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nevadancitizen · 3 months ago

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-> OH VIKTOR, MY VIKTOR (WHAT COULD'VE BEEN)

synopsis: viktor reality-skips and meets different versions of you, different versions of himself, and some sort of god, who tells him of an unyielding truth.

word count: 5k

ships: viktor/reader

tags: angst with a happy ending, fluff and angst, pre-established relationship, pre-season 1 act 3 (aka sky isn't dead (yet))

notes: this is me cashing in my birthday fic (as in i can write anything cause it's my birthday) so i rewrote my other viktor fic w a twist from his perspective

related reading: Rot in Purest Gold

It’s been six weeks since you… left.

Well, ‘left’ isn’t the right word, and Viktor knows that. But it lessens the blow upon his heart and his mind to just say that you left. Like you took a vacation instead of just disappearing into thin air. But that doesn’t erase the memory of the blue arc of… something – natural lightning, artificial electricity, something else – coming from the Hexcore and touching you, and you just not being there the moment after.

He had scrambled for you, his cane clattering to the ground as he grasped at the air where you just where. A chant of “No, no, no,” left his lips, and panic quickly wrung his chest until he felt like he couldn’t breathe – more than he usually couldn’t, anyway. His leg buckled beneath him and he held his hands to his chest as he fell to his knees, trying to hold onto whatever was left of you (which was… nothing).

It’s been six weeks of a cold bed, six weeks of not waking up next to you. 168 pills (two for pain, one to regulate high blood pressure, and one to dilate the bronchi in his lungs to breathe easier – all taken daily). 36 days of work, despite your insistence that he take both days of the weekend off.

It’s been 42 days of you… you left. You didn’t die. Your body would’ve been here if you died. There’s no body, so you’re not dead. (At least, that’s what Viktor hoped and prayed for.)

But, for all that hoping and all that praying, he never thought about what he’d do if he walked into the lab one morning, with you just… waiting. Sitting on the workbench, cross-legged, looking out the window.

He says your name – a rasping whisper, honestly – and you turn.

A soft smile spreads across your face. It’s polite, but forced all the same. “Hello. Do you happen to know where I am?”

“You’re here,” Viktor says, breathless and unbelieving. He staggers forward the best he can while his body is still in this state of pseudo-shock. His mind is racing – the speed of the hexgates couldn’t even hope to compare.

“Uh… yeah. I am.” You look around the lab and pull your knees to your chest. “Pretty nice place you got here. You rich or something?”

The tip of Viktor’s cane drags along the ground – he can’t even bother to lift it properly as he makes his way to you. You probably can’t even begin to know what this means to him. Seeing you, you for real (not in his dreams, or behind his eyelids, or in photographs).

Tears well up in his eyes and mist his vision. “My love… what happened to you?”

Viktor rests his hip on the edge of the workbench and reaches out to you, his hand trembling. You shift away, your eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“Excuse me?” You say.

His body shakes as a sob racks through it, his teeth gritting together to suppress the ugly sounds threatening to escape him. Viktor is usually calm, controlled; the one with a royal flush hidden against his chest. But this poker hand isn’t one he recognizes – what game are you playing?

A look of panic washes over your face and you take Viktor’s hand, probably to try to soothe him. But in that instant where skin meets skin, something… happens.

Viktor opens his eyes with a start. He sits up in bed, and his joints groan in protest.

The bed is… plush. Many blankets and pillows with a straw mattress much too big for just himself. And the bedroom itself isn’t huge, but it’s much bigger than anything down in Zaun. (Probably something below average in Piltover.)

Viktor pushes the layered blankets off himself and hooks his legs over the side of the bed. He stands and grabs his cane.

There’s a knock at the window above the desk across the room. He looks over, only to see you, smiling, perching on the outside window sill. You look younger – maybe fourteen, or fifteen?

The thought strikes Viktor just as he passes a full-length mirror propped in the corner of the room. He looks younger, too: the same age as you, most likely. His face still has remnants of baby fat, and it looks like he’s in that awkward stage where he’s yet to grow into his cane.

You rap against the window again –

– and it’s not a window. It’s two doors. Big ones, at that; with armored guards with spears standing on either side.

“Enter,” Viktor calls out. It’s an odd sensation – he wasn’t the one who commanded his lips to move, but it was his voice coming from his mouth all the same. Like he’s being puppeteered.

The guards’ armor clanks as they pull open the door. You stagger through the entryway, gritting your teeth and clenching your jaw repeatedly. You look almost… manic. Crazed.

As you come closer, Viktor observes you – no matter how hard he tries to move, he can’t. It’s like this body is his, but… not. He’s just an observer. He can’t approach you, hold you, even if you look different. He knows it’s you.

Grey streaks through your hair, and deep scars litter your body, the nastiest above your heart on your bare chest. Your baggy pants are torn and bloodstained. Mud and dirt cover your worn feet. Your gaze is trained on the ground; you don’t dare to meet Viktor’s eyes.

You finally kneel before his throne. Wait – was he sitting on a throne all this time? Is he, like, a king or something?

You confirm his thought with a whispered, reverent “My Liege.”

“My warrior,” Viktor responds in kind.

You begin to reach for him, but stop yourself. Instead you rest your hand on your knee. “The exile to the badlands… I – I wanted – needed – a conflict to call me back home. Back to you.”

Viktor thinks to himself as his disconnected body stays silent. Why would he cast you out, especially if you’re in such high standing? The scars on your body indicate numerous battles, and you being alive before him indicates you’ve won all of them…

“If I may have the honor…” You trail off. You glance up at him once, but don’t meet his eyes. You bow your head. “I would… it would bring me great joy to fight for you again. To be your chieftain once more.”

His body continues to stay silent. If King Viktor has any thoughts, he can’t hear them. Well… this might be an improvement from the last… reality? Since Viktor only had a few moments of seeing you before he jumped to another one. Wait – jumped? Skipped? He needs to get back home to discuss this with you further. (Never mind your apparent amnesia – he’ll deal with that when he gets to it.)

“When the vultures start to circle…” Viktor begins.

“I will keep my nerve still,” you complete for him, your head still bowed.

He hums appreciatively. A small sound telling you to continue.

“The badlands…” You shake your head. “We must bring order. There are no gods, no kings – only man. The people there are many, but they don’t know how to organize amongst themselves. They have nothing but pride to defend.”

“Pride is a powerful motivator,” Viktor says.

“They speak of a crown for the victorious,” you say. “It shall be rightfully yours, if you allow me to conduct battle in your name.”

He takes you in. Your body is strong, chiseled, half-bare. You look battle-forged, molded in a crucible fuelled by hellfire. He can’t tell if the badlands have done you good or bad, but you stayed loyal to his kingly counterpart. That ought to count for something.

Viktor holds out his hand, his palm upturned. You look up, your eyes trained on his hand before looking up and meeting his gaze.

A moment passes. Your face twists slightly, the corners of your lips turning down a little and your eyebrows coming together a bit. Your jaw starts to clench and unclench again.

He turns his hand over, the back of it presented to you. You breathe out a shaky sigh and lift your hand from your knee.

“May the true king rise,” you say softly. You take his hand –

– and then immediately flinch away, clutching your palm. You let out a low growl, your face contorting in pain.

Viktor feels his stomach twist and his heart drop. He stumbles backwards into the corner of his cage, flexing his hands and digging his fingernails into his palms.

“No! No, no,” you say. You clench your hand, trying to stop your palm from bleeding. “No, Viktor. It wasn’t your fault. You just don’t know your strength yet, that’s all.”

You put your uninjured hand on one of the bars. “Please, Viktor. You’re hurting yourself.”

Viktor looks down at his hands. Sure enough, his fingernails have broken skin and his palms are starting to bleed. And, when he really looks at his own hands, they seem… different. His hands were comparable to King Viktor’s, but not to these.

His hands are rough and big, almost paw-like. And the rest of his body is, too; it’s mutated and it’s wrong.

He looks at you. You look… mostly the same. Your eyes are the wrong color and you’re a little bit shorter, but still. So why was he so different? What the hell happened to him?

“What…” Viktor’s voice is not his own. He’s not controlling it, and it’s deeper, his accent is thicker, and his words just barely slur together. “What did you… do to me?”

“I’m saving you,” you say readily. “You – you told me to continue the treatments…”

His eyes flutter shut. That’s right. He did. His disease is progressing and he is dying. This must be a truth in every reality.

“Don’t feel guilty,” you say, your voice soft and reassuring. “It’s worth it. Everything is worth it.”

Viktor opens his eyes. You’re still there, still smiling through the pain and still by his side. You look at him with nothing but love.

He lumbers forward, his bum leg no longer as much of an issue. He raises one of his hands and gingerly presses his fingers against yours where they rest on the bars of his cage.

“There you are,” you say softly.

Viktor’s eyes sting with tears. He leans forward and presses his forehead against the bars, letting his eyes slide close. It seems like there’s two truths in every reality – his disease and your love for him. Even if he’s a monster, you love him. You love him.

Surely, at home – in his base reality – you still love him. Somewhere, deep inside, there are remnants of your feelings… and Viktor would do anything to help you remember them.

A tear rolls down his cheek. “Here I am.”

“Oh, Vik…” You bring your hand to the side of Viktor’s neck, holding his jaw. “Don’t cry. You’re perfect.”

He lets out a shaky breath. He feels your lips meet his forehead –

– and then pull away. There’s a crooked smile on your face, and there’s something around Viktor’s neck.

He looks down, noticing a necklace you must’ve slipped on him while distracting him with a kiss. It’s sparkling with diamonds and white gold, but speckled with blood. He takes it off and puts it on the desk in front of him.

“Money is easier to process,” Viktor sighs. He shifts in his seat and crosses his legs. “But I appreciate it.”

“I put a whole lotta effort into gettin’ you all these nice things,” you say, your tone holding a twinge of a whine. You sling your arm around his shoulders and lean in. “Do all them families without pig-cop-daddies mean nothin’ to you?”

Viktor breathes in, then exhales slowly. He puts a hand on yours where it rests on his shoulder. “It means the world to me.”

You laugh and squeeze his shoulders, pressing the tip of your nose against his temple and knocking his glasses askew. Even though Viktor still feels… trapped in this body, for lack of a better term, this is nicer than the body he was in before. You’re warm against his cool skin, and he can feel himself smiling.

He allows you to continue your clinging as he flicks on a bright lamp and picks up a small magnifying glass. The word comes to mind – loupe. He hums softly as he brings the necklace close to his face, inspecting it with a careful eye.

“The white gold is real,” he says. “Most of the gems are real diamonds. Some of the smaller pieces are substituted with quartz. The piece looks relatively old, so they are more likely to be blood diamonds rather than lab-grown.”

You rest your cheek on Viktor’s shoulder. Your hand moves away from his other shoulder, instead tracing shapes into his back. “How much d’you think it’ll go for?”

“Our usual fence is shifting something big in Miami,” he says. “If that deal goes well, and she’s in a good mood… maybe twenty thousand?”

Viktor can feel you smile against his clothed skin. “Mh… I hope.”

“And the duffels you and the others brought back…” He sets the loupe and the necklace down on the desk. “How much do you estimate?”

“Maybe… half a mil each,” you say. Your hand moves further down his back, tracing over the notches in his back brace. “Silco has been talking to Danske Bank – they’re willin’ to launder. He also has an investor in Bosnia lined up.”

His stomach drops at that name. Silco. But… he might be different. Viktor’s different, you’re different – it’s almost as if you’re part of some sort of robbery group, with Viktor as a mediator with the fences. The blood on the necklace and the duffel bags full of money are evidence enough.

“Maybe we can take a trip there,” Viktor says, leaning back into your touch.

“Vik…” You laugh. “I’m on, like, seventeen ‘do not fly’ lists.”

He lifts a hand and runs a few fingers down your jaw. “When has that ever stopped you?”

You hum and lean into his touch, silently acknowledging that, no, a simple piece of paper (and the authority behind it) has never even given you the slightest bit of pause. “Why, ain’t you the smartest gemologist there ever done was…”

“You are quite the flatterer,” Viktor hums.

“Only the best for the love of my life,” you say softly.

His heart roars in his chest and he’s smiling so wide he’s sure he looks stupid. A breathy laugh escapes him and he turns, holding your warm face in both his hands.

You scrunch up your nose and screw your eyes shut, your smile big as you put your hands over his. Your laugh is soft and giggly when he pinches your cheeks lightly.

Viktor leans in, but his mental projection onto this body is so strong that it actually hesitates for a moment. This is… a different version of you. But he’s also a different version of himself – one that’s in love with this version of you. Besides, he doesn’t have that much control of this body, anyway. He’s missed you so much he can’t bring himself to care.

It’s almost as if you can feel his close presence, or his breath on your face, or maybe you just want to kiss him. His thin, chapped lips meet yours –

– and your lips feel rough, with patches of moss smattering across your face.

Viktor pulls away, one hand still splayed across your cheek, the other holding himself up with his cane. You bring him away from your face, and he can take you in in full.

He’s standing in the palm of your hand. You’re huge; sitting, you must be a story and a half tall. Your skin is covered – no, actually, you’re made of wood, twisting branches and trunks and bark making up your entire body. A winding crown made of bramble sits atop your head. Golden flowers, almost glowing, bloom across your collarbone and up one side of your neck, the petals looking almost silk-like. Your face is a simple blank mask, but Viktor can tell how you feel. The intrinsic connection between you two is almost tangible.

You hold out a finger towards him, then slowly, carefully ruffle his hair. Viktor feels a little like a doll, but the care and caution you use when handling him causes delighted laughter to bubble up his throat.

He leans into your touch, and a moment later, he realizes it’s of his own volition. He’s not trapped – his thoughts match his body, and he can do whatever he pleases. The very idea brings a smile to his face.

You make a sound that’s vaguely affirmative, kind of like cooing. You run your fingertip across the shell of his ear and past his pulse point, tipping his jaw up.

He looks up at you, that content smile still on his face. “Yes?”

You (again, slowly, carefully) move him close to you. With your free hand bracing against the ground, you stand. Wind batters Viktor, but he blocks most of it out when he hides against the flat, broad expanse of your chest.

When you stop moving, he looks over his shoulder across the vastness now exposed to him. Roots of trees reach from the ground into the night sky. Some are weaved together neatly, some are jerked into tight knots, some seem to be isolated from all the rest. None are the same. Everywhere Viktor looks, it’s crowded, with roots from one collection traveling a ways before joining another knot or weave or lattice, then another.

“What… is this?” Viktor asks.

“Behold the beauty, the interconnectedness of all realities,” you say. Your voice is deep and rumbling – it reminds him of the far-away explosions he’d hear in the mines as a child. “Lo, Viktor, witness the cosmos. We nurture its essence, lest each fragile existence come unraveled.”

“We?” Viktor echoes, looking up at you.

You look down at him, then raise your free hand to lovingly caress the flowers blooming on you. The color of the petals almost seem to match Viktor’s eyes. “Yea. We.”

You look forward and take a slow step that thunders when your foot meets the ground. The roots of the trees groan and whine as they bend out of your way as you walk. “Not long ago, I beheld a reflection of my own being… they were of your kind – small and frail, bound by the same fleeting fate. Dost thou know of this encounter?”

“I… did not know of this, no,” he says.

You hum, and it sounds like the rolling tide of an avalanche. “Yes. It is as I thought.”

Viktor watches as you reach up to a particularly intricate weaving of roots. Your fingertips grow branches and intrude the plait, lacing themselves into it.

He reaches out and splays a hand over the pad of your thumb as you… work? He’s not sure what you’re doing, actually. He doesn’t try anything else – just slowly lets his fingernails drag and catch on the dips of your thumbprint. It’s almost peaceful like this. Not trapped in his body or forced to say words he doesn’t mean.

“Doth that reflection of my own being recall thee?” You ask softly. (Well, as softly as you can ask, anyway.) “Or art thou but a wisp of memory, lost in the abyss?”

“They… they do not remember me, no,” Viktor says, his voice hesitating despite himself. “I do not even know if they would wish to have their memories back.”

Your fingertips slowly retreat from the lattice. “Thou and I art entwined, Viktor. A truth, unyielding – two fated souls, forever bound in every existence. In all realms, thou art bound to me, as I am unto thee. This truth cannot be undone; not even by mine own hand.”

“In every existence…” he repeats, a whisper to himself. The thought – fact, as you had pointed out – makes his chest swell.

Viktor gets interrupted when he feels something make contact with his foot. When he looks down, a root, skinny and scaly, is winding around his ankle. It reaches underneath his pant leg, and when it touches his skin –

– it’s you caressing Viktor’s ankles as he rests his feet in your lap.

Nothing to be scared of. Nothing to be afraid of. Everything is fine. There are no cosmos, no alternate universes and nothing to worry about.

The living room is warm and comfortable and it smells like home. It smells like you and sweetmilk. Fast-moving, sequential images are being displayed on a weird, skinny box – it’s a television. Something is playing on the television.

A rather… odd-looking man is sitting behind a table stocked with various candies and foods. He throws a handful of colorful candies in his mouth and chews. After a few moments, his shoulders start shaking in either subdued laughter or poorly-concealed terror – it’s hard to tell.

“It tastes like hamburger meat,” the man cries. “It tastes like raw hamburger meat!”

You laugh, and Viktor finds himself laughing with you. He doesn’t know what he’s laughing about. What’s a hamburger? A food. It’s an American food. What’s America? Stop asking questions.

“I am nothing if not a scientist,” Viktor says out loud. “And scientists ask questions, do they not?”

He turns to you and you have the wrong face. Distorted, melted. He opens his mouth to scream –

– and finds the breath stolen from his lungs.

You have the root crushed beneath your finger. It crumbles and withers away under the slight pressure.

“Pardon the interruption,” you say. “The feeble realities… they yearn for the conscious, intelligent soul. Thy mind must be a feast most bountiful.”

Viktor gasps, recovering from the mental whiplash. Then, after a moment, he smiles slightly, a soft breath passing his lips. “I would like to believe that it is.”

“More shall seek. They sense thee, crawling forth for whispers of memories remaining.” You move a bit faster now, with more purpose. “We must return thee to thine reality. Mine own dear Viktor slumbers… soon, the time comes for it to wake.”

You continue moving at a quicker pace, but it’s clear you’re making sure not to knock Viktor out of your hand. The roots groan and give soft cracking noises that leave him worried as you continue on your path.

Viktor clocks what you said a second later. “Wait, your own Viktor?”

“Indeed,” you say. “For now, it slumbers. This is for the preservation of both your fates.”

“Your Viktor is in danger?” He asks.

“Nay. With every shard of my being, I shield it from danger unknown,” you say. “Such potent, restless souls dwell within you both. I shall not tempt risk and allow both thine eyes to open at the same time.”

Before Viktor can question you further, you slowly come to a stop in front of a ball of roots – a delicate lace made of strong wood. He feels an intrinsic, instinctual pull to it; like how an animal doesn’t know the word ‘hunger,’ but eats when it’s hungry. He doesn’t know the word or the feeling he has toward this thing – this reality – but he needs to interact with it. Needs to be back in that reality, his base reality.

“Hark,” you say. “Thine home.”

You reach out to it, invading it with your branches like you did to the one before. They snake their way through the intricate weaving.

You then look down at Viktor and bring him up to your collarbone, close to the golden flowers. Up close, the petals are whorls and swirls of golden yellows, and the stamen are crimson at the base with off-white tips.

“Dost thou not behold the beauty of my dear Viktor?” You ask.

He stops himself from touching one of the petals and looks up at you. “This… this is me?”

“Indeed,” you say. “A reflection. Brush over the blooms. It shall lead thee back to thine home.”

Viktor takes a step forward and brushes his hand over the flowers. A chime sounds, and pollen falls – well, it doesn’t really fall so much as it floats in the air.

A translucent, almost celestial figure appears from the flowers and pollen, curled up with its eyes closed. As it hovers, it morphs for a few seconds, then becomes a reflection of Viktor; naked, warm, peaceful. A small smile rests on its lips.

“Lo, witness my harbinger. My Viktor, the conduit of fate,” you say. “A catalyst for thine return. Touch, and behold its might — your might.”

Viktor looks up at you.

“Be not afraid,” you say. Your voice shifts, and it’s no longer deep and thunderous and godlike. It’s yours. It’s the voice you have in Viktor’s reality. It’s the voice you use when you’re marveling at his beauty, when you make him turn soft and mushy and romantic. “They wait for thee, Viktor. Who art thou to deny thine beloved?”

And something in him cracks and blooms, like a weed through the concrete slabs of Piltover sidewalks. Viktor reaches forward and touches his reflection’s shoulder.

His reflection breathes out a sigh, a pink mist leaving its mouth. It slowly uncurls, then opens its eyes and turns to Viktor.

Their eyes meet –

– and he’s home. He’s in the lab, still holding your hand in a crushing grip.

Your eyes go wide and your breathing starts to turn labored. Viktor is still crying. Tears well up in your eyes in response.

“Viktor,” you whisper, your voice warbling.

He whispers your name in return. Quiet. Disbelieving.

You let out a choked, ugly sound, and scramble for him, almost falling to the ground as you get off the workbench. You wrap him up in your arms and he holds you close, pressing his face into the crook of your neck.

“You’re really here,” Viktor says, his voice thick and sticky.

“I’m here,” you sob.

He pulls away just a little, just enough to see you, to take the true you in again. Your face is twisted in heavy emotion, and yet, you still look so gorgeous. Fat tears roll down your face and you can’t stop crying, but you’re all that Viktor ever wants.

“I never thought I would see you again,” he says softly. “When you – it…”

He tilts his head forward, touching his forehead to yours as his eyes close. “I was so scared. I thought…”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy.” You laugh weakly.

“What? No, no, don’t say that.” Viktor moves his hands, one now holding your face and the other resting on the back of your neck. “I would never get rid of you. Never, never in a thousand years.”

You put your hand on his where it rests on your cheek and relax into his touch. A moment later, you gasp, turning away from Viktor. “The Hexcore!”

You look around, then spot it silently hovering above its place on the workbench. It doesn’t make any noise, doesn’t spit blue arcs of lightning, doesn’t do much of anything.

“Is it…” You trail off and sniffle. “Is it stable?”

“We have not so much as touched it since you left,” Viktor says. “We did not want to risk anything… not until I got you back, at least.”

“You got me back?” You turn back to him with a smug smile playing on your lips despite the drying tears on your face. “Possessive.”

He laughs and returns to his rightful place, resting his forehead against your shoulder. “Yes, maybe. But you cannot blame me, no? You have been gone, and I… I have been afraid.”

“I’m here now,” you say softly. Your arms wrap around him and ensure he stays close. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Viktor says.

You hum and rest your head in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. He remembers you fawning over the faint scent of sweetmilk that hid under the smell of electrical smoke, smiling and telling him that it made him ‘even cuter.’ (But you had complained about the smell of rancid smoke. You told him to go get a change of clothes soon after.)

“I’m exhausted,” you say softly. Your voice is so quiet only he can hear, like it’s a whisper, like it’s a secret.

Viktor pulls away just slightly, then guides you to the plush sofa hidden behind the blackboard. He wheels it out of the way and waits for you.

You lay down and stretch out, wiggling until you’re comfortable. You reach behind your head and prop your head up with your forearm, then pat your chest in a silent invitation.

Viktor props his cane up against the side of the sofa and carefully lays down on you, slotting himself against your body. You’re just as warm as he remembered. Your free hand strokes his messy, untamed hair, and it’s like you were never apart from him.

He silently promises himself that this will never happen again – this separation will never happen again. The Hexcore will be dealt with, whether that means taming or destroying it.

Viktor will never leave you again. Just like the god-you said, with every shard of his being, he will protect you. He may be a dying cripple, but a dying cripple doesn’t have a lot to lose.

“Thou and I art entwined, Viktor. A truth, unyielding – two fated souls, forever bound in every existence. In all realms, thou art bound to me, as I am unto thee. This truth cannot be undone; not even by mine own hand.”

The voice of god-you, deep and thundering, whispers in the back of his head. The thought gives Viktor comfort.

He slides his hand underneath you, holding you just as you’re holding him. He’s not letting you go, not for a while. As long as you’ll have him, he’ll be yours.

Come hell or high water, he’ll always be yours. He doesn’t have that much energy to fight that fate anyway. (Nor does he really want to.)

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moonstruckme · 5 months ago

Note

Hi I’m a huge fan of your work, especially how you write Remus. Could I request Remus and reader getting dressed up for a dinner date/wedding/fancy party? And they’re just smitten over each other and can’t get enough of each other?

Thank you gorgeous!

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 732 words

You hear Remus’ frustrated grunt from within the bathroom. Pause in dabbing your lipstick.

“Need help?”

“No, I’ve—oh, fuck me. It’s fine, I’ve got it.”

You smile to yourself at your boyfriend’s disgruntled tone. You finish up quickly, going into the bedroom to lend a hand.

“Here, let me.”

“I’m a fully grown adult.” Remus huffs but lets you take his tie into your hands. You start undoing his complicated knot. “I should know how to tie my own bloody tie.”

“It’s easier when you’re not the one wearing it. Anyway, you only get practice a couple of times a year.”

“Because I look like a knob in one,” he mutters, though his voice softens as he watches you fold one part of the fabric carefully over the other.

“You don’t; you look handsome.” You let your eyes flit up to his, catching the sweet beginnings of his smile. “Suits suit you.”

“Yeah, ha ha.” Remus grins down at you as you finish with his tie, tightening the knot himself. “Thank you, dove. Oh.” His expression shifts as you take a step back, eyes taking you in for the first time since you disappeared to the bathroom to get ready. His voice goes a bit breathy. “Oh, you look incredible.”

A pleased heat rises to your cheeks. “Thanks,” you say, smoothing your hands down the sides of your dress self-consciously. “Could you zip me up?”

Remus gestures for you to turn around, eyes still roving you from head to toe. You’ve always loved that, the way he watches things, taking in the world with quiet studiousness, but you think you may never get used to being the subject of such perusal.

“Do you think my makeup might be a bit too much?” you ask as he draws the cold zipper up your spine, careful of any snags or catches. “Be honest.”

“No, I don’t.” The zipper reaches the top, and Remus’ hands find your hips. He turns you towards him. “I think you look perfect.” He kisses your cheek, mindful not to disrupt any of your work. “Beautiful.”

“Are you sure? There’s still time to change it, I could scale it back.”

Remus frowns. His thumbs draw small circles over your hips, feeling the material of your dress. “If you want to, that’s fine. But why?”

You shrug, sheepish. “I want your work friends to like me.”

“They’re going to like you.”

He says it so easily, like there are no possible alternatives. You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “I just want to look nice,” you say. “Or, I don’t know, refined. You’re all professors, I don’t want to be the only one who shows up in purple eyeliner or something.”

“You’re not wearing purple eyeliner,” he points out.

“For example.”

Remus gathers you close, hand flat over the small of your back. “You’re very refined,” he tells you, looking you in your eyes. “You’re twice as refined as I am, and they like me fine.”

You smile up at him. “You have credentials.”

Remus tilts his chin down, until there’s only an inch or two between you. His lips curve. “I’ll accredit you.”

“Flirt.”

“Flatterer.”

You laugh. Remus looks delighted, his lips coming down on yours with less restraint than you know to expect from him. It makes you smile wider, your mouths a mirror image as you press up onto your toes to give as good as you get.

“Sorry,” he says after, a tad breathily. “I don’t want to mess up your lip…stuff.”

You grin at him. “It’ll be okay.” You’ll fix it in the car.

Remus takes your hands, fingers lacing between yours. He lets them hang between you.

“You wouldn’t be the only one in purple eyeliner,” he tells you, “but you might have to make peace with standing out, sweetheart. It’s hard to avoid when you’re the loveliest thing in the room.”

You rub your lips together, giving him a meaningful look. “Not the loveliest thing,” you say.

Your boyfriend blinks, surprised, before his eyes crinkle with fondness. He gives your hands a squeeze. “Now who’s the flirt?”

“Still you.” You let go of one of his hands but keep hold of the other, taking him with you to go find your shoes. “You’re the one in that tie.”

Remus’ laughter sends a stream of butterflies straight through you. You wonder at having encouraged such a sound.

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benedictscanvas · 1 year ago

Text

pretty boy, pretty girl - jamie tartt x reader

pairing: jamie tartt x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k

a/n: okay yes. it has been six months. which is actually mad to me, but there we are - whoops! i've been off following my dream and wrote this while procrastinating an assignment, so this is by no means a return!! honestly i was just itching to write it, but i don't know how much time i have for more - enjoy nevertheless <3

warnings: just a little bit of suggestion towards the end, reader is referred to as 'pretty girl' as the title implies amongst other pet names, quite a lot of swearing (some things don't change)

---

“Hi love.”

Jamie barely murmurs it as he walks past you, can’t help himself but to drag a palm along your back, one shoulder blade to the other, as he goes.

He knows he’s bold sometimes, but he swears it’s instinct. He glances back to see whether your expression holds any discomfort, but all he finds is your grin, a tiny wave. He continues on his path towards the canteen, knowing that your corridor conversation with Rebecca is probably important.

Somewhere between here and there, he decides to get your lunch, your usual, and sits alone on a table until you appear.

You do, three and a half minutes later. As soon as he sees you, the irrepressible urge to make you grin again is back with a vengeance. He waves you over to his table with a gesture to the food he’s got for you and- there it is again.

If he was a slightly smarter man, maybe he’d consider why all it took was the sight of him to draw your lips upwards, set your eyes alight.

“Thought I’d save y’ from the queue,” he speaks, still soft, in a tone he feels he only uses with you. You match his unnecessary low volume.

“Thanks, angel,” you say easily, and you must not see his stomach doing flips, “Too good to me, you are.”

“Shut up,” he deflects, wonders if you can see him fluster at your nickname for him, “Are you still coming tonight?”

You groan. He frowns, and you quickly correct.

“Sorry. It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, you sound proper convinced, an’ all.”

You chuckle, taking a bite out of your sandwich and taking a pause to chew. Jamie eats too, content to let you think before you speak. It was slowly teaching him to do the same.

“I’m just boring, Jamie. My favourite people are all under this roof, but usually they’re sober, you know?”

He often forgets you don’t really drink. Your friendship (however sour that word feels in relation to you) usually confined to these halls, to the pitch, to various football stadiums up and down the country. When they all get a chance to let loose, you’re very quick with the excuses, but he’s believed them blindly until this moment.

“Shit, y’ don’t drink, right? I can’t imagine that’s much fun in a club. I won’t tell anyone if you happen to come down with an illness or somethin’ this afternoon.”

You’re grinning at him again, all bright and sunny. It’s downright infectious, so Jamie nudges your foot with his on purpose and then apologises like it’s an accident.

“You’re alright,” you reassure, “I will join tonight. Even if it just proves to myself I’m not missing out on anything. Maybe Colin’s not as bad a drunk as I’ve been led to believe.”

Jamie winces.

“No, he is pretty bad,” he admits and then finally comes up with something to make you more comfortable, “Hey, what about this? I won’t drink either and we can spend the evening laughin’ at everyone else.”

You poke his hand and he tries not to drop his crisp packet.

“It’s everyone’s ‘relax and recharge’ night, Ted said. We both know you relax much easier with a few drinks in you. And I’d never judge anyone for that, I really hope it doesn’t come across like I’m judging any-“

“It doesn’t, sweetness,” he cuts in, “But actually, I’ll relax better if I’m one hundred percent positive that you’re relaxing too. What better way than judgin’ everyone else, together like?”

You purse your lips thoughtfully, mid-chew. He feels like he’s holding his breath, like he’s underwater and you’re in charge of the oxygen tank.

“Well, see how you feel when we’re there. It sounds lovely but only if you’re still up for it when we’re right next to a bar,” you say, still unconvinced. He wants to convince you fully, but he can’t decide if he should argue with you or kiss you silly before you speak again, “Hey, if not, I’ll buy you a drink?”

“Pretty sure that’s my line, love.”

“I said it, I meant it. Girls can buy drinks for pretty boys, you know.”

He thinks you might have removed his oxygen tank now. There’s some cruelty in that sentence but you don’t know you’re wielding it. He wills himself to flirt back even though it’ll only make him feel sick.

“Okay, pretty girl. One passionfruit J2O, please.”

Another grin. He’s so fucking fucked.

---

He’s been waiting for you for around forty minutes. He doesn’t know if that’s the normal amount of time you take to get ready, even if he wishes he knew, so he just waits, leaning against his car.

After fifty, he decides there’s no harm in just checking you’re alright and haven’t slipped on a sparkly floor that an evening cleaner has done a number on.

You mentioned going to the kit room to get changed, and he meets Will on his way there.

“Hey mate, you seen Y/N?”

Will looks paler than he’s ever been. Guilty. Jamie narrows his eyes and waits.

“Kit room.”

It’s all that Will says. When Jamie doesn’t walk off immediately, still waiting for an explanation for Will’s strange demeanour, Will turns around and legs it all the way down the corridor, turns left at the end and never returns.

Jamie shakes his head and continues in the direction of the kit room. The closer he gets, the more he hears. Muffled banging, shouting. He picks up the pace.

“Y/N? Love?”

“Jamie! Jamie, in here!”

Your voice floats out from the kit room and he hurries over. Still very confused, Jamie turns the door handle and finds the door won’t budge, however hard he shoves his shoulder against it.

“It’s locked, babe. Did you lock it?”

He hears your exasperated sigh and feels a little embarrassed.

“No I didn’t bleeding lock it! Well, I did, when I was getting changed, but then when I unlocked it my side it had been locked from the outside.”

Jamie struggled to put the dots together. Had Will locked you in? Judging by the running, he had… and he’d done it on purpose. A spark of anger shot down Jamie’s spine but he tried to convince himself there must be a reason.

Before he could, there was a hand on his on the door, pulling him away. It was being unlocked by another hand and then he was being shoved inside, hard enough to stumble against one of the benches. A piece of paper was thrown at his face and Jamie groaned as he heard the lock click back in place.

“What the fuck?” he muttered as he stood up fully, more dazed than angry now as he stared at the locked door.

“Jesus, Jamie, are you alright? Who the fuck was that?”

“I dunno,” he says, staring at the door as if it might have answers. Your hand on his face wakes him up, his eyes shifting to yours where you look him over with concern.

“You’re alright, though?”

You ask it like you need the answer, and Jamie needs you to stop trailing a finger along his hairline either way.

“Fine, love,” he assures you, patting the juncture between your shoulder and neck gently until your hands drop to your sides. Then he raises his voice, and he’s not really talking to you anymore, “Whoever’s locked us in here as some kind of joke won’t be fuckin’ alright though!”

No answer. He picks up the small piece of paper from the floor and reads it in his head.

Tell her, you prick.

He’s actually going to hit Roy with his car. Lightly, definitely not enough to damage him, but enough to really, really piss him off.

This was all some ridiculous attempt to make him tell you how he felt about you? Absolutely not. Never. He wouldn’t be coerced into something so delicate, so important.

“What’s it say?”

You’re peering over the top of the paper, but he folds it in two before you can read anything. His chuckle comes out strained.

“It says: Get fucking pranked. Must be Roy, he’s probably scared Will into helpin’ him, the fucker. I’m afraid it’s payback for putting all his socks on the ceiling last week, babe, an’ you’ve been caught in the middle.”

You pause, staring at your shoes. For some reason, you look far more forlorn than the situation calls for, but it’s gone before he can think about it further.

“On the ceiling?”

He nods and you giggle. It’s only as you step away from him in your laughter that he realises how close you had been. He should’ve savoured it.

It’s also only as you step away that Jamie finally gets a glimpse of your outfit and nearly reaches out to the nearby bench for strength. He’s never seen you in a v-neck anything before, let alone a dress, and he thinks it might do him in.

“You look good,” he says lamely, then tries again, “Great. Fan-fuckin’-tastic, I mean.”

“I like that last one,” you smile, ducking your head. He thinks, or rather hopes, you’re a little flustered, “Fan-fuckin’-tastic happens to be what I was going for.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, words gone as soon as he’d found them. And now he was staring. Shit.

“I like your suit,” you say, maybe breathless yourself. It must be his ears. You reach up as if you might fiddle with his lapel but just point towards it before your hand drops again. You practically fall down onto the bench you’re both stood beside and he follows, ever obedient, “Shame no one else will ever see it. How long do you think we’ll be stuck here?”

The suit isn’t for anyone except you. That’s what he’d say if he had any stupid bravery. He’s an awful coward, he thinks.

“Until Roy gets bored or Keeley finds out I reckon,” Jamie guesses, “Y’ wanna play I-spy?”

You sigh, but when he peeks at you out of the corner of his eye, you’re grinning your silly, lovely grin again.

“I spy with my little eye…”

---

It is around 11pm, when Jamie has not long fallen asleep against the jacket he had scrunched behind his head, that he feels your hand on his ankle. He can tell, as he wakes without opening his eyes, that you’re not trying to rouse him. The touch is light, feathery. Maybe an accident.

No, not an accident. It wouldn’t have lasted this long, and your thumb is drawing absentminded circles into his ankle bone. You think he’s asleep and you’ve reached out to hold him anyway.

He opens his eyes but doesn’t move. His legs are stretched out on the bench in front of him and you sit upright next his sock-clad feet, one hand on his bare ankle. You’re staring at a piece of paper so intently he wonders what could possibly be so interesting.

“This doesn’t say get fucking pranked, Jamie,” you murmur, and his hand flies to his jacket pocket. It must have fallen out when he slumped into a slumber. He’s sat up in a blink, watching the hand that had been so soothing, fall back at your side suddenly.

“I’m sorry. Shit. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“No, don’t,” you insist, still staring at the piece of paper. Instead of whirling on him for answers, you reach calmly into one of the boot cubbies beside your head and pull out a piece of paper from one of the boots. You chuck it at him without looking.

He unfolds it with careful, if shaky, hands.

Tell him, you silly shit.

It takes him an absurdly long time to understand what the hell this second piece of paper means. Later, when the two of you look back on this moment (and you do so often), you’ll wonder how he could have been so dense and he’ll spin you a line about how too good to be true it all felt. But in the moment, he has no lines and no words, until your hand lands heavy on his knee this time.

“Jamie,” you say softly, through a grin that is so different from your usual that he could pass out. It’s so beautiful and so strikingly lovesick that he thinks he might actually be sick, “What do you have to tell me?”

“What?”

He feels dumber than he’s ever felt. But your hand is still on his knee and now you’re shuffling closer to him on the bench.

“What do you have to tell me?” you repeat, then you poke his chest playfully as you add, “You prick.”

He still looks confused, so you clearly decide the best way to catch him up is to kiss him.

You pull away after a moment, a moment of pure heaven, because clearly you don't want to kiss him fully until he's all clued in.

"Come on, pretty boy," you say, teasing, "Figure it out. I was going to buy you a passionfruit J2O. It's the sign of all signs."

He should be laughing at your joke, but all he really wants to do is kiss you again. And again.

Maybe again.

"Oh pretty girl," he says, and he feels the rumble of his low tone in his chest. He places a hand on your face, fingers itching at your hairline, "I'll tell you anything ya wanna hear, I swear. Anythin'."

He hears your breath hitch, but he feels it too, where the meat of his palm is covering your neck.

"Anything?" you answer back, "I could have a lot of fun with this."

You scrunch up your brow like you're thinking and he's so stupidly in love with you that he just tells you. Too-soon be damned.

"Smooth talker," you laugh, giddy, and you kiss him again. And it's so good that he doesn't even remember you didn't say it back until hours later.

(at which point, you say it back so many times and in so many ways, Jamie is certain that he's the luckiest man in the world. he might not hit Roy with his car after all)

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x you #ted lasso x reader

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captain-huggy-bear · 20 days ago

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bestie i can’t get clayton stupid keller out of my head. i’ve convinced myself he’s a thigh guy. he’s biting and pinching and rubbing and ugh

Call me biased here...but I am a firm believer that he's a thighs, butt, hips man. He gives vibes of liking them thighs thiiicckkk (but I am biased as a girlie with junk in the trunk lol) Also we all know I firmly believe he's a biter, he is a biter, a nibbler, an oral fixator, Let him bite your thighs please, thanks. 18+ NSFW MDNI Big requests/full fic/big idea requests are closed at the moment but drabble and prompt requests are still open. Writing Masterlist

He blames you entirely. That fucking skirt is going to kill him. Short, flared, fanning out over your ample hips and stopping short in a way that shows your thighs, God, your fucking thighs. They're plush and soft and Jesus, can he just have his head crushed between them? That's how he wants to go out he decides, eyes fixed on your skin.

You're trying to kill him. He's actually certain because Jesus Christ how can you expect him to sit there normally for an entire evening at a bar with his team mates when his eyes keep drifting down to those thighs, plush flesh that he needs to bite, nibble on, pinch, touch.

He lasts 10 minutes before his hand is on your knee.

"Clay." Your voice is a low warning because you know where his head is at, the way his eyes are dark and half-lidded, fingers pressing into your knee, ring glinting against your skin.

"What?"

"You know what." Your hand reaches atop his as it slides from your knee to the middle of your thigh, an attempt to stop him in his tracks under the table. Your hand so tiny compared to his that it only adds fuel to the fire in his gut, the desire to say fuck it and drag you home.

His fingers just tighten their grip on your thigh, kneading the flesh there like he's kneading dough. His hand is so fucking warm, so large, so...God, so Clay, that your resolve is a little weak, weak enough that he can slide his hand higher until it slips between your thighs.

You draw your line there, thighs pressing together tight to stop him moving any further but it just makes him laugh, low and deep. A gravelly sort of laugh that has your eyelids fluttering as you hide your face in his shoulder for a moment, certain people will know he's got his hand between your thighs under the table.

"What's so funny, cap?" It's Kess that asks, turning those big oblivious brown eyes on the two of you and you want him to just turn away, to focus back on Jack and the conversation they were in the middle of because now there's at least four pairs of eyes on you.

"Nothing, just a bad joke..." Clay smirks at him in that way of his, all quiet confidence, like there's an inside joke Michael's not apart of...which in a way is true.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, baby, what was that joke again?" The look you give him is more a glare than anything else, but still, you breathe deep and turn to Kess with a smile, face flushing and warming because he's got to know what's going on under the table, surely?

"Why did the lobster blush?"

"Why?" You yelp as Clay pinches your thigh and you cough to cover it up, Kess giving you a confused look like he thinks you might be losing it. Which to be fair you feel like you are.

"The seaweed."

"Right..." Your bad joke falls flat, flat enough that all the eyes on you turn away, returning to past conversations until you can breathe a little easier.

"Clay..." You're whispering in his ear, worried about getting caught. His hand still trapped between your thighs, pinches you again on your inner thigh, sensitive, too much. It has your stomach flipping, wetness gathering between your thighs, shiver rolling over your skin.

"Yeah, baby?"

"Take me home."

He doesn't even respond, not verbally. Doesn't even say much to the rest of the team, a short goodnight that's so abrupt they must be confused, before he's up and practically dragging you out of the bar and to the car.

All he can think about is his lips on your thigh, his teeth biting into the plump flesh, leaving marks over your skin until you can't wear a skirt without someone seeing who you belong to.

His hand doesn't leave your thigh the entire drive, rubbing from knee to hip, slipping under your skirt, pinching, rolling the flesh between his fingers until you're dotted with little red marks and shaking in your seat from need.

And when he finally has you home? Laid out on your bed, thighs spread to accommodate those broad shoulders of his? Fuck, you're not going anywhere for hours, not getting any relief because he doesn't even touch you where you want him most. Fingers not reaching for your clit or slipping inside your cunt. Instead he's all teeth and tongue on each thigh, working from knee up to the crease at your pelvis. He bites and nips, he sucks bruises into your skin and gently runs his fingers over your skin until your panties are soaked, until it's too much, overstimulated without him even touching you properly, wriggling away from his touch but desperate to be closer.

Yeah, fuck, yeah, Clay loves your thighs and you'll be okay, right? If he just stays there for another hour or two or three? Right? Of course you will because your his good girl who's happy to do whatever he wants.

He'll eat you out eventually, but right now? Right now he wants your thighs covered in hickeys until you can't wear anything but jeans for a week.

#18+ mdni #huggy bear writes #clayton keller x reader #clayton keller/reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

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glasvera · 3 months ago

Text

...Shame on Me

Loki x GN!Reader

Description: The final part, preceded by Fool Me Once... , ...Shame on You , and Fool Me Twice...

You've been sent on a covert mission to distract the God of Mischief himself long enough to foil his plans. Unfortunately, this task becomes much harder when your target proves incredibly disarming.

Warnings/Disclaimers: Angst, reader starts out bound in chains, forbidden love. Gender neutral reader, reader is an expert in covert operations and deception.

A/N: Yeah I uh... ouchie. My heart hurt writing this. Apologies if the ending is a bit abrupt, but I didn't know how to continue it further without branching it off into a good/bad ending sort of thing.

Word Count: 1.6k

“This could have been so much easier for you…”

You flash awake with a start, your head snapping around the room you find yourself in. It’s… Loki’s. You’re in Loki’s room, and evidently you’d been sleeping on his bed. A throbbing pain starts in your head, and you bring a hand up to hold it as you shield your eyes from the daylight filtering through his window, but the movement is accompanied by the rattling of chain links.

“What…?” You stare down at the metal cuff clasped about your wrist, following its chain all the way down to where it’s bolted into the floor. An experimental tug of your other hand confirms that you’ve been restrained on both sides. Panic gnaws at the edges of your mind, but years of practice allows you to steel yourself against it, even if you can’t stop your hands from trembling slightly.

The click of heeled boots approaches from the hallway outside. Every muscle in your body tenses, but you know you need to stay calm. No sense in making your situation worse before you’ve been able to make a proper escape plan. As you expected, Loki appears from behind the door, clad in his full regalia, and he eyes you with disdain.

“Ah… the bird awakens in its gilded cage,” he notes idly as he removes his golden horned helm. He’s expecting a reaction, so instead you draw your lips into a thin line, denying him the satisfaction. That disappoints him greatly.

“I could have killed you, you know,” he remarks as he draws closer. His arms are tucked behind his back, and your eyes watch for any twitch of muscle in the event that he’s hiding some sort of weapon there.

You take the bait on his banter though, morbidly intrigued by this god’s intentions. “Why haven’t you, then? I thought you weren’t a coward,” you spit.

He curls his lip into a snarl before inhaling deeply and composing himself. Leaning forward, he harshly grips your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him. “I’m not,” he corrects you, his voice dripping with venom. “Besides, you are of more use to me alive than dead.”

You stare defiantly into those emerald eyes. He may be the master of lies and deception, but you detect a faint veneer of regret amidst the frustration that flares within him. Likely regret that he hadn’t chained you up sooner, you think. When he releases his hold, pushing your face to the side as he does so, your head spins with a myriad of emotions.

There is regret within you as well. Your defiance, your anger, is ignited by raw betrayal.

“Your friends have been detained,” he speaks suddenly, and you’re broken out of your thoughts as you feel dread crawling into your chest. He’s facing away from you now, his arms still clasped behind his back, and gazes out at Yggsgard from the window. Your mission, your whole reason for being here… had he seen through it all? As though he could read your mind, he tuts at you, eyeing you over his shoulder. “Really, did you think you could weasel your way into my palace so easily? You are lovely to look at, but clearly you’re not very bright.”

You have no response, hanging your head low and cursing yourself for not realizing it sooner. Not only had he seen through your every move--you were the very reason this mission had failed. You had let your guard down without realizing it.

“I… they’re still alive?” you finally ask.

Loki sighs, seemingly irritated by the question. “I am a trickster, not a murderer. I have no reason to kill them, so they live.” He explains it to you like it’s a concept that even a five year old should understand. It’s condescending, infuriating, and you grit your teeth to suppress every biting retort that bubbles in the back of your throat.

“We are still to be wed,” he states methodically, clearly ready to move on from the subject.

“And do your subjects know you have your spouse-to-be chained to your bed?”

To your surprise, he winces at that, turning to face you properly. “I had to take precautions. The illusion was slipping faster than I had anticipated. You seem to be too perceptive for your own good.”

You snort. “Comes with the job territory.”

A low, sinking feeling settles into the pit of your stomach as realization washes over you. You are to be wed. In your moment of clarity, you tried desperately to break free, to say no and get as far away from this dangerous man as possible while you had the chance. That wasn’t even the worst part. Had you been in your right mind, had you been with him longer under different circumstances… you very well may have said yes of your own accord.

“It was all a lie…” you breathe softly, huffing a laugh at yourself. “I don’t know why I expected anything else. Illusions, trickery, false love…” Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

Loki’s eyes find the marble floors before he shuts them. “Love is not something I am allowed. And the heart is so easily toyed with.” Where there should be malice in his tone, you only hear bittersweet melancholy.

At every turn, this man seeks to confuse you, to wrench your heart from your chest and stomp it down into the earth. And at every turn you’ve allowed him to fool you again and again. You hiss through your teeth, willing the tears not to fall. Shame knots in your gut, squeezing your organs like a vice, and your bottom lip trembles.

“You should have killed me,” you utter in a shaky whisper. Your hands ball into fists where they rest atop your knees. “If there is any kindness in you, you would kill me instead of subjecting me to this.”

“I… cannot,” he replies, unable to look at you.

It fills you with unbridled rage. Calming your emotions is long forgotten as your nails dig painfully into your palms and your knuckles go white. “Why not!? Is this all a part of your sick plan? Does marrying me give you leverage against--”

“I WON’T!” he bellows suddenly, baring his teeth when his face snaps towards you. It startles you to silence, and your eyes widen as you frown and your brow furrows. The tension slowly fades from his body, his shoulders slouched as he regards you with misty eyes. “I… I won’t. I can’t. Not you.”

No. This is another trick. Even if every fiber of your being begs for it to be real, you can’t allow him to snake his way into your heart again. It hurts, and you can’t stop the tears that fall, but you can stand up to it this time.

“You tell me you cannot love, and then you expect me to believe that you won’t kill me simply because you can’t bring yourself to?” you retaliate with disdain.

“You… you have every right,” he relents, and that does catch you off-guard. “In another life, perhaps I…” He cuts himself off, turning on his heel and walking away from the bed. With a snap of his fingers, the metal cuffs on your wrists unclasp, falling to the silken bed sheets as you stare down at your wrists in shock.

He was the most confusing man you’d ever met. Perhaps the most tragic as well. It should be pathetic to see him look so wounded, but you only have one question on your mind.

So, as he stalks off towards the door to leave, you launch yourself from the bed. He doesn’t move, simply stopping in his tracks as he continues to face away. You don’t have time to think about how odd that is or why he does it. No, you just need to know. Your hand finds his shoulder and spins him around to face you. You have to know. His eyes widen when your fingers cup his cheek gingerly. When you pull him in for a kiss, you can taste the lingering salt of his tears.

But you had to know if it was real.

Any part of it. Illusions or no, your feelings still ran true even with a clear mind. Still, he had admitted that the heart was so easy to toy with.

So why did it sound like he was talking about himself?

Your answer comes with a sob, a broken breath whispered against your lips, as his hands rise to cradle the back of your head. The warmth of fresh tears dampens your palm. His fingers claw into the back of your scalp as his lips press deeper, needier, craving the warmth and safety of your kiss. Your arm wraps around his neck to keep him close, and you feel the tears falling down your own face.

This was forbidden. To stay with him was to be an accomplice to the atrocities he’s committed to secure his reign. Even if this mission had failed, you knew he had to be thwarted, and you knew you had to be a part of it. When your lips part and your eyes meet his, you can see that same conflict brewing behind verdant green irises. Your fingertips run soothingly along his cheekbone, and his eyes flutter closed as he swallows back another sob.

“You have to leave,” he finally whispers, the words torturous upon his lips when his eyelids flicker open. His forehead presses against yours, and his hands come to rest gingerly on either side of your face. “I cannot bring myself to cage you.”

“Tomorrow, then,” you murmur with a bittersweet smile. “I would stay with you tonight, at least.”

#loki x reader #loki #marvel rivals loki #marvel rivals x reader #marvel rivals #i am not immune to loki propaganda #glasvera writes

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admirationandromantics · 4 months ago

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Could you please write something about Chris or Josh with a virgin reader? How they'd react when they found out? How their first time would be like? Both of them strike me as virgins as well but idk🤷‍♀️

Yes, I also imagine both of them as virgins. Josh seems like he’s been all talk, no action. And Chris? Well, I feel that one is obvious. Anyways, I’ll do both in this post, and for the sake of the writing, the reader is the only virgin, not the guys. They’ve both had sex before. Just because it’s easier to work with. Anyway, enjoy <3

Chris

He’s not surprised when you tell him, he did not think you were, but the reveal gives him a little comfort as well. Why, you ask? Because he doesn’t need to match himself up to someone else. He’s confident in his ways, and that he can make you feel good, but at the same time, this guy will never stop being insecure, and that small part of it relieved him a little.

What he also does feel anxious about is the fact that he’ll be your first. And what do people say about their first time? Awkward, weird, nothing went as planned… He wants to make sure that your first time goes well, and that it was a good experience. “I promise, as long as I’m with you, I’ll be happy” “Yeah, yeah. But I’m gonna make you happy for another reason than that too”

If you are the VERY romantic type, he’ll set everything up. A nice dinner, candles, music etc. He wants you to remember this, and trust me, remember you will.

One of his goals is to drag out the foreplay as long as possible, wanting you to be drenched and needy for him. Better to go too slow than too quick. This makes the makeout session last way longer than necessary, and you’re starting to get impatient. “C-Chris, I need you now” “No, no, just a little bit longer” he whispers, hand in your hair, pulling you towards him.

It’s firstly when you start unconsciously grinding on his thigh that he finally understands how down-bad you are, and he starts working on your clothing. He’s fast and gentle with his hands, easily unclasping and removing your bra.

The cold air hitting your nipples while he admires you, hands groping and lips sucking. You can’t do anything but throw your head back, gripping his shoulders for support as he continues his assault.

You guys move on, getting each other's clothes off, and him getting on top of you, fingers digging into your heat as you whimper. He continuously asks if you’re okay, if you’re in pain or uncomfortable.

“You sure you want to keep going?” “Y-yes” “I can stop if-” “I swear, I’ll kill you if you stop now” “Oh? well then” a smile creeping on his lips as he drags out his fingers.

He positions himself, using your juices as lube as he slowly moves up and down, getting ready. “Okay, we’re gonna take this slow, okay?” You nod, taking a deep breath as he fills you up, small moans leaving your mouth. He leans over you, meeting your lips in a sweet kiss, swallowing each of your sounds while pressing into you.

“How’re you feeling?” “Fuck, just give me a couple of seconds” you whisper, adjusting and comprehending. He smiles, nodding and spending the time kissing your upper body, everything from your lips down to your breasts.

After a while, you give him the signal, urging him to start moving. He obliges, always watching your reactions attentively to be sure you’re okay.

As the night draws to a close, you spend the night in his arms, sleeping and cuddling. Of course, when you were done, he had a glass of water ready for you, packing you deep into the sheets and caressing your hair.

Josh

Josh is not surprised that you’re a virgin. His suggestive comments here and there getting you so riled up that he only made the assumption. He does not feel that much pressure, only wanting your time with him to go well.

He can be really romantic, each touch he makes both attentive and calculated. When you’re making out, he’s respectful until you ask him not to be, causing a rougher man to grope and bite you. He still doesn’t go the full way, wanting to be careful and make sure that some type of trust is established before going to second base.

One day, you’re laying on his bed, a movie playing in the background when your attention turns to each other. This leads to a long make out session, clothes thrown across the room, but still not going further than your underwear.

You’re hot and bothered, wanting him to take you right now. You smile as you feel him growing hard beneath you, reciprocating that craving. Thighs around his torso, ass on his pelvis, you lean down, leaving kisses on his neck and asking. “Josh, I want you” “Right now? Are you sure?” “Yes”

He spins you around, making you gasp from your back hitting the mattress. His hands wander over your chest, going behind and unclasping your bra. You sit up a bit, helping him take it off, throwing the garment on the floor.

“And you want to do this?” “Yes, I do” “Right now” “Are you not up for it?” “Holy fuck, I’m holding back with every fiber of my being” “Stop holding back”

He watches you while pushing himself into you, making sure that you’re not getting hurt, and can stop at any time. He captures your lips in his, both of your moans filling the room every time you stop for air.

“Fucking hell, you’re so tight” You can only whimper in reply, feeling him fill you up, struggling to control himself as he wants to ravage you. He gives you time to adjust, letting you signal to him when he can start moving.

When you’re done, he holds you, praising you and asking how it was. He’s attentive and sweet, asking if you would like a bath or a shower.

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stanpinesdykewife · 6 months ago

Text

i haven't posted any writing recently so have a really informal imagine-type scenario of something that's been on my mind for a few days!! imagine drunk sex with stan after a date... umm i accidentally dove headfirst into stan's praise kink so he gets a little subby here but i'm sure no one's complaining. under the cut:

so good stan/reader (gender-neutral) pre/during/post-canon/unspecified smut, 1237 words warnings: drunk sex! but an established relationship (bonus: nsfw drunk stan headcanons)

the both of you are barely inside, but you're all over each other. you almost forget to lock the front door through giggly kisses that taste like cheap beer, and stan is so grabby and touchy you leave half your outfit on the floor by the time you make it to your room. stan wiggles his brows and asks, "you wanna mess around?" and you laugh because he's already got you topless on the edge of the bed. obviously, you're getting some tonight.

but then you're not laughing, you're gasping, because stan is kissing down your neck, your chest, tugging your clothes off as he sinks down to the floor and moves your legs over his big broad shoulders. you think it's really unfair that you're almost fully naked and he's got all his clothes on but you can't say anything because then stan is mouthing over your underwear and "wow, oh, fuck, shit that feels good," and stan moans over your crotch when you lay on your back and rake your hands through his hair.

he's so good at this, even when he's drunk and doesn't exactly have the precision to find those spots that feel extra good. he makes up for it by tugging your underwear down (he doesn't even move when you have to lift your hips and grind into his face to get them off) and immediately getting lost in it. he moans at the taste of you, loud, like he's getting just as much out of it as you are. his tongue is so warm and he's gripping the tops of your thighs to keep them spread wide, even as they start to shake.

"that's good, fuck stan, so good for me." your breathing is heavy and your moans are just tumbling out of your mouth, you're still drunk, you can't control them, but stan literally whines into you and it's so fucking hot you don't care. one of his big hands squeezes your thigh before letting go of you, falling out of sight. you just tug his soft hair and keep babbling, "shit, shit, fuck, you're making me feel so good—ah, fuck, i'm—there, just like that, that's—fuck, yeah, you're gonna make me come, baby," and your moans get pitchy and your body goes tense and you fall apart on stan's tongue so much easier than you expected to.

but stan doesn't stop. he laps at you, cleans you up, even when you collapse onto your back, gasping and bucking your hips, your hand twisted in his hair. he's still moaning, the sound low and needy, and when you lean up enough to prop one elbow behind you, his eyes are screwed shut. his brows are furrowed in focus.

you realize the arm that isn't over your thigh is down, where you can't see, between his legs. stan is palming his dick through his pants, drawing grunts and little muffled sounds from his mouth. you're dizzy at the revelation, at the thought of stan being just as desperate and just as drunk as you are, so eager to get his mouth on you that he can't even bother to get his pants off.

"that feel good for you, honey?" you breathe, your legs twitching at stan licks sloppy stripes into you. a moan falls from your lips unbidden, but you keep talking, "you like making me come? you made me feel so good."

"fmmmph," stan says into you, making you jump slightly at the vibration. but you giggle softly when you loosen your grip on his hair to gently scratch his scalp instead, playing with his hair, messing it up. his head lolls wherever your hand moves it, but his mouth stays on you. his arm moves rhythmically, and though you can't see it, you can tell from the way his body rocks slightly that he's humping into his hand.

"so good," you say, more of a drunken note-to-self than anything, but stan makes another noise at that. you grind your hips into his mouth and stan's jaw goes slack, his tongue flat and still, so you can rock yourself against it. "ah, fuck, i'm sensitive—feels so good, stan. this makes you feel good too, huh? you wanna come like this?"

stan nods, miniscule. you still your hips and tug his hair once, just gently, so he knows he can move his mouth again. stan does, moaning softly against your skin, his tongue getting lazy and clumsy so he can focus more on the feeling of humping against his own hand. you do your part, playing up your moans, your gasps, your praising words, "fuck, that's good, your mouth is so hot, you're so good for me."

stan's hips twitch into his hands, grinding against it. his moans get louder, his mouth slips away from you so he can press his face against your inner thigh, and then his breath hitches, and he's—something jumps in your chest, warm and excited and affectionate as stan groans through his orgasm. he's pressing his hips hard into his hand. he's drooling onto your thigh. then he sighs, his shoulders untensing as those last few waves of pleasure slowly subside.

"there we go," you soothe, looking down at him though lidded eyes as he catches his breath. stan blinks, slowly, and peeks up at you. you smile when your eyes meet, and stan chuckles, presses a sloppy, wet kiss to your inner thigh. "was that good for you?"

"you kiddin'?" stan slurs, drunk off of beer and off of you, and you laugh as he groans and pushes himself up. he only stands tall enough to climb onto the bed, grunting at the pops from his joints. his voice is low and gravelly, even more than usual as he remarks, "ugh, jesus, my knees—it was worth it. holy smokes."

"holy smokes?" you laugh, shifting to the side to make room before stan collapses beside you with a gruff sigh. you're grinning as he takes you in his arms without question, tugging your naked body onto him. there's a warm, wet spot on his slacks, so you don't feel bad about straddling his thigh and tucking your head into the collar of his shirt. "ugh, you smell sweaty."

"really? you're gonna get on my case after all the work i just put in?" stan has one arm wrapped around you, and he massages his jaw with his other hand. but he's smiling, too.

"the work we put in," you correct him. then you sigh into his neck, finally relaxing. you press a kiss to his skin, and then you smile to yourself when he relaxes, too. "it's okay. i like how smelly you are."

"you're a real doll, you know that?" stan says, sarcastic. his hand rubs soothing lines up and down your spine.

"and you're so good for me," you drawl, low and coy. stan's hand freezes. you can practically hear his blush. you give it a few seconds.

then you burst out laughing, even when he shoves you off him and rolls on top to press you into the mattress as revenge, threatening you to "keep that pretty mouth shut before i shut it for you!" but stan is grinning above you, a little shy, but giddy. there's a warmth in his eyes that makes you tug him down for a kiss. it's drunken and clumsy and messy, with way too much tongue. it's perfect.

(mostly) nsfw drunk stan headcanons:

okay starting off strong with something that's literally not a hc but i want to get beer drunk and smush my face into stan's beer gut. can you imagine. whaaat the fuck

stan gets sooo touchy when he's drunk. he's touchy all the time, he can barely even stand too far away from you, but when he's drunk he gets real clingy. he loves to pull you in by your hip, your waist, pressing kisses to the top of your head and grinning like an idiot when it makes you giggle

he's also so much more loose. he's able to be normal and casual around you sober, but drunk he's so openly giggly and playful and obsessed with you!!! he likes you so much!!!

he has two wolves...... the horny one jumps out so quick around you when he's had a few drinks what do you expect from someone with a dry spell as long as his

stan's so obsessed with making you feel good and get loud and he usually fulfills his praise kink that way. but when he's drunk and less hyperaware of how you feel, he's desperate for some outright verbal praise. he wants to be told he's good and he makes you feel good because it makes him feel sooo good

tried my best to make this reader gender-neutral but he's such a munch it's not even funny. again when he can focus less on you and more on his own oral fixation he can't NOT go down on you even when you're totally done. he loves how you taste. he could probably finish just from that, without touching himself at all.....

thanks so much for reading!!!

#WHY WAS I SHY TYPING THIS OUT #hope you enjoyed #i am writing a fic that will hopefully be out by november #but i feel bad i haven't posted anything in a bit so i whipped this up #chat did i cook #smut #my writing #my headcanons #gravity falls #stanley pines x reader #reader insert

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pdriesta · 4 months ago

Text

CHAPTER THREE

"baby, i'm talkin' crazy, i need you right in my space"

pairing — trentxblack!r&b artist

tropes — fake dating, enemies-to-lovers

warnings — sexual tension, toxic relationships, mature themes (minors dni)

word count — 9k

summary — y/n, a rising r&b star, is stuck in toxic situationships, with tabloids constantly overshadowing her music. to fix her image, her team pushes her into a fake relationship with liverpool’s trent alexander-arnold. both reluctant, they soon realize keeping things strictly business isn't so simple. will pretending to be in love stay a game, or turn into something real?

an — when i tell you i write this so quick

masterlist

trent stirred awake to the faint sound of humming, a soft, melodic tune that drifted through the quiet hotel room. the sunlight hadn’t yet fully risen, the early morning casting a hazy, golden glow over the space. blinking groggily, he turned his head to see y/n at the small coffee table by the window, her face resting against her knee as she scribbled into a thick notebook. her hair was slightly mussed, and she was still wearing the oversized shirt she’d slept in, her bare legs tucked underneath her.

she didn’t notice him watching at first, her pen moving swiftly across the page, lips moving in rhythm with her humming. trent sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before shuffling out of bed. his footsteps were quiet against the carpet, but y/n glanced up when he got closer, her pen pausing mid-word.

“morning,” he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep. he ruffled his curls absently, his movements lazy and unguarded. there was something unpolished about him in the early hours—his half-lidded eyes, the way his t-shirt clung to his chest, wrinkled from sleep—and y/n found herself wondering if this was how he always looked first thing in the morning.

“morning,” she replied softly, her eyes flickering over him before quickly returning to her notebook. the sight of him like this stirred something in her chest, a fleeting thought of what if it’s always like this? she shook it off quickly, reminding herself that such thoughts were dangerous.

trent settled next to her on the small loveseat, his body still heavy with sleep. “usually women don’t get out of bed that fast with me,” he teased, his lips curling into a slow smirk.

“ha ha,” y/n deadpanned, her tone dry but not unkind. “i couldn’t sleep. i usually have trouble sleeping more than a few hours, so i got up to write. it makes me feel productive.”

his gaze drifted to the notebook in her lap, curiosity flickering in his dark eyes. “what are you writing?” he asked, leaning closer to get a better look.

she quickly angled the book away from him, a playful but firm smile on her face. “it’s just fragments. little pieces.”

trent raised a brow, his attention shifting to the notebook itself. it was bursting at the seams, pages crinkled and marked with colorful tabs, some corners folded while others stuck out at odd angles. it looked well-loved, like it had been carried everywhere, filled with thoughts and ideas that couldn’t be contained.

“you wrote all of that?” he asked, genuine surprise coloring his tone.

“yeah,” she said with a small shrug. “not all of it’s songs. some are journal entries, random thoughts, lines that might help me draw inspiration later.”

trent leaned back slightly, taking in the sheer volume of the notebook. “that’s insane,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “you walk around with all of that in your head? how do you even keep it straight?”

y/n smiled faintly, her fingers tracing the edge of the cover. “i don’t, really. that’s why i write it all down. sometimes, it’s just too much. i have so many ideas, and if i don’t let them out, i feel like i’m going to explode.”

“so why not just hire songwriters?” he asked, his voice light but his curiosity genuine. “you’re already killing yourself over all this. wouldn’t it be easier to let someone else help?”

her expression shifted, something sharp and protective flashing in her eyes. “because it feels like cheating,” she said firmly. “if i don’t write it myself, it’s not really mine. the songs, the words, they’re pieces of me. if someone else writes them, then who am i?”

trent studied her for a long moment, taking in the passion in her voice, the fire behind her words. he’d never thought much about what went into making music, but listening to her, he realized it was so much more than just melodies and lyrics. it was her, poured into every line, every note.

“that’s… mad,” he said finally, his voice quiet with something bordering on awe. “i don’t think i’ve ever met someone who feels that much about what they do.”

y/n laughed softly, her gaze dropping to her notebook. “you’re making it sound deeper than it is.”

“nah,” trent said, shaking his head. “it’s deep. i mean, i just kick a ball around for a living. what you’re doing—creating something out of nothing—that’s different. that’s art.”

his words struck something in her, a warmth spreading through her chest despite herself. she looked up at him, and for a brief moment, their eyes met, something unspoken passing between them.

then she broke the moment, closing the notebook with a decisive thud. “well, it’s not art yet,” she said lightly. “it’s just a mess right now.”

trent grinned, leaning back against the loveseat with an easy confidence. “if that’s your mess, i can’t imagine what it looks like when you get it right.”

her cheeks warmed slightly, but she ignored it, standing up and stretching. “i’m getting coffee,” she said, brushing past him toward the kitchenette.

trent watched her go, his smirk softening into something closer to admiration. she was a puzzle, constantly surprising him, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was enjoying trying to figure her out.

—

trent returned to the hotel room, damp with sweat from his workout, his shirt sticking to his back as he pushed open the door. the room was already buzzing with activity; y/n sat at the small vanity, meticulously applying her makeup. she was dressed in a sleek outfit, her hair styled, looking entirely unbothered despite the early hour.

he leaned against the doorway, eyeing her as he wiped his face with a towel. “what’s the plan today?” he asked casually, peeling off his shirt and tossing it toward his suitcase.

y/n didn’t look up from her reflection, carefully blending the colors on her eyelids. “in the spirit of supporting one another while we’re away from home…” she started, her tone light but teasing, “i feel compelled to tell you something important.”

trent raised a brow, stepping toward the bathroom. “yeah? what’s that?”

“you have the fashion sense of a toddler,” she said flatly, still focused on her makeup.

he paused mid-step, turning to gape at her. “excuse me?”

“you heard me,” she said, her lips twitching as she fought back a smile. “nala has better style than you.”

trent frowned, crossing his arms. “who’s nala?”

“my cat,” she said simply, finally glancing at him in the mirror. her expression was utterly serious, but her eyes sparkled with amusement.

he placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “wow. i’ve just been compared to a cat.”

“a very fashionable cat,” she added, biting back a laugh. “but don’t take it too personally.”

he shook his head, muttering something about ungrateful people as he stepped into the bathroom. a moment later, the sound of running water filled the room. “and here i was thinking we were making progress,” he called out over the noise.

“we are making progress,” she countered, switching to her lipstick. “you helped me last night—whether it was intentional or not—so, in honor of that, i’m offering you something very rare.”

“oh yeah?” he replied, his voice slightly muffled by the shower. “what’s that?”

“my services,” she said, her tone mockingly grand.

the water turned off, and a few seconds later, trent emerged from the bathroom with a towel slung low around his waist, droplets of water trailing down his chest. his curls were damp, framing his face in a way that made her pause briefly, her gaze flickering before she caught herself.

he leaned against the doorframe, a slow smirk spreading across his lips. “what kind of services are we talking about, y/n?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

she rolled her eyes, trying to ignore the way her gaze briefly betrayed her, following a single droplet as it slid down his abs. she cleared her throat, meeting his eyes with a steady look. “i am taking you, trent alexander-arnold, for a makeover.”

his smirk faltered, replaced by a look of mock horror. “a makeover? you’re out of your mind.”

“it’s for your own good,” she said sweetly, standing and crossing her arms. “one time and one time only, i’m going to fix the mess you call a wardrobe.”

trent chuckled, shaking his head as he walked past her to grab some clothes. “you know, this feels like payback for that toddler comment.”

“oh, it definitely is,” she said with a grin, watching him with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “but seriously, you need it. nala agrees.”

“the cat has no say in this,” he shot back, laughing as he disappeared into the bathroom to get dressed.

the streets of paris were buzzing with life as y/n and trent stepped out of the car, the crisp morning air carrying the faint scent of fresh bread from nearby bakeries. trent had barely adjusted the collar of his jacket before she grabbed his arm, tugging him forward with a determination that made him laugh under his breath.

“we’re starting here,” she announced, pointing at a sleek boutique with mannequins dressed in impossibly tailored outfits.

“you’re really taking this seriously, huh?” he teased, letting her drag him along, her smaller hand gripping his forearm. she wasn’t holding his hand—not quite—but her touch was firm, her nails brushing against his skin in a way that he couldn’t ignore.

“if i’m putting my time and energy into this, you’re going to leave paris looking like a new man,” she replied, not sparing him a glance as they stepped inside.

the store was minimalistic and modern, with racks of clothes that looked more like art than fabric. y/n wasted no time, walking down the aisles with a critical eye. she reached for a navy jacket and held it up to him, tilting her head as if she were picturing it on him.

“try this,” she said, thrusting it into his hands.

“you didn’t even ask if i like it,” trent said, eyebrows raised.

“it’s not about what you like,” she replied sweetly. “it’s about what i like. keep up.”

he chuckled, shaking his head as he followed her to the fitting rooms. “you’re ruthless, you know that?”

“you’ll thank me later,” she said, shooting him a smirk before disappearing back into the racks.

trent emerged a few minutes later, the jacket fitting him like a glove. y/n’s gaze flicked over him, her lips pressing together as she considered. “not bad,” she admitted, stepping closer to adjust the lapels. her fingers brushed against his chest, and he swore she hesitated for a second before stepping back.

“just ‘not bad’?” he asked, spinning slightly to show off.

“don’t push it,” she said, grabbing another shirt from the rack. “we’ve got more to do.”

and they did—store after store, y/n dragged him through narrow aisles, her energy relentless. she wasn’t shy about yanking his arm or turning him by the shoulders to face a mirror. sometimes, her hand would linger on his wrist, warm and steady, and he wondered if she noticed.

“what about this one?” he asked at one point, holding up a a shirt that was all too flashy for her.

she stared at him, unimpressed. “do you want people to think you’re twelve?”

“i think it’s fun,” he said, grinning.

“we’re not here for fun,” she retorted, pulling him toward another section. “we’re here for transformation.”

“you’re taking this a bit personal, aren’t you?” he teased, leaning closer as she browsed. “it’s almost like you want me to look good.”

“someone has to,” she shot back, refusing to meet his gaze. “you’re a public figure, trent. appearances matter.”

he hummed, watching her with a smirk as she focused on a row of sweaters. her concentration was cute—her brows furrowed, lips pursed as she muttered to herself about colors and cuts.

“you know,” he said, his voice low as he leaned closer, “if i didn’t know any better, i’d think you enjoyed spending all this time with me.”

she froze for half a second before brushing him off. “don’t flatter yourself,” she said, turning to shove a pair of trousers into his hands. “try these on.”

as the day wore on, they settled into an easy rhythm. y/n teased him mercilessly about his past choices (“what was this shirt? did you lose a bet?”), and trent fired back with his own jabs (“you’re lucky i even let you take the lead on this”). but there were quieter moments too—like when she adjusted the cuffs of a coat he tried on, her fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary, or when he caught her watching him in the mirror, her expression unreadable.

outside yet another boutique, trent leaned against a lamppost, bags piling up at his feet. “how many more stores are we hitting?” he asked, feigning exhaustion.

“at least one more,” she replied, hands on her hips. “stop being dramatic.”

“you’re bossy, you know that?” he said, grinning.

“and you’re lucky i’m taking the time to fix this mess,” she shot back, grabbing his arm again. this time, her grip was looser, her fingers brushing against his in a way that felt almost… deliberate.

he didn’t say anything, letting her guide him. for now, he thought, he’d let her have her fun.

she sighed, trying to navigate through the store, “these stores changed so much once i last came here with ja-“ she stopped herself abruptly. hoping trent hadn’t heard her slip up.

trent stopped mid-step outside the next boutique, his head snapping toward her. “wait—what did you just say?”

y/n blinked, momentarily confused, until her brain replayed what had just slipped from her mouth. her eyes widened slightly, and she shifted on her feet. “oh, um, i said i’ve been here before.”

“with jadon,” he clarified, his voice edged with mock annoyance as he folded his arms.

she winced, rubbing the back of her neck. “yeah, sorry. force of habit.”

trent narrowed his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “force of habit, huh? well, i’m sure he didn’t complain about your fashion critiques, considering his—what’s the word?—questionable sense of style.”

y/n couldn’t help but laugh, the tension dissipating. “oh, definitely not. you dress better than him, no contest.”

“of course i do,” trent said smugly, holding his head high.

she rolled her eyes, stepping closer and lightly patting his cheek. “of course, my love.” the words were dripping with sarcasm, but the playful glint in her eyes softened the blow.

“don’t patronize me,” he shot back, grabbing her wrist and pulling it away from his face.

she shrugged, unfazed, already moving toward the entrance of the store. “but since we’re on the topic,” she continued, waving a hand dramatically, “his style was always so… streetwear-heavy. nothing wrong with that, but it never matched my vibe, you know? i like to experiment, play with textures and layers. he just threw on whatever hoodie was closest.”

trent trailed behind her, smirking as she rambled.

“and then there’s you,” she said, stopping in front of a mannequin dressed in a sharp, tailored suit. she turned to him, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “you’re like my own personal ken doll. i get to dress you up, fix your outfits, make sure you look decent for the cameras.”

he raised an eyebrow. “ken doll? that’s what you’re going with?”

“absolutely,” she replied with a grin, stepping back to look him up and down dramatically. “and you should be grateful. you have the face and body to pull off almost anything, but without me? you’d probably still be wearing monogram Louis Vuitton like it’s 2018.”

trent froze for a second, a sheepish expression creeping across his face. “i—what’s wrong with monogram Louis Vuitton?”

her eyes narrowed as she caught the hint of hesitation in his voice. “you do have it, don’t you?”

he rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor. “…maybe.”

“that’s what i thought,” she said smugly, looping her arm through his and giving him a playful tug forward. “don’t worry, trent alexander-arnold. i’m your catalyst, your style savior. by the time i’m done with you, you’ll be thanking me.”

he laughed under his breath, letting her guide him deeper into the store. “you’re really not letting up, are you?”

“not a chance,” she replied, already scanning the racks. “and for the record, if i see anything monogrammed, i’m burning it. consider it an act of mercy.”

trent rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. he might’ve been the one with the attention-grabbing reputation, but with her around, she always managed to steal the spotlight in her own way.

as she dragged him along, trent let out a mock sigh of defeat, though he couldn’t help but admire the way her smile lit up her entire face. she was bossy, relentless, and occasionally infuriating, but he couldn’t deny that he was enjoying every second of it.

trent stepped out of the dressing room in the brown bomber jacket and baggy jeans, hoping for something a bit more polished. he looked at y/n, her gaze flicking over him with that critical yet playful intensity.

“well?” he asked, crossing his arms, already anticipating her verdict.

she paused for a moment, her lips curving into a small grin. “you look…”

“yeah?” he raised an eyebrow, already preparing for her judgment.

“cute,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

trent froze, blinking a few times. “cute?” he repeated, incredulity in his voice.

“yeah, cute,” she confirmed, her smile widening as she watched his expression.

trent couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head. “cute? is the point of this for me to look ‘cute’? i thought you were revamping my style. i’m a man, y/n, if you couldn’t tell.”

y/n raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his attempt to sound offended. “oh, i know you’re a man, but that doesn’t mean you can’t look cute every once in a while.”

“cute isn’t what i’m going for,” trent shot back, still feeling the absurdity of it all. “i was hoping for something a little more, i don’t know, sharp?”

“sharp?” she repeated, a teasing note creeping into her voice. “you want to look like you just stepped out of a magazine shoot or something? you’re already a model, trent. not to mention you features are soft. i’m giving you style, not just ‘manly’ vibes.”

he sighed, rolling his eyes, though a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “well, i’m glad i’m your personal project, but i don’t think ‘cute’ is going to cut it.”

y/n grinned, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “trust me, you’re pulling it off. but okay, i get it. you want to feel like a man, not a boy. let’s take it up a notch.”

she eyed the other racks, swiping a leather jacket off a hanger with a satisfied expression. “this—this is more like it. a little edge, a little confidence. no more ‘cute.’”

trent, still a little baffled by the whole thing, relented with a shrug. “fine, but if i’m still ‘cute,’ you’re getting a refund for your services.”

“deal,” she said, winking as she handed him the jacket.

“now we’re talking,” he muttered as he took the jacket, feeling the smooth leather. he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or confused by how much fun he was having.

y/n’s eyes narrowed in a playful yet serious way as she grabbed the leather jacket from his hands and draped it over his shoulders. “you’re getting this,” she said firmly, adjusting the collar as if she were making a final decision.

trent, now genuinely amused and a little exasperated, looked at her. “really? this? you’re sure about that?”

“absolutely,” she said, crossing her arms and giving him a look that dared him to argue. “thank me later when the photos come out and everyone’s talking about how good you look.”

trent let out a breath, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. the jacket did fit him better than he’d expected, the rich leather adding an edge to his usual style that he hadn’t thought was possible. still, he tried to maintain some sense of resistance.

“fine,” he muttered, throwing her a challenging grin. “but if i end up looking like a wannabe rock star, i’m blaming you.”

y/n laughed, walking around him to inspect her work. “i’ll take the blame. but trust me, you’re gonna look like the hottest guy in the room. you just wait.”

trent rolled his eyes, his smirk tugging at his lips. “i guess we’ll see.”

“oh, we will,” she replied with a wink. “now, go and get changed. we’re not done yet. i have more outfits that are gonna make you look—” she paused for dramatic effect, her tone teasing, “—undeniably handsome.”

trent shook his head, stepping back into the dressing room with a shake of his head, but the smallest of smiles tugged at his mouth as he thought about how she was actually right. he was starting to trust her, just a little bit.

trent stood there for a moment, staring at his reflection in the mirror. his hands rested on his hips as he processed the jacket she’d just picked out, his mind still buzzing with her words. it wasn’t just the outfit she had chosen—he was used to wearing clothes that made a statement, but something about the way she made him feel, the ease with which she gave compliments, left him slightly taken aback.

as he glanced down at himself, he realized how much he actually enjoyed her praise. it wasn’t just the clothes; it was the way she made him feel seen, noticed, in the most natural way. her words had a softness to them, as if she believed them wholeheartedly—her voice so light and confident, like she had always known he was capable of pulling something like this off.

and it wasn’t just about what she said; it was the way she said it. her compliments seemed to flow effortlessly from her beautiful lips, without hesitation or a second thought, making him feel like he was worthy of them. she didn’t just throw words his way like most people did; they felt earned, like she genuinely saw something in him that no one else did.

he wasn’t used to this kind of attention. sure, there were fans, there were cameras and adoring eyes, but this? this felt different. her compliments didn’t just settle on his skin; they sank in deeper, wrapped around him, making him feel like he was finally seen for who he really was.

he smiled to himself, a thought lingering: maybe she wasn’t just revamping his style. maybe she was helping him find something more.

it was a friday evening, and y/n was sprawled on the couch at zaia’s house, her phone tucked between her fingers as she skimmed through messages. zaia and her fiancé, cassius, were in the kitchen, busy making dinner while y/n absentmindedly glanced at the screen, scrolling past pictures of a cat someone had tagged her in. her phone buzzed again, and a small smile tugged at her lips when she saw the name flashing across the screen: trent.

trent: do you ever just look at your trainers and wonder how they got so dirty?

y/n chuckled to herself, shaking her head.

y/n: now that you mention it... i never really thought about it. do you spend all your time wondering about shoes or is this a new thing?

trent: just one of my many deep thoughts. i’m quite the philosopher at heart.

y/n raised an eyebrow, holding back her laugh as zaia wandered over with a glass of water, catching the tail end of her conversation.

“you better not be texting jadon again,” zaia teased, raising her glass to her lips with a wink.

y/n rolled her eyes but shot back a casual shrug, her thumb still typing a response. “no, it’s trent,” she said matter-of-factly, not thinking much of it.

zaia glanced at her with a smirk, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “oh, trent,” she echoed, a playful glint in her eyes. “not jadon then? that’s a first.”

cassius, leaning casually against the counter, smirked too. “you’re not even going to hide it, huh?” he added, looking between the two women, his expression a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

“i’m not hiding anything. trent’s just funny, okay?” y/n defended, trying to sound casual, though the way zaia and cassius exchanged looks made her cheeks flush slightly. “it’s not what you think.”

zaia shrugged, her playful grin never fading. “well, if it’s trent... maybe we should keep an eye on you. you know, i’ll confiscate your phone if i have to. i am the responsible one around here,” she teased.

“uh-huh, right,” y/n muttered, rolling her eyes, tapping away at her phone, ignoring their teasing. “anyway, i don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this. it’s just... a text.”

before she could finish, her phone lit up again, this time with a notification: facetime call from trent.

zaia grinned widely as y/n's eyes went wide. “ohhh, here we go. first face-to-face call. let’s see this.”

y/n shot her a look. “it’s not like that,” she said quickly, but it was clear zaia wasn’t buying it.

“i’m watching this,” zaia said, taking a step back with her glass of water, a sly smile still playing on her lips.

y/n’s heart skipped a beat as she accepted the call, standing up and quickly walking toward the guest room. the door clicked shut behind her, and she sat down on the edge of the bed, inhaling a breath to calm her nerves. she pressed the phone to her ear, the screen lighting up with trent’s face.

“hey, what’s up?” she said, trying to sound cool but her voice betraying a hint of excitement.

trent’s face appeared on the screen with a smile. “not much. just had a thought, and i wanted to ask you something.”

y/n leaned back, crossing her arms with an amused smile. “a thought, huh? is this one of those philosopher thoughts?”

trent chuckled, the sound sending a warm wave through her chest. “maybe. but seriously—have you ever thought about how weird it is when people say ‘goodnight’ in a text but don’t actually say goodnight? like, they just drop the message and expect you to read it and know that it means ‘goodnight.’ like... come on, just say it. it’s polite.”

y/n’s lips twitched into a smile. she hadn’t known trent was this funny, his dry humor sneaking in like an unexpected comfort. it was nice—refreshing, even. “i honestly never gave it that much thought,” she admitted, “but now that you mention it, yeah, it is kind of weird. so, do you actually say goodnight when you text?”

“i do now,” trent said seriously, his smirk on full display. “i’ll text goodnight every time now, just so you know i’m a decent person.”

“decent, huh?” she teased, watching him laugh on the screen. “you’re just looking for an excuse for me to compliment you.”

“well, is it working?” he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

y/n didn’t respond right away, feeling the warmth in her chest again. it was the way he said things, the way he spoke to her like he cared, even in the small details. she wanted to say something, but before she could, zaia’s voice cut through the door.

“hey, let me know if i need to change my sheets for you!” she called loudly, her voice carrying through the house.

y/n’s face heated, and she quickly stood, walking toward the window to regain some semblance of composure. “zaia’s being zaia,” she muttered, her voice betraying her embarrassment.

“wait, what’s that about sheets?” trent asked, raising an eyebrow. “why would she need to change them?”

y/n groaned, rolling her eyes. “don’t even start. it’s just her being... you know, zaia. she’s always been like this.” she paused, hesitant to elaborate. “she’s my childhood best friend. we do movie nights every friday, and ever since she met cassius, he’s kind of been involved in it, too. they’re... a lot.”

trent leaned closer to the screen, his smirk widening. “sounds like a lot to handle.”

y/n laughed softly, feeling a little lighter. “damn straight. i’m the responsible one, though,” she said, a bit of pride in her voice.

“you’re the responsible one, huh?” trent teased. “i’m gonna have to take that role on now, i think. it’s my responsibility to rope you in and make sure you’re not doing anything too wild.”

y/n couldn’t help but laugh at the idea. “yeah, well, you’ve got your hands full now,” she said with a grin. “but you’re not off the hook. you’ve got to help me keep this movie night under control.”

trent’s eyes softened, his smile more genuine now. “i’ve got your back. no worries. i like small talk like this,” he added casually. “it’s... nice.”

y/n leaned back against the bed, the steady hum of comfort between them filling the silence. “it is, isn’t it?” she murmured. “nice. small talk... it’s underrated.”

for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of each other’s breathing, as if both of them were just settling into the quiet rhythm of the conversation. trent shifted slightly, and his gaze softened. “yeah, i agree,” he said. “so... how was your day?”

y/n smiled, relaxing into the conversation. “it was good. nothing too crazy. i was hanging out with zaia and cassius. we were supposed to watch a movie, but i think we got distracted by... everything else.”

“sounds familiar,” trent said with a chuckle. “my day was alright. it’s been pretty busy, but i’m just glad it’s over.”

“same here,” she said, her voice light and easy now. “it’s nice just... talking like this.”

“yeah,” trent agreed. “it is.”

and for a while, they just stayed on the line, the small talk and laughter weaving a delicate thread of connection, and y/n couldn’t help but feel a flutter in her chest as she realized that, for once, it didn’t feel like just small talk at all.

as the call continued, y/n found herself leaning back against the bed, the soft glow of her phone screen illuminating her face. trent was still grinning at her, sitting in what looked like a hotel room, his hair a little messier than usual, as though he had just finished a training session or was settling in for the night.

“you’re staying in a hotel?” y/n asked, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of her blanket.

“yeah, had a match earlier. just finishing up a few things before bed,” trent replied casually, but y/n could see the hint of something in his eyes. there was a softness there, something that made her heart flutter unexpectedly.

“long day, huh?” she said, trying to mask the sudden warmth that spread through her chest. it was a strange feeling, knowing he was in a hotel room somewhere far away, but still finding time to call her.

“yeah, but it’s worth it if it means i get to talk to you,” trent said, his smile widening slightly. he seemed a little shy, which caught her off guard, making her heart skip a beat.

y/n's breath caught in her throat, her mind racing. she didn’t know why, but hearing him say that made everything feel different—more real. the distance between them didn’t matter right now. it was just them, and this moment felt special in a way she hadn’t expected. she had never thought much about how long he might spend talking to her, but now that he had said it so casually, it made her feel… important.

“you really do think of me, huh?” she said softly, her voice quiet with the sudden realization.

trent tilted his head, his smirk fading into something more genuine. “of course i do. i wouldn’t be calling you if i didn’t,” he said, his eyes softening as he watched her. “besides, you’re on my mind more than i care to admit.”

y/n smiled, feeling warmth spread through her like a gentle wave. she bit her lip, her heart racing slightly at the unexpected intimacy of the moment. “i didn’t realize you were this... cute,” she teased, trying to hide the sudden shyness that crept up on her.

trent laughed, leaning back against the pillows. “again with the cute stuff, huh? i’ll take that as a compliment.” he grinned, his voice low, playful. “i guess you’re not so bad yourself.”

they fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, the kind of silence that felt easy and natural. it wasn’t awkward at all, and y/n realized she was smiling without even trying. this was nice. the way they could talk about nothing, but it meant something all the same.

“so, what’s your plan for tomorrow?” trent asked, breaking the silence, his tone suddenly light.

“probably just the usual—take it easy, maybe get some work done,” she replied, glancing out the window. “what about you?”

“same. i have to do a few more things for the team, but i’ll be free after that. maybe we could—i don’t know—do something together?”

y/n’s heart skipped again at the suggestion. “you want to do something together?” she echoed, surprised.

“yeah,” trent said casually, “maybe we could facetime again. talk some more, if you’re up for it.”

y/n smiled, the warmth in her chest spreading further. “sounds like a plan,” she said softly.

“good,” he said with a satisfied nod. “i’ll be looking forward to it.”

there was another brief pause, and y/n couldn’t help but smile to herself, feeling lighter than she had all day. he really did think of her. even across the miles and the hours of distance, he still made time for her. it made her feel special in a way that was simple, yet undeniable.

“you’re cute too, by the way,” he added quietly, her voice barely above a whisper but she could still hear the teasing undertone .

her eyes sparkled. “good to know,” she said, clearly pleased. “maybe next time we can talk about what other compliments you’re hiding from me.”

trent laughed, rolling her eyes. “you’ll just have to wait and find out.”

“i will,” she replied, her tone playful as she met his warm gaze, like a promise. “goodnight, y/n. talk soon?” he said

“goodnight, trent. talk soon,” she echoed, her smile lingering even after the call ended. as she set her phone down and lay back against the pillows, she felt that warmth in her chest again, like she was floating in the afterglow of something sweet and simple—something that didn’t need to be said out loud to be understood. he was thinking of her. and somehow, that made everything feel like it was exactly where it needed to be.

y/n's PR team had insisted that trent accompany her for the day, even though it was his day off. apparently, the cameras would add a spark of “authenticity” to the behind-the-scenes content they were trying to create for her upcoming show, a special one-off concert to promote her new album. she couldn’t deny that the idea of having him there, especially in front of so many cameras, would make everything feel just a little more… complicated. but she couldn’t back out either. not with the pressure mounting.

the day had begun with rehearsals, and y/n found herself in her usual comfortable, low-key attire: baggy sweats, a worn tank top, and a hat pulled low over her eyes. she had a playlist lined up—some of the tracks she’d be performing tonight—and she was lost in the music as she moved around the stage. there was something freeing about it, about letting her body respond to the rhythm, even when the rehearsals weren’t perfect. the mic felt like an extension of her body, and as she sang, she couldn’t help but notice trent, sitting quietly off to the side.

he’d been watching her for a while now, his gaze intense but silent. his presence made her acutely aware of her own movements, and she tried to focus on the song, pushing the thoughts of him out of her head. but the way his eyes followed her, how they lingered on her curves and the way her body moved with the music, made it difficult to stay in her own rhythm.

after finishing the first set of songs, y/n sat down on the edge of the stage, crossing her legs beneath her and letting out a deep breath, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. her hat had slipped off during one of the songs, and now, with the music paused, she took it off completely, flipping her hair out from underneath it with a sigh.

“you’re staring again,” she said, glancing up at trent, who had moved closer during her set, but was still a few feet away.

trent raised an eyebrow, a cocky grin playing on his lips. “can you blame me?”

y/n rolled her eyes, but her lips tugged at the corners. “i didn’t realize you were so into stage performances.”

“it’s not the performance, y/n,” he replied smoothly, stepping forward. “it’s you.”

she felt the heat creep up her neck, trying to fight the sudden flutter in her chest, but it was getting harder to ignore the tension between them. she looked away, focusing on her hands in her lap. “well, i didn’t do it for you.”

“i think you did,” he teased, finally stepping onto the stage beside her. he leaned over, bracketing her in with his arms as he crouched down to her level. she could smell the faint scent of his cologne, and the heat of his body so close made her pulse quicken.

she looked up at him, eyes widening slightly at the sudden proximity, and pulled off her hat, shaking out her hair, letting it fall freely around her shoulders. she could feel the heat of his gaze on her, and it made her feel… exposed.

“so, how does this all feel?” he asked, his voice soft, almost vulnerable. “i can’t imagine what it’s like to be a singer. all this pressure, all the expectations… how do you deal with it?”

y/n paused, her gaze flickering to the floor for a moment before she spoke. “it’s hard, trent. people don’t realize how hard it is. when i was in the choir, i only had to worry about my part—i didn’t have to worry about everything else. back then, i didn’t even want to be noticed.” she chuckled softly, shaking her head. “i tried to go unnoticed in the back row.”

he leaned in slightly, his voice quiet. “i find that hard to believe. you—unnoticed?”

she smirked, meeting his eyes again, a little taken aback by how sincere he sounded. “yeah, i was pretty good at it, actually. no one ever picked me out.”

“you must've eventually,” he said, his voice almost like a whisper. “you could never go unnoticed, not then and not now.”

there was something in his eyes, something that made y/n’s heart skip a beat. she could see the intensity in them, the admiration that was growing more evident with every word. for a moment, everything around them felt like it faded away—the music, the other people in the room. it was just the two of them, locked in a quiet moment of connection.

she cleared her throat, trying to break the tension, but his eyes stayed fixed on her. “i guess it’s crazy how i even got picked out,” she murmured. “my teacher noticed me, even though i was trying so hard to blend in. i guess i never thought i’d end up here, doing this for real.”

trent’s expression softened. “you were always meant for it, y/n. you’ve got something. something special.”

she felt the heat rise to her cheeks, but she didn’t say anything. she didn’t know what to say.

before she could respond, the moment was broken by her stage manager, who called from the side, “y/n, we need to do a sound check for the next song!”

y/n blinked, almost startled by the interruption. she stood up quickly, brushing off the dust from her legs as she grabbed her hat, quickly flipping it back on. “yeah, i—uh, i need to go.”

trent stood up too, taking a step back, his expression unreadable for a second. “guess i’ll see you later,” he said, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

but there was something more in his eyes now—a glimmer of something that y/n couldn’t quite place, but it made her pause before she turned away.

“yeah, later,” she said softly, then walked toward the sound booth, feeling the weight of his gaze still following her.

the rest of rehearsal passed in a blur, but the tension between them lingered like an electric charge in the air. it wasn’t just the music, the spotlight—it was something deeper, something she wasn’t sure either of them was ready to confront just yet.

trent arrived back at y/n’s dressing room after catching his breath from warming up, his mind still reeling from the intensity of the match earlier. the adrenaline from being on the pitch still lingered in his body, but it was quickly replaced by something else as he pushed open the door.

the room was dimly lit, a soft glow coming from the vanity mirror where y/n was sitting, adjusting the final touches of her makeup. the glow of the soft pink and white lights framed her face perfectly, making her seem even more ethereal than usual. she was dressed in an outfit that trent could barely tear his eyes away from—a sparkling, skin-tight number that hugged her body in all the right places, the material glinting with every subtle movement she made. her dark locks were styled in a way that made them cascade down her back, and her makeup, subtle but striking, highlighted her best features.

the moment he saw her, his breath caught in his throat. y/n was gorgeous, there was no other way to put it. but it was more than just her appearance—it was the way she held herself, the way she seemed to glow in that space. the way she was always unapologetically herself. it was intoxicating.

"wow," he muttered under his breath, his eyes raking over her, a mixture of awe and desire in his expression.

she caught his gaze in the mirror, her lips curling into a teasing smile. “like what you see?”

trent’s voice came out rougher than he intended. “you... you look incredible.” he took a step closer to her, almost hesitant. "really. I... don't even know what to say."

y/n turned around, giving him a quick glance up and down, noting how he seemed almost caught off guard by her. “well, that’s a first. you always have something to say.” she tilted her head slightly. “what’s going on with you, trent? you okay?”

before he could answer, his eyes drifted to a small bouquet of roses placed delicately on the vanity table next to y/n. the red and white petals caught his attention for a moment before he read the card attached to them. his expression shifted instantly as he read the familiar handwriting.

“for the one who still has my heart, with love, j.”

trent’s heart sank as he read the note, his fingers twitching slightly. his eyes flicked back to y/n, who was completely unaware of his change in demeanor as she stood and smoothed out the fabric of her outfit. the warmth he’d felt before suddenly vanished, replaced by a coldness he didn’t even know he was capable of.

he tried to mask it, but y/n caught the change. “you alright?” she asked, now sensing something was off in the air. “what is it?”

trent gave a stiff smile, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, his usual cocky demeanor returning. “nothing. just... something’s in the air tonight.”

“right,” y/n responded, her tone becoming more cautious. she could feel the tension shift between them, but before she could say anything else, trent backed away toward the door.

“you should get ready. your fans are waiting,” he said, voice cool and clipped, almost like he was trying to shake off something he couldn’t quite express. “I’ll see you out there, yeah?”

before y/n could respond, trent had already turned and walked out, leaving her alone in the room with nothing but the soft hum of the lights around her and the faint scent of roses that lingered in the air.

the concert started, and the energy in the arena was palpable. the audience was buzzing with excitement, and y/n could feel the adrenaline building in her as she made her way onto the stage. the crowd cheered loudly as she took her place, her eyes scanning the sea of faces before them. but as soon as the music began, something shifted.

y/n poured herself into the performance, every lyric coming from her with a rawness that had been building for months. she felt the familiar pull of the microphone in her hand, the music wrapping around her body like an old friend. it was like no one else existed, only her and the crowd and the way her voice seemed to connect with every word.

trent stood backstage, watching her from the side, the intense glow of the stage lights illuminating his face. he’d been so sure of his control earlier, but now, as he watched y/n sing, everything felt... complicated.

he knew something wasn’t right. he could feel his heart racing, but it wasn’t just because of the performance. it was the way y/n looked, how she seemed to be pouring all of herself into the lyrics. it was that feeling again, the one that had started when he first saw her earlier, but now it was tinged with jealousy and something more raw, more vulnerable than he cared to admit.

his eyes fixed on y/n as she made her way to the stage for her second set of songs. she was already glammed up—an undeniable force, even before she opened her mouth. her outfit, a sleek black dress with a plunging neckline, clung to her curves, highlighting everything that made him ache with desire. she looked stunning, and yet, something about her tonight felt different.

but as soon as the music began and the lights dimmed, trent knew he couldn’t escape it. she took the stage, her voice smooth and powerful, and the crowd erupted in cheers. but trent couldn’t focus on the applause or the energy in the room. his mind kept returning to the roses. the way she had been so comfortable, so carefree about her connection to jadon, when he had been so careful about everything between them.

and then, it happened—the moment that made everything fall apart.

the song. spread thin. the lyrics hit trent like a freight train, each word piercing through the air like a blade. the crowd was captivated by her performance, but trent’s stomach twisted as he listened to the words.

and now i cannot trust you and i'm forced to let you go that's what spreadin' thin on us do

the lyrics felt like a dagger aimed straight at his chest. and for a moment, trent could have sworn the song was directed at him. but then, he heard it again—the familiar name, the familiarity of the words. they weren't about him. it was about jadon.

baby, you're the reason you always think the only one who needs any attention is you

his heart lurched as he realized the truth. the song wasn’t just a performance. it was personal. she was singing about jadon—the man she was still tangled up with. all the flirtation between them, all the moments they shared, it was fake in comparison. she wasn’t singing for him. she was singing for someone else.

don't be so conceited hope you know honesty was the only thing that could keep me from leavin'

the jealousy was overwhelming now. trent felt the weight of her past with jadon, how deeply she still felt for him, and the thought of it made his chest tighten. he stood frozen, feeling an ache in his chest, his gaze never leaving y/n.

now i'm left to you wonder, how i let this go under? how i could watch it rain for so long and ain't hear no thunder?

her voice was so raw, so full of emotion. he couldn’t escape the feeling that he had been watching her fall apart for too long. she was lost in the song, lost in the past, and he was just a part of the show—a distraction from the man who still had her heart.

trent couldn’t stop the knot forming in his throat as the lyrics continued.

and we led all our hollywood dreams end in a blunder how i may never see you again, i hate when the summer ends but it always would, and you'll always be disappointed 'cause you're insecure, chasin' things you thought you wanted

the song spoke to something deeper, something trent couldn’t ignore anymore. it was about how she had been left behind, how she had tried to move forward, but her heart was still in the past. the painful irony of it all hit him like a slap. she was singing for jadon, and in doing so, she was pushing him further away.

the crowd cheered, but trent felt nothing. his emotions were a mixture of confusion, hurt, and anger. he was standing backstage, pretending to be happy for her, pretending that everything between them was real, when in reality, he was just another player in a game she wasn’t invested in. she was still in love with someone else. someone who wasn’t him.

trent stood there, paralyzed, as he watched her on stage, singing the words with such conviction. he had never felt more like an outsider in her life. every note she sang was a reminder that no matter how much he tried to be close to her, he was always going to be second to someone else.

and if hollywood is home now it's just a house that is haunted

he watched her, his heart sinking lower with every line of the song. she was haunted, and he had never realized just how much jadon still haunted her.

by the time the song ended, trent couldn’t stand it anymore. he turned on his heel and stormed out of the backstage area, barely hearing the crowd’s applause over the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears.

as the applause for her performance rang through the venue, y/n could feel the weight of trent’s gaze on her. but she didn’t dare look his way—not now, not after everything. she had been so careful not to let her feelings show, but her song had said everything she couldn’t.

and when she finally caught his eye after the performance, she saw it—the coldness. the distance he had put between them, the walls he had built up.

she had known the moment she decided to sing spread thin that it would cut through the air like a knife. but she couldn’t help it. jadon was still there, lingering in her heart, no matter how much she wanted to move on.

she could see the anger in trent’s eyes, the hurt—and it stung.

but maybe, just maybe, he was feeling something real. something that had always been there, just hidden beneath the surface.

as she made her way off stage, she hoped—no, prayed—that this wasn’t the end of whatever it was between them.

for the first time, trent wished it was him she was singing for. he wished it had always been him. but now, watching her walk away, he realized it was too late to change the past. and it hurt more than he could ever admit.

that evening, after the show, y/n couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. maybe it was in the way trent was quieter than usual, the distance between them palpable in the way he kept his answers short. she noticed the small shifts in him—the slight tension in his posture when she laughed at something he said, the way he would avoid looking at her for just a moment too long.

y/n knew he was pulling away, but she didn't know why. and that was the hardest part. it wasn’t like they’d been deep in something yet—nothing serious, nothing real. but they had shared something, even if it was just the potential of something, the possibility that maybe, just maybe, there could be more.

but now, she could see him building walls.

she couldn't let herself hope, though. she had to face the reality of it. maybe it was easier to pretend it was nothing at all than deal with the bitter truth that he wasn’t interested in something real. it had never been real to him.

after some internal debate, y/n decided to invite him over to her house. just a quiet evening, a chance to clear her head and figure out where things stood—where she stood. her parents were away, visiting family back home. the house was quiet, just the way she liked it when she wanted space to think.

when he arrived, there was a formality to him, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the invitation. he was polite, distant, not the easygoing trent she'd spent time with. he glanced around the living room, taking it all in, before turning to face her.

“thanks for the invite,” he said, his voice a little tight, like he was still figuring out what role he was playing here.

“no problem,” she replied, offering a small smile. “want something to drink?”

“no, I’m good.”

they walked toward the couch, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the emptiness of the house. y/n sat first, trying to ease into the calm atmosphere, but the air between them felt charged with the unspoken. she had to say something, had to figure out what was going on in his head.

“so... how did the show go?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. she just wanted to hear him speak, hear something other than the silence that hung around them.

“it was good,” trent replied, his voice clipped but not unkind. “crowd was into it.”

“nice,” she said, nodding. the small talk felt like a barrier, and it made her anxious.

the silence settled back in. as if on cue, nala, y/n's cat, appeared from the corner of the room, her yellow eyes immediately locking onto trent. y/n could already feel the tension in the air. trent, who had never been fond of animals, stiffened as nala crept closer, her curiosity piqued by his presence.

"she's harmless," y/n said, trying to ease the moment.

trent looked at the cat warily. “not so sure about that,” he muttered, eyes flicking from nala back to y/n.

y/n chuckled softly before scooping nala up into her arms. “it’s fine,” she said, lifting the cat higher so trent could get a better look. “you wanna meet her?”

trent looked at her for a long moment, hesitant, then nodded reluctantly. y/n could tell he was uncomfortable, but she couldn’t help but laugh a little at the sight. she placed nala gently in his arms, and the cat immediately sniffed trent’s hand, her soft purring vibrating against his chest.

“there,” y/n teased. “she likes your scent.”

trent gave a half-smile, but it was clear he was still unsure, his hands stiff as he awkwardly held the cat. but the brief connection between them softened the tension just a bit, and y/n could feel the atmosphere shift ever so slightly. after a few seconds, he handed nala back to her, and she cradled the cat gently in her lap.

they moved to the couch, sitting side by side in the quiet living room, each with their own thoughts. y/n tucked her legs under her, feeling a familiar sense of emptiness in the space between them. she looked at trent, trying to catch his gaze, but he was staring ahead, the tension from earlier still lingering in the air.

“so, y/n,” trent said after a long silence, turning slightly toward her. his tone was more casual now, but it still felt guarded. “you write your own songs, right?”

y/n felt a flutter in her chest. she had expected the conversation to veer in this direction, but hearing him ask it felt different. it wasn’t just a question—it felt like a test, a subtle push to see how much she was willing to reveal, how much she was worth beyond their surface flirtation.

“yeah, I do,” she answered, her voice steady, though her mind raced. she knew he was trying to assess her, to see if she was more than just the girl who had shared a couple of flirty texts with him.

“that’s what i thought,” trent replied with a slight smile , the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

there was an edge to the conversation, and y/n felt it, sharp as a knife. she swallowed the lump in her throat, trying not to let her frustration show. this was familiar. it was the same thing she had sensed earlier—the walls he was putting up, the way he was trying to keep things light, casual, and nothing more.

“look, y/n,” he said after a moment, his tone shifting slightly. “we shouldn’t complicate this.”

y/n’s breath caught in her throat. she had known it was coming, but hearing him say it out loud still stung.

“what do you mean?” she asked, her voice quiet, but the edge of hurt was unmistakable.

trent looked at her, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that felt almost too much. he seemed to hesitate for a moment, then sighed, leaning back a little. “I’m attracted to you. you’re a beautiful girl. but we both know why we’re here. we need to keep this professional. keep the boundaries clear. the flirting... it’s fun, but we can’t let it get messy.”

the words hit her like a cold wave, and y/n felt a deep, hollow ache spreading through her chest. she had been hoping—even just a little—that there could be something more here, something real. but his words shattered that hope, leaving nothing behind but the bitter realization that he hadn’t been looking for anything serious. not with her.

she opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. what could she say? it was clear. he didn’t want to complicate things, and she wasn’t going to be the one to make it more than it already was.

forcing a smile, she nodded, though it felt like her heart was being pulled out from her chest. “yeah. I get it,” she said, trying to make the words sound casual, but they tasted bitter in her mouth.

he didn’t seem to notice. or maybe he did, and he just didn’t care. either way, he didn’t press further. “cool,” he said, as if it was no big deal. and just like that, they both fell back into their familiar roles—flirting, but never truly connecting.

the night slipped into quiet emptiness, the same kind of emptiness that y/n had been feeling all evening. when trent left, she closed the door behind him, feeling like she’d just let a piece of herself go.

but the pain lingered long after he was gone. the hurt wasn’t just from the rejection—it was the realization that she had built something in her mind, something that wasn’t real. it had never been real.

and letting go would be harder than she ever expected.

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