motion and to gradually increase the speed with minimum vehicle weight shift

An example is when driving in a parking lot or other areas of limited space

Progressive Acceleration

Progressive acceleration involves firm pressure on the accelerator to increase speed

An example is when accelerating from a red traffic signal to the speed of traffic

Thrust Acceleration

Thrust acceleration is a firm push or thrust of the accelerator to increase speed

It will shift more weight to the rear tires for traction

An example is when passing other vehicles in high-speed traffic, or when accelerating on a short highway entry ramp

Drive-thru: Idle

Neighborhood: Light

After turning: Progressive

Highway entry ramp: Thrust

Key to effective braking

Stabilize your foot and control brake pressure with your ankle and toes, rather than with your larger, less precise thigh muscles

Place your heel in front of the brake pedal so the area forward of the ball of the foot is on the pedal

Use your toes for fine pedal-pressure adjustments

Releasing the Accelerator

• Releasing pressure from the accelerator stops the vehicle's forward propulsion

• The vehicle will coast forward rather than be propelled by the engine or motor

• Used to reduce speed slightly to regain space around your vehicle

• "Covering the brake" is where you prepared to brake

Controlled or "Squeeze" Braking

This is performed using consistent pressure sufficient to slow the vehicle while avoiding the abrupt weight transfer that can lead to loss of traction

The driver is smoothly "squeezing" the brake pedal.

This is used to slow the vehicle in normal traffic conditions such as for a STOP sign or traffic stopped ahead

Threshold Braking

This is applying brake pressure to a point just short of locking the wheels

This results in the vehicle's maximum braking capability

It is often used to slow quickly when a driver's path becomes blocked, such as when braking to avoid hitting a pedestrian or animal

Trail Braking, or "Squeeze Off" Braking

Trail braking is the type of braking the best drivers use to be smooth and precise

When you must stop, most of the time you are using "Squeeze" braking

But the best drivers do trail braking at the end. They brake to a roll, and then roll to a stop

Passing through school zone: Releasing accelerator

Slowing traffic ahead: Controlled braking

Child runs out in front of you: Threshold braking

Turning: Trail braking

Stopping Distance

1. Perception time - How far the vehicle travels before the driver perceives the need to stop

This is usually one-half to three-quarters of a second (if the driver is not distracted)

2. Reaction time - How far the vehicle travels during the time it takes for the driver to respond and begin to apply the brakes, which is another one-half to three-quarters of a second

3. Braking time - How far the vehicle travels before stopping after the brakes are applied

If the driver is using maximum braking, or threshold braking, the vehicle is slowing down as quickly as it can

To minimize stopping distances, always brake in a straight line, with your front wheels pointed straight ahead

This maximizes the tires' contact patches and grip on the road

Which results in the to three-quarters of a second

3. Braking time - How far the vehicle travels before stopping after the brakes are applied. If the driver is using maximum braking, or threshold braking, the vehicle is slowing down as quickly as it can

To minimize stopping distances, always brake in a straight line, with your front wheels pointed straight ahead. This maximizes the tires' contact patches and grip on the road, which results in the greatest possible traction

Emergency Braking

1. Press the pedal as hard as you are able and "Stomp and Steer!"

2. Plant the brake pedal on the floor, and continue to steer around obstacles

Continue to look and steer where you want your vehicle to go

3. Keep your foot down until the need to brake is over. Know that the brake pedal will pulse under your foot and this is normal. The pulsing is telling you that the ABS is working properly

4. Do not pump the brake pedal or remove your foot from the pedal-this could prevent the system from working properly

Light acceleration is used to maintain slow forward motion or allow speed to increase gradually with minimum weight shift

Trail braking is used to smoothly and gradually reduce brake pedal pressure at the end of a braking maneuver, helping to avoid abrupt weight transfer when turning at an intersection or into a curve

Where should you look to follow your intended path?

The left and right of the center of your path

Total stopping distance is made up of:

• Reaction time

• Braking time

• Perception time

When starting the engine, you should release the key or start button:

As soon as the engine starts

Which level of acceleration should you use when accelerating on a short highway entry ramp?

Which technique should you use to signal vehicles behind you that you are slowing?

• Press the pedal as hard as you are able and hold

Lightly tap your brake pedal a few times before braking

When driving, your hands should be placed on the steering wheel:

• At 8 o'clock and 4 o'clock

• At 9 o'clock and 3 o'clock

When backing straight or to the right:

• Position your right hand on the back of the passenger seat

• Grip the steering wheel at the 12 o'clock position with your left hand

• Move the wheel left or right in the direction in which you want the rear of the vehicle to go

Where should you look to follow your intended path?

The left and right of the center of your path

Total stopping distance is made up of:

• Reaction time

• Braking time

• Perception time

Which level of acceleration should you use when accelerating on a short highway entry ramp?

• Thrust