#that are maybe beyond rekindling

[jordiemeow]

Two guys for every girl. Once you boys get started you’ll be at it for hours. Come on boys, I know you’re not damn cowards.

pairing: art donaldson x reader x patrick zweig

summary: vying for one of the bridesmaids at their best friend's wedding gets a little out of hand, but they're tennis players. they aren't above some friendly competition.

warnings: smut, threesome, a trip to paris, throat fucking, drunk sex, tbh i'm lazy just generally 18+

Acting as bridesmaid for a girl you grew out of in college wasn’t really how you planned to spend your summer. Attending dress fittings, rehearsal dinners, bachelorette parties… but hey, free booze is free booze. And Megan’s fiancé Adam (soon-to-be husband) splashed out to pay for all the matching dresses. You reassure yourself you would have felt bad turning her down when she asked you to be a part of her bridal party.

Sure, you hadn’t talked as much over the last few years… but you were inseparable, once upon a time. She clearly hasn’t changed, considering the several breakdowns about table placements and flower arrangements you’ve witnessed over the last few weeks. And you doubt you’ll be best friends after this, but it’s nice to rekindle with someone who was a major part of your life, even if it’s not permanent.

The ceremony itself is beautiful. A beautiful stone chapel, austere lines evoking the early Christian churches of Rome; warm lights bathing the princess gown-sporting bride in an amber glow, stained glass windows glinting behind the wedding party as they read out their “I do’s.” The only modern element of the ridiculously elaborate wedding (yeah, Adam has to be fucking loaded) is the absence of any organ to reflect Megan’s aversion of them. But really, the harp just makes them seem that much more pretentious.

It’s the type of wedding children dream of. But there’s two people who clearly couldn’t give two shits about the white roses or the music being played as your friend walks down the aisle: the groomsmen. One blonde and one brunette, the latter of which is clearly bored of this entire thing, tuning out what the priest has to say and letting his eyes wander.

“Patrick, pay attention,” Art hisses under his breath from where he’s standing behind Patrick, and in clear view of his friend’s lack of interest in the upcoming vows. Considering the congregation makes up of several hundred people (who are definitely just here for the reception and Instagram stories), it’s embarrassing for him to be associated with a disinterested fool.

“Oh, I’m paying attention,” Patrick mutters back, with a low whistle that makes Art wince. “Just not to Adam and his gold-digging bride.”

Despite initially feeling the need to jump to their friend’s defence and insist he was perfectly capable of finding a wife—Megan was lovely, as far as Art was concerned—that train of thought vanishes as soon as he follows Patrick’s gaze to the opposite side of the altar. Standing behind the bride and her maid of honour, one of the most beautiful women he’s ever had the privilege of laying eyes upon… you.

He’s not sure how you manage to pull off the bridesmaid dress that the rest of the poor ladies seem to be drowning in, but god, you look gorgeous. A vision in pastel pink, even with that hideously large flower embellishment clinging to your left shoulder. Maybe Patrick had been right about Megan being a bitch for the last two years; nobody who loves their friends willingly puts you in something like that. And yet, against all odds, he’s ready to drop to his knees and worship you right here on the chancel. A true angel, illuminated by the mural of Mother Mary shining through the window. How anyone is paying attention to the bride when you’re standing right there clutching your bouquet of flowers is beyond him.

Patrick’s thoughts are far less pure, of course. Daydreaming about the sound your dress would make when he tears a slit up the back to see what colour your panties are. Fisting his hand in your hair and pulling those ringlets out of your pretty little flower pins, because why would you need those to hold it up when he has a perfectly good hand right here? Bent over the altar, crying out his name like he was your god, and not the Christian deity Father John was currently droning on about watching over Megan and Adam’s nuptials.

Both of them are half-hard in their slacks by the time they hear the priest rejoice, "You may now kiss the bride." Neither of them mention the way they adjust themselves in sync while stepping down to congratulate their friends and take wedding photographs.

Art gets to stand beside you in the pictures. He tries to make small talk about the happy couple, but his throat feels like it's closing up and he already knows he's going to look flushed in the picture album by the end of this. He swears he almost passes out from embarrassment when you regard him with a pitiful look as he stammers over his words trying to tell you he thinks your hair looks lovely.

If the looks Patrick keeps sending his way are any indication, he's royally screwed this up. And that little smirk he flashes as you rush off to gush at the viewfinder suggests he is absolutely going to pay for that fumble later.

He does.

—

"Dibs," Patrick announces, nursing a champagne flute and eyeing you from the opposite side of the reception venue.

Another intricately decorated hall with a local, well-known DJ Adam has connections with. Neither of them would care about the music if it weren't for the fact you looked so fucking good swaying your hips and grinding against another woman to Don't Cha by The Pussycat Dolls. They don't have girlfriends, but yeah, if they did... they'd wish she was hot like you.

"I talked to her first," comes Art's instant protest. He's already downed three glasses by now to quell his nerves, but it's only serving to make him more antsy. At least he probably won't remember any of this come morning.

"Yeah, and look where that got you," he snorts in return, mimicking the pity grimace you had given when Art restarted his sentence for the fifth time. That deflates Art's sails somewhat, and he mutters something about his friend being a dick under his breath.

"Fine. Go talk to her, then. I'll just sit here all by myself and wallow in my own self pity at a celebration of love. Knowing I am forever doomed to be alone."

Patrick shoots him a flat look for that, and Art visibly deflates. Yeah, that was a little dramatic, but he's tipsy and moping about how socially inept he is when it comes to pretty women at weddings. Give him a break.

"Nah, she'll talk to me first. We've been making eyes at each other for thirty minutes. I don't have to do anything."

"So... you aren't going to go talk to her?"

Given Art perks up a little at that, Patrick should probably be a little more sceptical. But he just shakes his head, sipping from his champagne and watching you laugh and excuse yourself from twirling around the floor with that other bridesmaid.

"Cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool…” Art hums in reply. Patrick doesn't even get the chance to reply before he's shooting off across the venue to catch you by the refreshments table.

Oh, that's how he's playing this. But Patrick said he wasn't going to talk to you, so it's his fault, really. That's how Art justifies it to himself as he dodges and weaves through dancing couples, tripping over his feet a few times in a bid to get to you.

"Does dibs mean fucking nothing to you?" Patrick hisses as he catches up to Art, just as the pair reach you.

"Hey," Art slurs, a lopsided smile on his face as he pointedly ignores his friend's complaint. "You look... really beautiful. I know I told you that earlier, but you're like... an angel."

Smooth, Donaldson. That's Patrick's queue to swoop in and save him from embarrassment, while hopefully pulling you in the process. He's not above knocking his friend down a few pegs if he really has to, though.

"We've never seen you before," Patrick says, giving you a quick once over that's far more appraising than it ought to be. It's hard not to blush and match the pretty pink alcohol-induced flush on Art's cheeks. "Friends with Megan long?"

"Uh... yeah," you reply, a little sheepish, plucking a h'ordeuvre from the table as you glance between the pair of them. Art isn't sure if you're wary or just amused. "We go way back."

"Really?" Art says, blinking. "Adam's never mentioned you before. Which is weird because he never shuts his—"

"So she's been keeping you a secret from us, then?" Patrick cuts in. God, his best friend gets so mouthy when he's tipsy. He's more of a lightweight than his fucking grandma. At least Nana can tolerate a few eggnogs without running her mouth.

"We just have conflicting schedules," you smile. "Not teenagers anymore, you know?"

You don't mention the fact you've hardly had contact with Megan since her twentieth birthday, where she deemed your gift lacklustre and cut you out of her social circle over the following weeks. Maybe that attitude is why she had been so desperate to have you as a bridesmaid in the first place—nobody else would stick around to deal with bridezilla.

"What about you and Adam?" You add a moment later, when both men giving little hums of acknowledgement. You pretend not to notice the way Art downs the last of his champagne as liquid courage before he gives his answer.

"Well, Adam's been our—"

"My friend since I was a kid," Patrick interjects again. Art sends him a look of inebriated betrayal, but the brunette is too busy eyeing up your cleavage as he talks to take much notice of it. "Our parents work together. Art's a groomsman because he's an extension of me. Fire and Ice, right, bud?"

A little nudge to Art's side, who looks thoroughly dejected at the depiction of his relationship with Adam. And the fact he's just come off as Patrick's little sidekick. So fucking unfair.

"... Right," he mutters.

"Fire and Ice? What's that?" You offer, in the hopes it'll brighten his spirits. It seems to work.

"We're tennis players. That's our nickname. A little childish, but we've been called that since we were kids."

"So you've known each other a long time?"

"Since we were twelve. Bunkmates at tennis camp," Patrick chips in helpfully, crooked grin permanently plastered on his face as he eyes you intently.

Well, they certainly have the build for it. Not that their suits leave much on display, but you can still see the way Art's muscles strain a little against the sleeves—his suit clearly isn't as tailored as Patrick's—and the way Patrick's ditched his bowtie to unbutton a few buttons of his shirt to give you a peek of his chest hair. And if the way he keeps reaching for h'ordeuvres to give him a peek of your ass every time he leans around you is any indication, that view is definitely intentional.

"So... which one's Fire, and which one's Ice?" You ask, glancing between the pair with a tilted head. Art seems eager to reply with a genuine reply, because he's just tipsy enough to actually be comfortable with you now, but Patrick speaks up before he can open his mouth.

"Why don't you find out?"

And, despite your better judgement, you intend to take him up on that. Spending the next hour at the reception taking candid photos and alternating between dancing with the pair of them; two gorgeous men on your arm, each equally as eager for your attention as the other. Suddenly, the last few months of Megan's temper tantrums feel worth it.

Not to mention you never expected Art to be able to breakdance. Five champagnes in and he's tearing up that floor, a far cry from the man who blushed crimson when the photographer asked him to place his hand on the small of your back after the ceremony.

—

When you all get a little too tipsy, they offer to walk you back to your hotel. You're all staying in the same one, anyways. It's no hassle. No point in sticking 'round here. Party would be boring without you. You can't remember which one of them told you that, but it was flattering nonetheless. Adam placed all of the bridesmaid's on the same floor, insisting it was the least he could do, but Patrick... well, apparently he has a presidential suite, so how could you possibly deny him when he offers to show you? That's the only reason you're going up to their room. Couldn't be anything else.

You trail in after them, heels hanging from your hand as you take in the sight. You're pretty sure this place is bigger than your entire apartment. Hell, the complimentary wine and gift basket on the table probably cost more than one month's rent for you.

"You look like a kid in a candy store," Patrick remarks, lips quirked up into a little smirk as he watches you ogle the sight. Both of them shrug off their jackets and abandon them on two armchairs, leaving you another sight to ogle.

"This place is... nice," you manage, eyes trained on the way Art is removing his cufflinks and rolling his shirt up to his elbows, muttering something about it being way too hot in here before collapsing into one of the arm chairs.

You almost make a remark about how it'd be considerably more tolerable if he just took the shirt off entirely, but Patrick beats you to that idea. Peeling off his own shirt and grinning to himself like a fucking idiot when he catches a glimpse of you admiring the way the muscles in his back flex as he moves. He even gives an exaggerated stretch and a groan to really seal the deal.

You have to take a seat and squeeze your thighs together after that.

"Nice is an understatement, babe," he replies. Babe? He's ballsy. Art is just drunk enough not to mask the exaggerated roll of his eyes he gives at Patrick's choice of words.

The three of you pop open that expensive bottle of wine and pass it around for another thirty minutes (with Patrick gradually giving Art less and less time to hog the bottle the drunker he gets), chatting about Adam and his stupid wife Megan and their stupid wedding. About tennis, and your own career, and who you think is going to win the Olympics this year or whether there are really aliens in the ocean. The kind of stupid shit drunk people discuss just because the conversation is as seemingly bottomless as the wine bottle you're drinking. You somehow manage to persevere throughout it all without staring at Patrick's chest too much.

"Well, I should probably go," you say, standing up (just a little wobbly on your feet) and offering a grateful smile to the pair of them. "Definitely going to be nursing a hangover in the morning."

"Wait—" They both protest in sync, sitting up.

You tilt your head at them, questioning.

"Aren't you going to sleep with one of us?"

Well, that's tactful, Zweig. Art reaches over to smack him up the back of the head, sending you a wordless apology in the form of a wide-eyed look, like a dog that's about to be scolded. But you take it in your stride, laughing as you pick up your heels.

"I don't want to pick between you. Seems mean," you reply. And you don't think you even could choose.

"You don't have to pick between either of us," Art says hastily. Even Patrick seems to be surprised by that. They've joked about sharing girls for years, ever since the Kat Zimmerman incident, but he never thought Art would be the one to actually suggest it. He averts his eyes when Patrick is searching for a towel after the shower, for Christ's sake.

But Patrick recovers quickly.

"Yeah," he chips in. "Don't you wanna find out which one of us is which?"

That gives you pause. Right. Fire and Ice. And judging by the victorious look they share at your silence, all of you are aware of the decision you've subconsciously made.

Your clothes don't take long to disappear. A tangle of limbs backing up into the master bedroom (Patrick's), hair pins discarded in a bid to yank your head back and mouth along the expanse of your neck, both men in just boxers before long. Touching each other in ways that are far from platonic but they'll both blame on alcohol and wanting to get the three of you undressed as quickly as possible.

"This is really ugly. I'm sorry," Art tells you candidly, as you straddle him on the bed. His fingers are tracing the large pink rose pinned to the shoulder of your dress, and you bark out a surprised laugh. The pair of you are giggling like idiots between kisses, insulting Megan's taste in bridalwear before there's a loud tearing sound, and suddenly you can feel the humid air hitting the back of your thighs.

That's Patrick. Doing the things he's fantasised about since he first saw you at the altar and ripping up the back of your dress to reveal your underwear. God, they're even better than he expected.

"Patrick, what the fuck—" Art starts, but his friend makes a kissing sound through his teeth.

"What? She said Adam paid for it. It's fine," Patrick mutters. "Besides, it was so fucking worth it. You should see the view back here, man."

His fingers trail over the dampness of your panties, the lacy white just as pure as Megan's wedding dress. If he wasn't already hard in his boxers (he has been since you entered their hotel room), he certainly is now. Pushing the fabric of your dress further out of the way and leaning in to lick a stripe over your panties, a low groan slipping past his lips at how soaked they are just from kissing. You would be embarrassed but... double the men, double the wetness, right?

Your hips jerk involuntarily at the sensation, a pair of matching moans escaping you and Art as it grinds you down against his clothed erection.

"I don't think Megan would be very happy you wore white on her wedding day," Patrick says, smiling against your clothed cunt as you push back against him.

"Fuck Megan," you reply breathlessly.

"No, fuck you," he shoots back. And he very well intends to. Both of them do, actually, given the way Art is whining and arching his back off the mattress in an uncoordinated attempt to get any friction against you. He's pretty sure he might cum untouched just from the sheer anticipation of it all.

Your panties go next, lost to the heap of the rest of your clothes on the floor. It doesn't take long for strong, calloused hands to rest on your ass, spreading you open so he can tongue-fuck your pussy. Mumbling something unintelligibly about how you taste even better than the wedding cake while your whines synchronise with Art in between sharing lips and spit. Stubble grazing your face and your ass, all three of your mouths too busy for any more wisecracks.

At one point, Art tries to snake his hand in between you and rub your clit, but the front of your dress is still in the way. He still makes the effort to roll his fingers against it over the fabric of your dress, and the sound you make in reply tells him he's at least contributing somewhat to the mess Patrick is making of you. He's content enough to just lick into your mouth greedily and swallow the keening sounds you're making.

"Cumming—" is all you manage to gasp out between kisses before you're clenching around nothing, and Patrick is lapping dutifully at your release. All three of you are groaning like the orgasm is shared between you. It's only when you're bordering on overstimulation and letting out pathetic little whimpers that Art realises he's still circling your clit on autopilot, and his hand falls back to grip the sheets.

"God, she's so fucking pretty when she cums," he moans, and you'd be offended by the fact he's talking about you like you're not here if you weren't so blissed out. "You should have seen her face, Pat."

"I'll see the next one," Patrick says.

Next one? Both a promise and a statement. Just hearing that has you whimpering as Art eases you off of him. Both of them help you out of your dress, a little more gently this time, and you have to ignore the comment Patrick makes about no bra, just for me? You don't have it in you to explain built-in cups and the power of pasties to a man right now. You just want to get fucked. It's only then, when you're all spread out and wanting on the bed, that you realise the wet patches in their matching black boxers (cute, you think) are just as vivid as the one that no doubt stains your lost panties.

"Jesus, you're big." You didn't mean to say that out loud, but you're in too deep to be ashamed about any of the events transpiring right now.

"Which one?" They both ask. The question goes unanswered when you start palming them both through their boxers, a chorus of moans elicited from the pair of them. (You all know the answer, anyways.) Hands grabbing at whoever they can touch, whether it's you or each other, until Patrick has the sense to yank down Art's boxers.

The protest dies on Art's tongue when he sees the way Patrick is eyeing his cock, flushed red tip glinting under the harsh hotel lights with the amount of pre-cum smeared across it. There's a moment where you all think he's going to touch him, wrap a hand around his closest friend's pretty pink dick and jerk him off, but then he simply shrugs off his own underwear. You aren't sure which one of you is more disappointed.

Everything is a haze from then onwards. You can vaguely hear them discussing positions as you kiss at Art's neck, red lipstick mottling his pale skin until it's hard to tell which stains are makeup and which are hickeys.

"We can't ask her to do anal, man. We hardly know her."

"Why not? I bet she'd like it. Fucked in both at once."

"Because that's... it's violating!"

"Oh, right. Because whatever else we're about to do won't be. Real innocent, vanilla sex with three drunk people in our fucking hotel room."

Fucking hotel room. The double-meaning of Patrick's own words makes him snort. The only reason they stop whispering back and forth is because you pull away, settling on all fours. Back arched in a silent invitation, pretty little ass stuck up in the air and arms braced against the silk sheets. They glance at each other, before scrambling to follow, with Art shoving Patrick aside to press himself behind you.

"Why do you get her pussy?" Patrick protests, sitting up and fixing his best friend with an indignant look.

"You said you wanted to see her face when she cums!"

Fuck. He did say that. Stupid logic. Well, it's not as if your throat would be unpleasant; he wonders if your mouth will be as welcoming to his cock as it was his tongue.

"C'mon," you whine, pressing back against Art's throbbing arousal. "Can one of you just do something?"

"D'you want me to use a condom? 'Cause my wallet is in my jacket in the next room—" Art starts, but you're already reaching back to guide his tip between your slick folds. Well, that's an answer if he's ever witnessed one.

Patrick is too busy getting situated in front of your face to make a comment about filthy girls taking it raw. Art's almost disappointed—he'd never be brave enough to make the comment himself. One large palm cupping your face, tilting your head up while the other slaps his cock against your lips. Whatever gloss they'd kissed off was replaced in a new sheen, one that makes him give a soft hum of approval.

"You look pretty," he tells you, and your thanks dies on your tongue when Art pushes into you. Easing himself in inch by inch, until you're practically drooling onto Patrick's tip. "God, what a fucking sight." For a moment, his eyes are on the way Art's face contorts in pleasure at the tight warmth surrounding him. It's even hotter than the way he looked when they used to jerk off in the same room at night.

"Open wide," he instructs, eyes flitting down to you. Smiling down at you with that shit-eating little grin and talking to you like you're at the dentist, not getting spit roasted after your friend's wedding. "Big girls take it all, right?"

You oblige, though—how could you not, when your senses are clouded by Art drilling into you from behind? A few more slaps of his cock against your tongue, and he's pushing himself in, too. His breath catches in his throat as the warm wetness of your mouth envelopes him—yeah, definitely just as welcoming.

You can hardly tell who's moaning at this point. There's something almost beautiful in the synchrony, the way your hands and bodies move against each other. Clutching at Patrick's hips, while he fists your hair, admiring the way the ringlets spill through his fingers like a waterfall as he pushes you down further; gagging at the intrusion in your throat while Art whimpers behind you like this is his first time getting pussy. Each of you are in your own individual heaven, while simultaneously in ecstasy together.

"Good fuckin' girl, just like that—"

"Oh, Pat, she's so tight—"

A hand slaps against your ass, and you can't tell who it belongs to. Patrick seems like the most likely culprit, given how sweet Art had been earlier, but with the way he's ramming into you like a jackhammer leaves you doubtful. It doesn't really matter, though—they both know you enjoyed it, given the way you garble out a moan around Patrick's dick. You don't know if you're praying for mercy or for more.

He lets you come up for air occasionally, telling you how pretty you look taking Art's cock. Such a good girl, before you're being degraded for letting him fuck your throat like a slut. There's no time for arguments before his tip is at the back of your throat again, the sound of your gag reflex going off hardly audible over the sound of moaning, wet slapping and skin hitting skin.

You think you know now. Fire and Ice.

Art reaches around to rub your clit at some point, slurring, "want you to cum first. You deserve it. So fucking good for us."

Patrick makes a sound of disagreement, tightening his grip in your hair as his hips begin to stutter. Not because you aren't being good for them—you're so fucking perfect—but because he wants to be able to see and hear you properly when you cum. He doesn't have the vocal capabilities to voice that aloud right now, though, so he just continues to thrust eagerly past your swollen lips until his climax hits him. You'd be worried about the obscene slew of noises coming from Patrick's hotel room if it weren't a presidential fucking suite. God, why does that make this so much hotter?

He groans out your name—or maybe it was Art's?—as he releases, holding your head in place to ensure it's all aimed down your throat. The salty taste isn't foreign to you, but you still grimace. Patrick takes it as an expression of pleasure, though, withdrawing from your mouth and leaning down to press his lips against yours in a fleeting kiss.

"You can cum," he murmurs. You weren't asking for permission, but you nod anyways. Art's grunts of exertion are the loudest sound in the room, the occasional whine slipping past his lips when your cunt squeezes harder around him. Slick fingers circling your clit until he feels you convulsing around him.

You mewl with pleasure, bowing your head forward, your arms and legs threatening to give way from your arched position. But Patrick catches your chin and tilts it upwards, watching the way your eyes roll back as Art fucks you through your orgasm and your spit-slick lips part around his name. “Art, fuck, yeah—“ It's only after Art announces his own climax with a low moan and collapses on top of you that Patrick is kind enough to wipe the drool coating your chin away.

It's all a bit of a blur after that. Shared kisses between the three of you in the darkness when the light has been switched off—sometimes between Art and Patrick, though neither of them have any intentions of acknowledging it. Gentle caresses against sweaty skin as you lay tangled in Patrick's queen-sized bed, praises whispered aimlessly into the quiet of the humid night.

—

You're gone by the time they wake up. A walk of shame back to your own hotel room in a shirt borrowed from one of their suitcases (you don't know which), mourning the loss of that ugly dress you wanted to sell on eBay afterwards to cover dinner for the month. Neither of them speak of the events that occurred the night before until after breakfast has been ordered and Art has taken several pills for his hangover, eating room service on the same chairs you all sat on last night, their jackets still strewn across the back of them.

"I think that was better than either of us getting laid alone," Art comments, poking at his egg with his fork. Both of them are littered with hickeys, but Art bears the worst of it. He's pretty sure most of the marks came from cuddling with Patrick in bed afterwards, but he’s too afraid to mention it. Not a can of worms he wants to open right now.

"Yeah?" Patrick prompts, with a knowing little smile. Even tired and hungover, Art has enough wits about him to know that something is up. He narrows his eyes, dropping his cutlery onto his plate and sitting up straighter.

"What?" He demands.

"Nothing."

Art leans forward. "There's obviously something, Pat."

"Just... when have I ever not approached a girl I wanted?"

It takes a moment for Art to really process what that means. Last night was a pleasurable, drunken haze, but he does remember Patrick's words in the reception hall. It makes sense now—that bullshit about Patrick waiting for you to approach him.

... Manipulative little bastard. That doesn't stop Art from replying with:

"Fuck you, man." A pause. "... But I think we should do that again some time."

[skyahri]

Hate |Naruto Men X Reader| HC

Characters: Kakashi Hatake, Shikamaru Nara, Sasuke Uchiha

Summary: Hate is a strong word, but it's also a very fragile one.

Warnings: Brief smut, kissing mentions of p and v. Some angst, but all comfort. Mentions of blood, violence, and death.

Masterlist Ko-fi

- - - - -

Kakashi Hatake

You hated how full of himself he was. He was always talking down to people, to his teammates and so-called friends. He goes out of his way to show people up no matter how inappropriate the situation may be.

He hated that you always stuck up for people he considered weak. He hated how much time and energy you put into helping others instead of focusing on your own training. He hated that you had so much potential, yet seemed to waste it at every opportunity.

As time went on and you were forced into each other's inner circles, your occasional arguments became a constant bicker. It got even worse when you were assigned to his ANBU team. You questioned his every move and fought every decision he made.

In return, he always gave you the least desirable night shifts. He'd make you write all the reports, saying something about needing to learn to respect your elders (he's only a few months older than you).

Once you were put in charge of your own team, things quieted down. Not because either of you had mellowed out, but because you didn't cross paths as often anymore.

Because of how rarely you saw him, you always made sure to make your brief encounters worth it. You had practically written a list of insults to throw his way. He returned the same energy with out hesitation.

Eventually, after his genin team had gone their separate ways and you had finally retired from ANBU, you had a seemingly infinite amount of time to rekindle your rivalry with him.

He always seemed to be heading in the same direction as you were. It didn't matter if you were on your way to the Hokage's office, the shops, or meeting up with someone- he was always there.

You tried to fight with him like the good old days, but it was different now that you were grown adults. Maybe the ungodly amount of trauma combined with the wedge distance had created in your odd relationship had finally put an end to your petty war.

Thinking back, maybe this is what it had been all along, and your stupid kid brain was too proud to admit what was really going on.

Your arguing had turned into kissing the moment he stepped through your apartment door. Things moved quickly, expert hands doing away with endless layers of Jonin uniforms in a rushed attempt to feel more of each other.

It felt right. Like the decades of tension had finally come to a head and you were being forced to deal with it in the most animalistic way possible.

"I hate you."

Your mumbling between desperate kisses. He doesn't acknowledge you immediately, opting to instead lift you by your ass so your legs could wrap around him. He pushes you against the wall, pressing his clothed election right against your womanhood.

"I hate you, too."

Neither of you acknowledges the elephant in the room, that the word you're looking for isn't actually hate. But that's beyond your cloudy minds right now.

Shikamaru Nara

Shikamaru has never really bothered with social pleasantries or subjected himself to cater to what people like and dislike. In fact, he often chastised people for caring what others think.

He always commented about what you wore, how well groomed you were, and the overall effort you put into your appearance each day.

You hated listening to it, which is why you always did your best to avoid him.

It wasn't even about you specifically. You hated hearing how rudely he'd shut down Ino when she would ramble on about anything. You hated when he complained about how loud Naruto and Kiba were despite knowing that they're just excitable people. You hated hearing the damn near sexist remarks he'd make about how stupid people were for giving any shots about how they looked.

It was annoying. It didn't seem to phase anyone else anymore, but that almost made it worse.

You were at your breaking point. Just one comment away from losing your composure and you prayed to God you'd be able to refrain from saying anything too harsh.

But alas, Kakashi had assigned you to yet another mission with him- the sixth one just this month.

At least he waited until you were at the Inn before he started up with you. You honestly don't know why he let you shower first if it was going to be such an issue.

"Finally. I thought you'd be in there forever."

"What the Hell is your problem with me?"

He paused in his tracks. He wasn't expecting you to say anything to his usual grumbling, and especially didn't expect it to be so hostile.

"You always take forever in the bathroom."

"It was twenty minutes. You'll live."

"It wouldn't be that long if you didn't bother with all the extra shit you use."

"Why is it such a problem that I care about what I look like? I don't ever involve you in it and yet you're always talking about it."

He rolled his eyes, about to blow off whatever you were saying, but you started up again before he could.

"All you ever do is bitch and whine and moan about dumb shit that doesn't concern you. I like to look nice. I like wearing clothes that compliment my figure and putting time into the health of my hair and skin. It's not the end of the world, so shut the fuck up about it already."

You walked past him and lay in one of the twin beds, tired from the journey and pissed about your teammate's usual poor behavior.

He didn't say anything. He continued with what he was going to do before the argument and carried on like nothing had happened.

He kept any conversations strictly professional for the duration of the mission, something you were ecstatic about.

It wasn't until a few days after you returned home that you heard from him. He showed up at your apartment unprompted, looking irritated and slightly flustered.

"After talking with my team, it may have come to my attention that I might be kind of an ass."

You invited him in, curious as to what he had to say. He admitted that he had never been called out on it. Most people don't take him too seriously and he may have gotten a bit too comfortable voicing every thought that crossed his mind.

Although he had mostly soothed any nerves you had, you still decided he owed you.

You dragged him into your room, sat him at your vanity, and laughed when he groaned. You pulled out all the stops for him. You took him through your entire routine start to finish and when you were done, you asked him hiw it felt.

He hated that it felt nice. He hated that he suddenly realized how dry his skin usually was and how clean he suddenly felt. He would never fully admit that to you, though.

Him showing up at your apartment the next day, conveniently around the time you usually started these things, was all the confirmation you needed that he no longer deemed it a waste of time.

Sasuke Uchiha

He hated going to the Hokage's office, not because he was still in the thick of earning his freedom after the war, but because he hated Kakashi’s assistant.

You annoy him. He hates that you so confidently push his buttons. He hates that you're just a civilian, but you've been given so much authority over him. It was an unfit existence for the last Uchiha.

You enjoyed messing with him. He would grumble when given his assignment and you made sure to mock him with a playful pout. You'd check in with the ANBU watching over him to make sure he was behaving. You always used that word- behaving. As if he were a child.

Unfortunately for Sasuke, Kakashi isn't in the village right now, meaning he's stuck taking orders from you. He swears Kakashi picked you to oversee him intentionally, knowing how much it would bother him.

He's sitting next to you, helping you go through seemingly endless piles of paperwork. He wasn't sure if this was better than all the D-rank missions he'd been assigned lately, but he begrudgingly accepted the change of pace.

He glances at you through his peripherals. The sun is just going down, the orange light illuminating your soft features. Your usual bratty expression was replaced with a more peaceful one.

This was most likely just as much a break for you as it was for him. He wasn't oblivious to the way you had to reel Kakashi in every day, damn near having to tie him to his chair to get anything done.

"You can go home. I'll finish up here and we can resume tomorrow."

He didn't argue, thankful for relief from the horrifically tedious task. As he was leaving the building, he suddenly got this feeling in his gut that he should stay.

Of course, not wanting to do more paperwork than he was required to, he ignored the feeling and carried on.

He should've stayed. Just an hour after he left, while you were packing up for the night, the tower was raided by rogue nin.

The alarm sounded in the village, immediately calling all available shinobi. Bee, the ANBU assigned to him, gave him permission to lend a hand, and off they went to the tower.

He teleported himself to Kakashi’s office, knowing you would most likely be in there or at least somewhere near. What he wasn't expecting, however, was you standing over a body, kunai in hand and blood splattered across your body.

"Y/N?"

You didn't move, couldn't move. He reached forward, tugged the blade out of your shaky grip, and let it fall to the floor. You let him, not really in the mood to fight any more than you had to right now.

"Is he dead?"

Your question caught him off guard.

"I've never killed anyone before."

Ah. Civilian. Right. Sure, you belonged to a Shinobu village and even worked under the Kage, but that was vastly different than being on the front lines.

He thought for a second. Was he in any sort of position to be responsible for you at the moment? Should he hand you off to one of the other nin and return home?

"Cover your eyes."

It took a minute for his words to register in your hazy mind, but once they did you obeyed. If there was one thing you knew would benefit you, it would be allowing him to take the lead for now.

He put his hand between your shoulder blades and guided you through the hallways, down the stairs, and away from the tower completely. He glanced around, but couldn't find Bee, so he opted to take you back to his apartment. It would cause a lot less trouble if he was where he was supposed to be after all.

At home, he sat you down in the tub and turned on the water. He left you there, letting all the blood loosen from your skin. He returned a moment later, setting a stack of clothes down on the counter and grabbing a rag from the cabinet.

Neither of you spoke as he gently scrubbed your face. When he was done, he got a little bit of shampoo and worked all the red out of your hair.

You were slowly coming out of your daze. It was nice being brought out by something kind and comforting. It was almost enough to distract you from the night's events. Almost.

When he was done, he handed you the cloth, telling you to finish up and see him when you're done. You nodded, standing up and undressing when the door closed. You noticed how clean the water ran, most likely due to how thoroughly the Uchiha had taken care of you.

When you stepped out of the tub, you noticed the clothes on the counter. Upon closer inspection, they were similar to the ones he was wearing now- a t-shirt and sweats.

You joined him in the adjacent bedroom where he waited patiently. He all but forced you into his bed, shutting down all of your protests. When he went to leave the room, you quickly grabbed the fabric of his shirt to stop him.

"Please stay."

He didn't fight you. He walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down, leaning against the headboard and staring blanky in front of him.

You were thankful for the comfort of simply not being alone. Not after tonight, when so much had happened and the trauma was still fresh in your mind.

He tried telling himself that this was not a personal act, but instead one that would aid his village. But who was he kidding? He was realizing you weren't all that terrible and he had just allowed his angst brain to manipulate him into thinking so.

[majinael]

"Not my style."

★Michael Kaiser x GN Reader (Angst(?) into fluff)

★TW: mentions of abuse

★937 words

★ can be perceived as OOC, but I believe he would act entirely different towards his childhood friends if he had any

I had known Michael since we were kids. I often found him at the park, playing football like it was the only thing in his world. And maybe it was. His clothes were perpetually worn and dirty, his pale skin marred by small cuts and bruises. When I asked, he’d always brush it off, saying he simply liked that outfit or that the bruises came from playing with his ball and helping his dad at home. I believed him, young and naive as I was. I’d share my snacks with him, and in return, he’d teach me how to play football, his passion shining through every kick and pass.

As the years passed, my parents pulled me into their bakery, one of the most renowned in town. Our paths diverged, but I never forgot him. Sometimes, I’d walk by the park, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. But one day, when I did, tears streamed uncontrollably down my face, crashing onto the cold pavement. In my trembling hand was a newspaper announcing his arrest for robbery. Everything clicked then—his shabby clothes, his bruises, the hollow look in his eyes. He wasn’t just a boy who loved football. He was a poor, hungry kid trapped in a home with an abusive father. Football had been his only escape, and I... I had done nothing to help.

I told myself I was too young to understand, too innocent to see the truth. But the guilt clung to me, a heavy shadow that wouldn’t fade.

That night, I dragged myself home, collapsing onto the couch where my dad was watching TV. The world spun around me until a shout broke through my haze.

"GOAL!!"

My eyes shifted to the screen, and for a moment, I could almost see Michael chasing the ball with that same fiery determination. A bittersweet smile crept onto my lips. That’s when I fell in love with football—not just the game, but what it represented. It was Michael’s legacy, the one thing he’d left with me. I started playing in my free time, replaying his words in my mind, letting the sport bridge the distance between us.

Years passed, and I inherited the bakery. Football became my solace, every match rekindling memories of our friendship. Then, one day, my television turned into a magic mirror, revealing the answer to a question I hadn’t dared to ask. What could he be doing ?

Michael was there. On my screen. Playing for Bastard München.

And oh, how he played. Every movement was precise, intense, beautiful. His tall, muscular frame, his cold, striking features, his blond hair tipped with blue—it was as if he had stepped out of a dream, wrapped in the elegance of a blue rose garden. My cheeks ached from smiling, my heart swelling with pride and something deeper I couldn’t name.

When the match ended, I knew one thing: I had to see him.

I wasn’t wealthy, but I scraped together enough to buy a ticket, luck granting me a seat near the front. The stadium’s atmosphere was electric, the roar of the crowd reverberating in my chest. But my eyes were only on him. Michael. That cocky smile of his stirred something in me I hadn’t felt before. And when his gaze briefly met mine, I was overcome—not just with admiration, but with pride.

The match ended far too soon. If you asked me what happened, I couldn’t tell you a thing beyond Michael’s every move. I was captivated, lost in the way he commanded the field.

As the stadium emptied, I lingered, unable to move, clutching a small blue bracelet I’d made for him—a simple token of waxed cords and a metallic rose pendant. I didn’t even notice the signing session at the exit. Even if I had, would I have gone? Fear gripped me. What if he didn’t recognize me? Or worse, what if he did and resented me for my inaction all those years ago?

A presence behind me shattered my thoughts.

“It’s been a while, (Y/N).”

His voice was unmistakable, and my breath hitched. Tears threatened to fall as I turned, finding him standing there, his expression softer than I ever remembered.

Without thinking, I threw my arms around him. For a moment, he froze, but then his arms enveloped me, holding me as if he’d never let go.

“I don’t even know where to start, Micha...” My voice trembled as tears spilled freely.

He pulled back slightly, his cold features melting into an uncharacteristic gentleness. “Let’s not talk about the past,” he said quietly. “Give me your number before I have to leave.”

I handed him my phone, heart racing as he typed in his digits.

“I missed you,” I blurted, unable to stop myself.

His lips curled into a faint smile—a rare, genuine expression of happiness.

“I have something for you,” I said, hesitating before placing the bracelet in his hand. He chuckled softly, inspecting it.

“That’s... adorably not my style,” he teased, “but I’ll keep it.”

My smile faltered. “You don’t have to if you don’t like it—”

“I said I’ll keep it,” he interrupted, his tone firm yet amused. “I’ll find a use for it.”

Before I could say more, he stepped away. “I have to go.”

“Take care, Michael,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

That night, a text lit up my phone: “Care about yourself. Don’t worry about me.” I chuckled, knowing it was impossible.

The next time I saw him on TV, he was wearing the bracelet. My heart swelled as I sent him a message: “Not your style, huh?”

His reply was immediate: “Don’t read into it.”

But I did. And I always would.

[queensunshinee]

His favorite toy- Part 2 || Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex, oral sex), super toxic relationship.

Word Count: 6.5k

(part 1)

His favorit toy- Part 2:

Two months have passed since the last time Art and I fucked. Although it wouldn’t be fair to call it that, because I don’t fully know what it was. I only know he said he thinks he loves me. Neither of us made the minimal effort to rekindle any kind of relationship. I kept sitting with Janet and Shane, and he stayed in his place next to the friend he invented.

Occasionally, if I focused, I could feel his gaze on the back of my neck, but maybe I was imagining it. Maybe I also imagined his declaration of love, maybe I lost my grip on reality for a moment. Maybe more water needs to flow under this bridge. Maybe Tashi Duncan needs to be his, like he is hers, so I can stop dreaming about him at night. How did I become so dependent on the emotions of a girl I have no desire to exchange a word with? How did I lose someone I’m not sure was ever mine? And more than anything- what made me spend so much time in this endless whining?

A few days after that party, Luke sat next to me in one of the classes we share. He looked so good that if I close my eyes, I can imagine it's Art. A remarkably pathetic thought, but it works. Except he isn’t cruel. He doesn't try to deceive me or lead me to the point he wants me to reach. He’s interested in me and my hobbies, and sometimes he walks me from class to class, but in these two months, he hasn’t made any move beyond placing his hand on my shoulder. Maybe he thinks I have lice. Maybe he thinks I won’t be good enough in bed to risk our boring conversations about the eco-intro professor.

Maggie, the girl I work with, canceled at the last minute, so I ended up alone at the smoothie station and the register. I took comfort in the fact that it's exam season and not too many Stanford students would prefer to stand in line for a smoothie instead of grabbing a spot in the library on a Sunday night. "The usual?" I heard Art’s voice and lifted my gaze from the book I was reading. I blinked at him a few times, as if trying to figure out if I was imagining his smug smile. Maybe it wasn’t smug, maybe that's just how he always smiles when he sees me. Like he knows a secret he’ll never tell me. "I..." I tried to hold onto the reality as I knew it, "I don’t remember," I smiled without showing teeth, half-forced.

"Peach—" he stopped himself in the middle of the stupid nickname. Apparently, he understood from my look that it wasn’t appropriate after two months of radio silence. "Almond milk, banana, pecan, and coconut," he mumbled. "That’s $4.50," he nodded. I wondered if he was surprised, because I’d never asked him to pay before. I’d always used the free smoothie I got during my shift on him. "How a—" he started to speak, and I turned on the blender, seeing out of the corner of my eye that he was smirking and shaking his head. "Fair," he muttered. "Here’s your smoothie. Goodnight," I handed him the cup after a few seconds, with the most forced smile I could muster. He rolled his eyes in response and sat down in one of the empty chairs.

"What do you think you’re doing?" I asked. "Sitting and drinking my smoothie, obviously," he spoke again as if I were two years old. Like I needed him to mediate reality for me because I couldn’t understand it on my own. "Do you see anyone else sitting here?" I asked. "Just because the tables are empty because it’s ten at night and you’re working in a cafeteria-" he began. "This isn’t a cafeteria. It’s the—" "Doesn’t mean I can’t sit at one of the tables and drink my smoothie. Or are there new rules I’m not aware of?" I rolled my eyes in response. Smug dickhead. I was definitely not going to give him a second of my time. I went back to the book I was reading for my philosophy exam, trying to ignore his presence but realizing I was reading the same sentence five times in a row.

"What are you studying?" he asked after a few minutes of silence. "Why are you doing this?" I threw the question back from behind the counter, sighing in frustration. "What am I doing?" The usual smirk was plastered on his face. "Why are you here on a Sunday night, Art?" If I could stomp my foot to express protest, I would. "Because you’re here on a Sunday night." The smirk turned into a smile. I couldn’t tell if it was sincere. I never know if he’s sincere.

"What do you want?" I rolled my eyes and sighed, realizing he wasn’t going to leave. I knew he was stubborn in an almost inspiring way (or nauseating, depending on who you ask) and that he was always at an advantage with me. He always had the last word. All I had left was to let him say it quickly and move on with life. "To ask how you're doing?" he half said, half asked. He sounded hesitant, but I knew he wasn’t. I knew he was as confident as any other day. He knew exactly what he was doing. "Amazing. Anything else?" I found myself crossing my arms under my chest and saw him, without shame, shift his gaze, well… to my chest, raising an eyebrow.

"Arthur!" I felt like I was his aunt as he shook his head, almost playfully. "I missed you, Peaches. Is that so hard to believe?" He chuckled, still completely shameless. "Well, I didn’t." That was the first thing that came to mind, and the face Art made, along with the eye roll, only emphasized how much he didn’t believe me. "Why are you so mad at me?" His voice was amused as he approached the counter with his smoothie, grabbing the book I was reading without asking. "What course is this?" "Philosophy," I snatched it from his hand, and he grabbed mine with the speed of an athlete who works too much with his hands. "Let go," I muttered, not sure if I wanted him to release my hand or release me. But I was scared he'd agree and disappear again, and that was so fucking pathetic. "Never," he replied, keeping his gaze on me and giving my hand a squeeze. "It’s not fair, Art," I hated how my voice sounded. "What’s not fair?" he asked, tracing small circles on my hand the moment he felt me relax the muscle that had been trying to pull away from his touch. "What you're doing right now," I sighed. If he weren’t in front of me, I probably would’ve started crying out of frustration. "What am I doing right now?" The smirk was once again plastered on his face. "Trying to convince me everything's okay between us," I hesitated, and he shook his head from side to side. "Nothing's okay between us, Peaches. I hate it. I actually hate it. I think about you 80% of the day. Every time I want to talk to you, you're either with your friends or with Luke." He wrinkled his nose as he said his name.

"Why do you know his name?" I asked, studying him. "Because I looked him up, and I'm telling you, Peaches, he's fucking weird—" "You're fucking weird," I shot back, and he laughed, trying to move the hair from my face with his free hand. "Well, maybe you like us weird, maybe you've got a type," he tried to joke, making me roll my eyes. "Who said I like you, Donaldson?" I tried to defend myself, and Art wasn’t laughing anymore. He wasn’t smiling either. He just looked at me, not letting me read his expression. His hand, which had been playing with mine, tightened its grip, and his gaze locked onto me as if I was on trial for the words that just came out of my mouth.

"Let’s study for the statistics exam together tomorrow?" He changed the subject, not breaking his intense gaze. "Art—" "Study for the exam. Just that. I won't pass it if you don't help me," he flashed his most charming smile. The one he fakes in seconds. The one he uses for interviews with the Stanford magazine and in photoshoots for the tennis team posters. "Study with Dylan," I suggested, raising an eyebrow, referring to the imaginary friend he chose to sit with instead of me. "You want me to beg?" he asked, poking my shoulder with his finger, causing me to shift slightly but still not letting go of my hand. "Maybe," I teased. "I can. My ego will survive if you study with me for statistics tomorrow." He said it quicker than I expected.

"I have a philosophy exam at eight. Can you do twelve?" I asked. "I can when you can. Where’s the exam? I’ll wait for you," he said. "Meet me at the economics library. There’s a room where you’re allowed to talk if you’re working in groups," I explained my choice. "That’s ridiculous. Let’s study at your place or mine—" "We’ll study at the library, take it or leave it," I stated firmly, even though the temptation to go to his dorm was strong since he never invited me. We always went to mine. "Library it is," he agreed. "What’s your philosophy exam about?" he asked, finally letting go of my hand, which had been holding the book I was studying from. "Aristotle and eudaimonia. What he thinks about happiness," I muttered, opening my notes again. "What does he think about happiness?" Art asked, leaning on the counter. "You wouldn’t get it," I smiled at him, and saw him nod with a somewhat thoughtful look, as if his combative spirit and desire to argue had evaporated the moment I agreed to study statistics with him. "Tomorrow at twelve, Peaches. Don’t break my heart and ditch me," he threw into the air, leaving the booth with the same dramatic flair he had when he entered. . . . I walked into the economics library, which was packed with people. Art was already sitting there, messing with his phone more than with the notes in front of him on the table. He hadn’t noticed I’d entered, giving me the chance to observe him. His blonde curls fell over his eyes in a way that likely bothered him. He was wearing his red tennis outfit (the one I liked the most, I should mention) and looked carefree. He always seemed too relaxed, maybe that’s how it is when everything comes to you with an ease that’s almost disgusting.

"You need a haircut," I muttered the first thing that came to mind as I approached, seeing him look up immediately. "Hey," he said, smiling from ear to ear, "I saved a spot because I knew it’d be crowded," he added. "How long have you been sitting here?" I asked as I took the seat next to him. "Since about ten," he chuckled, probably at himself, "How was the exam?" he asked. "Long. Have you gone over any of the material?" Yesterday, I decided I’d be practical. I’d promised to help him, and honestly, I always understood the material better myself when I explained it to him. And if Art Donaldson could take advantage of my knowledge in statistics, then I could take advantage of the situation too. Not just him. "A little, I pretty much lost track in the middle of the course." Art had taken this course as an elective. I always found it funny because who takes statistics as an extra class when it’s not even required for their degree?

"What, Kevin didn’t let you copy his notes?" I looked at him with a raised eyebrow, and he lightly tapped my shoulder. "You’re mean. Since when are you so mean?" he responded with a humor I couldn’t fully read, unsure if he was joking or if part of him actually thought there was some cruelty in me. Maybe it was the philosophy exam I couldn’t shake off. Obsessive thoughts about happiness and potential. "I’m going to get myself some coffee, want me to bring you something?" I asked, changing the subject. "Sit down, get settled, I’ll get it for you," he nodded toward me and stood up, not giving me a chance to refuse before he disappeared from my sight, leaving me alone.

Art Donaldson will be the end of me. I’m certain of it. "My brain is fried, Donaldson. I can’t look at any more averages," I summed up after two hours of studying. "Yeah? Already gave up?" he asked, amused. "I remind you that I had an exam today! I don’t think I’ve eaten anything other than my own brain," I tried to remember what I’d actually eaten today. "So let’s go eat something," he smiled. His eyes practically sparkled. "Art," I sighed, resting my head on my hand. "What? We can’t go have lunch?" he asked with mock innocence. Speaking to me again like I was a child. Like I didn’t understand what he’d already figured out long ago. "No, of course not," I wanted to smack him on the head as if he were the dumbest person I knew. "I can’t let you stay hungry, Peaches, my grandmother would be mad at me," he quickly replied. Where was your grandmother every time you humiliated me to the core? Every time you made me feel empty and stupid? So stupid. "Your grandmother will survive," I rolled my eyes. "She’s a very sick woman, you don’t know that. I’ll tell her I let you starve and she’ll have a stroke. You won’t be able to live with that on your conscience. You’ll drag us into lives full of guilt—" "Okay, you’re giving me a headache, God," I mumbled, standing up. Art Donaldson’s smug smile returned to his face in an instant.

That’s how I found myself sitting across from him at the fancy cafeteria for athletes, eating nuggets after the woman working there flirted with him and gave me a threatening look. "Don’t hate Rosie, she always gives me extra pie," he said after I pointed out that she looked at me like I was the reason the Beatles broke up. "Because she wants to sleep with you," I rolled my eyes. "So she has a reason to look at you like that. Makes sense," he replied with a chuckle. "Okay, what is this?" I dropped the nugget I was holding and pointed between us as I leaned back in my chair. "What?" he continued eating as if nothing unusual was happening. "What are you doing, Art?" I asked, feeling my leg start to shake out of frustration.

"I’m eating and making sure you’re eating," he replied, taking another bite of his food, as if we were having a completely normal conversation. "We’re not going to fuck again just because you invited me to eat nuggets at the cafeteria, you know that, right?" I blinked at him, trying to signal that he was delusional. "Of course not," he said, leaning back in his chair as well. "I have principles, Donaldson," I continued. "I know," he smiled. "I’m not some girl you found on the street that you can treat however you want, disappear for two months, invite her for nuggets, and she’ll take off her bra just so you can vanish again until the next time you’re horny," my voice rose a bit, despite my effort to keep it calm. I saw his jaw tighten, his expression shifting from amused to cold. "Is that what you think this is?" he asked, and all I could do was shrug.

"It’s not like you’ve given me any reason to think otherwise, Art," I looked at him and felt that if I stayed there much longer, I’d start crying. "I told you that I lo—" he began, but I stood up. "Thanks for lunch, it’s definitely nicer than the regular cafeteria," I forced a smile, and he closed his eyes. "You didn’t eat anything," he replied. If I focused, maybe I could have seen his frustration growing. But I was trying to focus on not crying. Art Donaldson’s ego didn’t deserve to see me cry over him again. "I’m really tired, I need to sleep a bit before my shift," I mumbled. "Will you come to my match tomorrow?" he asked quietly. "Art—" "You don’t have to, but I’m saving you a seat, okay?" he cut off my answer, not wanting to hear a refusal, maybe not believing there was a bone in my body capable of saying no to him. . . . And it’s a little pathetic how I ended up walking onto the tennis court the next day, giving up the last shred of my self-respect. I was surprised to see how many people showed up to these things, especially at the end of exam season and right before the break. The place was packed.

‘You came’ -A- I got his message and tried to look around, searching for where he might be. ‘Down on the court’ -A- I could practically see his smirk in the words. I glanced toward him and shrugged. ‘Front row, saved you a seat next to Patrick’ -A- he added.

‘What the fuck is Patrick?’ -(Y/N)- I replied, not moving toward where he told me to go.

‘A friend. Please sit there.’ -A- He answered shortly. ‘Want to lift my head and know where you are’ -A- And when he says things like that, I almost forget how cruel he can be. So I find myself rolling my eyes and walking toward the seat he saved for me.

"Are you Patrick?" I mumbled, feeling my cheeks flush from the awkward interaction with the guy sitting next to the empty seat. "Depends who’s asking," the curly-haired guy responded, flashing a mischievous half-smile. I can see why they’re friends. Fucking twelve-year-olds in the bodies of twenty-year-olds, how is that even possible?! "Don’t be a dick," we heard from down below, and I turned to see Art approaching us. "Who’s this?" the guy I didn’t know asked, as if I wasn’t standing right there—seriously, rude as hell, but whatever. "Patrick, behave," Art wasn’t joking, not even smiling, scolding him like you’d scold a misbehaving pet. "You came," Art looked me over, grinning from ear to ear. "Don’t let it go to your head, I had some free time," I muttered, sitting down. Art nodded. "Will you stay after the game?" he asked. I think it was the first time Art had to look up to talk to me. "I don’t know, I need to keep studying for statistics," I answered. "Me too," he replied. "We’ll study together," he shrugged, not giving me a chance to respond before he walked off, taking his position. Getting ready to serve.

“Interesting,” the guy next to me said. “What exactly?” I asked, rolling my eyes and still not looking at him. “You, of course,” I could hear him smiling. “What’s so interesting about me?” I kept staring into the air, unsure if I should focus on Art, who still hadn’t started playing, or the phenomenon sitting next to me. Arrogant, just like the blond guy who’s been emotionally torturing me for months. “Well, first of all, I’ve never heard of you. You’re a surprise,” he said as if it was obvious. And it stung a little, even though I knew the chances of Art talking about me were slim to none. “Maybe you’re the problem, Pete,” I muttered, snapping my fingers like I was trying to recall his name. “Patrick,” he corrected, laughing, making me look at him. He had a loud laugh, unapologetic. I knew his name was Patrick, and he knew I knew, but he still found it amusing.

“Maybe you’re the surprise,” I told him. “He doesn’t talk about you either.” I tried to sound unaffected, like everything was fine. The game started, and Art looked distracted. Maybe he always looks like that when he plays tennis- I’ve never watched his games before, he’s never invited me. “You’re supposed to watch the other side too,” Patrick whispered in my ear, causing me to roll my eyes. “Hey, Stats Girl,” I heard the familiar voice of Tashi Duncan just before she sat next to Patrick, cursing the day I decided to trust Art Donaldson and show up at his game. “The one and only,” I muttered with the best smile I could muster, feeling myself blush at the ridiculous nickname she gave me. “How’s he doing?” she asked Patrick. I wondered what their connection was. “He’s good, you know, as usual. Ice.” he replied, and they started talking quietly about the game, about Art, and about the opponent.

All I could think about was how good Art looked. He looked as if everything came to him effortlessly, as if he didn’t need to try for anything—everything just happened. And I knew that wasn’t true, I knew he worked hard, trained, ate properly, invested in his studies, and that he was probably a good grandson and a good friend. He was good to everyone except me. “Are you enjoying the game?” Tashi asked, pulling my gaze away from Art for a moment. “Huh?” I asked, not understanding what she wanted. “The game, are you enjoying it? He’s playing well,” she clarified. “Yeah, he’s really good,” I mumbled. I didn’t know what else to add to make it sound convincing. “Leave her, Tash. She doesn’t know anything about tennis, she’s his cheerleader,” Patrick answered her, snickering. I shot him a murderous look. “Patrick, don’t be rude,” Tashi said, “I’m sorry about him, he doesn’t know how to behave around people,” she turned to me, as if he wasn’t there. “It’s fine,” I replied, feeling my leg start to shake from the frustration. They went back to talking about the game, and I suddenly felt how pathetic it was, showing up to watch him play. To come and see him in his element, when he wasn’t part of my life anymore. When his friend sat next to me, mocking me to my face. “I’ll be right back…” I mumbled, walking toward the exit. I had no intention of coming back. . . . Two hours later, there were chaotic knocks on my door. “You left,” Art walked in without waiting for an invitation the second I opened the door. He looked angry. “I told you I didn’t know if I’d stay, I have an exam tom-” “Bullshit. What’s your deal? Why did you come?” He practically shouted as I closed the door. “You asked me to come,” I mumbled. “I also asked you to stay, but you left in the middle, so what was the point of you coming?” He crossed his arms. I don’t think I’d ever seen him this angry. He’s always calculated and calm. “Did he say something?” he added, asking a question. “What?” I returned, not understanding what he was talking about. “Patrick, did he say something to you? Why did you leave?” He asked again, speaking to me like I was a child. “He didn’t say anything to me. I left because I didn’t understand what I was even watching. I don’t know anything about tennis, Art, and I have an exam to study for,” I tried to justify. “Enough with that exam. I heard you studying for it yesterday, you know the material, we both know you know it.” He sighed. “I didn’t ask you to come to give tennis commentary. I asked you to come because I wanted you in the crowd. I wanted to see you in the crowd,” he continued. I could hear the effort in his voice to keep it together, to not lose control.

“Tashi was in the crowd; that should be enough for you,” I muttered, lifting my gaze to him, seeing that he was already staring at me. We had never talked like this about Tashi. She had always been this figure hovering above us. He talked about her constantly, unrelated to anything. He talked about her like she was a god. He talked about how she played tennis, about her training, how she helped him. He talked about parties he only went to because Tashi wanted to go. But I never responded in a way that would let him understand that I knew. That I wasn’t completely clueless. That I knew he was completely in love with her. That he loved her the way I loved him and that nothing would change that. “Oh, so that’s the problem. You could’ve started with that. It bothered you that Tashi was in the crowd?” He chuckled. He fucking chuckled. “Why did it bother you?” He moved closer to me, and I had no choice but to avert my gaze from his piercing blue eyes, which felt like bullets at that moment. “It didn’t bother m-” “Look at me.” He was close enough to grab my head and turn it back to face him. “I asked you a question,” he added, not letting me escape. And if there’s anyone I didn’t want to talk about, it’s Tashi Duncan.

“Why did you invite me? Why did you want me in the crowd?” “Because I wanted you to see me play,” he answered without blinking, as if it was obvious. As if there wasn’t a single question I could ask him that he wouldn’t have an answer for. “You love Tashi, Art. You lo-” His lips were on mine the second I said it. Again, there was nothing calm or calculated about this kiss. He was trying to prove that he didn’t, that I was wrong. While we both knew I was right. “You can’t say things like that, Peaches. You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he mumbled as he pulled away from me to catch a breath. “It’s okay that you love her. I’ve made peace with it. I just need you to let me move on, Art,” I sighed, trying to catch my breath again. “I don’t fucking love her.” He was angry; I could hear it in his voice. “What do I have to do to make you understand that you’re the only girl for me?” He kissed me again, and I could feel him getting hard from the way he pressed against me, causing me to moan into his mouth. “Yeah? Is this the only way I can get through to you? Is this the only way you believe me?” he asked, running his lips down my neck. "Art," it was half a moan, half a cry. My eyes closed, and as they did, I felt the weight of his hands on my shoulders, pulling me down until I was on my knees in front of him. I unbuttoned his jeans and quickly pulled down his boxers. I felt almost possessed as he sat on the edge of my bed, forcing me to crawl toward him. “There we go. Is this the only way I need to treat you for you to understand your place?” he muttered as I knelt before him again. I felt a light slap on my cheek from his cock, much more humiliating than painful. “I asked you a question,” he continued.

“N-no,” I mumbled. “Even your voice is annoying me right now,” he muttered, and without warning, I felt his cock in my mouth. He didn’t give me a moment to adjust, punishing me for leaving the match, maybe for bringing up Tashi, maybe for everything combined. You could never tell with him. I felt him hitting the back of my throat, and I tried to suppress my gag reflex with little success. Three months since he’d been in my mouth showed signs. “Shhh, you can do better than that,” he half-stroked my hair, half-held me in place by it. Then he pulled me back, leaving a trail of spit and precum. “You’re such a mess,” he chuckled, and again I felt a light slap of his cock against my cheek. I put my lips back where I knew he needed them the most, and this time, there was no gentle stroking of my hair. There was only a hand forcing me to stay in place as he used my mouth however he wanted. “Nothing to say now, huh?” he said, not very coherently, as I began to feel the warm, thick liquid spill into my throat. “Atta girl,” he patted my hair twice before letting me pull back.

I stood up slowly, trying to catch my breath. “Come here,” he mumbled, pointing to his thigh. I can’t refuse Art Donaldson, so I sat on his lap, placing my hands on his neck in an almost embrace, watching him smile. “Why is everything so hard with you?” he muttered, and his lips lazily found my neck. “I just don’t know what you want from me,” I responded, trying to focus on anything other than his lips currently on my collarbone. “I told you I love you,” he mumbled, his eyes locking onto mine. “You don’t mean that,” I shot back.

“Oh yeah?” His smirk spread across his face, and in seconds, he tossed me onto the bed as if I weighed nothing. He was above me. “For now, the one acting like a brat is you,” he said, his presence casting a shadow over me like a predator playing with its prey. “The one who left in the middle of my match is you.” His lips again left trails on my skin. I don’t even know when he took my shirt off. I felt a light bite on my nipple that made me moan. “Fuck, fa- Art,” I mumbled, unable to focus. “The one avoiding interaction with my friends is you.” His hand joined in, starting to torture my other nipple as his kisses moved further down. “I’m not,” I managed to respond, just as he easily removed my panties.

His breaths hovered over my pussy, short and hot, and if I didn’t know Art Donaldson so well, I would’ve thought he was looking up at me with almost a pleading expression. But he was in complete control. A small kiss on my lips, but not where I really needed him, made me shift my hips a little, and he chuckled- a laugh that was almost childlike. “Hey, ask nicely,” he managed to say, and I returned to the position I had before, legs around his head. “Please, Art,” I knew there was no point in arguing; he always got what he wanted in the end. “No problem, baby,” in seconds, his tongue was on my clit, starting slowly with circular motions and picking up speed with every moment. “There you go, you’re almost there,” he muttered, pulling back just before I could come. “What-” I tried to catch my breath again, craving the euphoria only he could give me at that moment. “I want to be inside you,” he answered without waiting for the full question, and in an instant, his cock filled me, making me moan. “Fuck,” I managed to mumble, feeling my eyes roll back. “Hold on a little longer, Peach,” he said, slipping his finger into my mouth like he liked to do, watching my lips close around it. “Now,” he muttered, pushing it deeper into my throat while he thrust into me, feeling me tighten around him like only an orgasm from him could make me do.

He fucked me stupid. There’s no other way to describe what I experienced, and as we both tried to catch our breath, I wondered how long it would take for him to leave this time and what his excuse would be. “Don’t you have practice tomorrow?” I quietly asked, trying to throw him off balance for a moment. “No, but I don’t know anything for the stats exam,” he admitted and chuckled. “Art! I taught you all the material yesterday,” I rolled my eyes. “I can’t concentrate when you’re teaching me.” “Then why did you ask for help?” It was my turn to laugh. “Because you’re the most beautiful when you’re in your element,” he shrugged like it was obvious. Like hearing me talk about statistics would make him fall in love with me. Like it wasn’t what I felt two and a half hours ago when he played tennis, until I almost choked on love.

“When are you going home?” he asked, probably knowing my last exam was in statistics. “I’m not,” I replied casually, and he quickly shifted positions. “Why the hell not?” he asked, and I saw a small wrinkle form between his eyebrows. “It’s no big deal, Donaldson,” I chuckled, “I picked up extra shifts, and I have a paper to work on. Speaking of shifts, I need to get ready for mine.” I added as I checked the time. He watched me as I walked around the room, trying to decide if I smelled too much like sex to push the shower until after work. “Are you coming to the study marathon tomorrow before the exam?” he asked, starting to get dressed too. “Of course,” I looked at him like he was crazy. “Don’t think about skipping it, Art. You need it,” I said, knowing exactly who I was dealing with. “Okay, Mom,” his voice was amused, and I rolled my eyes, looking at him for another moment. We don’t get too many moments like these. Almost domestic. Almost mine.

"Hey, we're good, right?" he suddenly asked, holding my hand and not letting me continue running around the room. "Yeah, Art, everything's fine," I smiled half-heartedly, feeling a bit embarrassed. "Because I don't want another two months like these," he muttered, and I knew it was hard for him to admit. It was hard for him to say that the past two months had been strange, to say the least. Difficult, to be honest. "Me neither." I nodded at him. "When are you flying home?" I asked as we were both already outside the door, after I had locked it. "Four hours after the exam, I’m supposed to be on a flight," he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Wow, two weeks at home, excited?" I asked. "Not that much, mostly glad I get to visit my grandma. She follows my matches with her entire retirement home, it’s a big deal for her." "Ooooh, you've got fans, Donaldson?" I joked. "You know I do," he replied. "Seriously though, why aren’t you going home?" he added. "It’s not that deep, just an opportunity to make some extra money. Plus, my mom and I aren’t in the best place right now," I shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal. "Don’t you miss home?" he asked. "Not like most people probably do," I smiled at him. "I hate it when you smile like that," he said and suddenly stopped. "How?" I asked, looking at him as if he were crazy. "Without teeth. That’s your fake smile," he replied without blinking, as if it were strange that I was even asking. "I didn’t think you noticed," I mumbled. And I really didn’t think there was a possibility that Art Donaldson paid attention to details that, until now, I thought only I noticed about him. "I’ll see you tomorrow at the marathon?" he asked when we reached the point where I was supposed to head to the cafeteria and he to his dorm. "Don’t be late," I ordered, giving his face a small push, watching him chuckle and walk away from me. . . .

The next morning, I woke up with the worst headache I’d ever had in my life. I felt my nose was blocked, and I knew for sure I had a fever, though I had no way to measure it. 'Where are you?' -A-

'Sick, I’ll come for the exam' -(Y/N)-

'What’s wrong with you?' -A- I didn’t respond to that message, preferring to sleep a bit more before waking up for the statistics exam.

I got in the shower, and when I got out, I looked at myself in the mirror, seeing my flushed cheeks as a contrast to my pale face. There was no mistaking it when you looked at me- I wasn’t at my best. The auditorium was partially full when I entered, people chatting among themselves, and I looked around, seeing Art already staring at me before he approached, getting ahead of Janet, who shot me a questioning glance. "Well, you look like shit," he stated, placing his hand on my forehead. "Fuck, Peaches, you’re burning up," he muttered, looking at me with an almost angry expression. "How did you manage to start dying in the minute and a half I left you alone?" he said. "I’m talented, Donaldson. Can you not yell? My head hurts," I mumbled, sitting in the empty seat I found.

The exam went smoothly and ended faster than it began. I physically couldn’t wait for Art to finish, so I texted him, hoping he’d enjoy his time at home, and I went to sleep. Half an hour later, there was a knock at my door, chaotic like the one from the day before. "Hey," he muttered. "You’ll miss your flight," I replied, running a tired hand over my eyes. "I’m not flying," he said quickly. "What?" I asked, not understanding what he was talking about, seeing him take off his shirt and pants, left only in his boxers. "Art, I physically can’t have sex," I chuckled, not understanding what was happening. "We’re going to sleep," he declared, pulling me toward him, leaving me no choice but to get into bed next to him. "Your bed’s worse than mine. Tomorrow we’ll sleep at my dorm," he stated.

"You're going to get sick too" I rolled my eyes, "Why aren’t you going home?" I asked quietly, while his hand traced shapes on my shoulder. "It felt weird going home when you’re sick and staying here," he replied, not ashamed for a second. "Your grandma must be disappointed," I mumbled. "I told her my girlfriend is sick," he said. I wanted so badly to see his face, but I had my back to him. "She must’ve been surprised you have a girlfriend," I said the first thing that came to mind, feeling my heart race. "Not at all, I talk to her about you all the time."

. . .

So here it is. The second part I didn't plan. Hope you like it even tho I wrote half of it while being super sick and didn't check my own grammar at all, so bear with me (a reminder: English is not my first language). Let me know what you think. It's always the best part. Also, I think I'm up for some requests. Let's see what we can come up with. Love you guys

[noctis-kingfisher]

Blue Hour (iv) ⁞ Isagi Yoichi

iv. Speak My Language

SYNOPSIS -> Your life finally settles after a rough divorce, and all you want is to run your flower shop in peace, but when 20-year-old Isagi Yoichi starts working for you, the summer might get hotter than anticipated. INFO -> Isagi x reader, afab!reader, flower shop au, Summer Solstice Point au. WARNINGS -> 18+, NSFW, age-gap romance, reader has vaginismus, reader is 28, Isagi is 20, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, eventual questionable dubcon but not with Isagi, divorced!reader, sexual exploration, pov changes(?), she/her pronouns are used for reader, canonverse despite some age disparities and how that affects the canon timeline (just don't think about it), no use of y/n, tags are subject to change. WORD COUNT -> 2.7k

Minors and empty blogs will be blocked.

<- prev. -> masterlist -> next

The sense of lost affection in a lover’s touch wasn’t something new to you. That moment when grazes of fingertips in the sunrise settled heavily with obligation and nothing lighter than their interest had become.

But those moments were only experienced during the dating phase, the getting-to-know-each-other-beyond-the-test-of-time phase. And the test of time had left you both weary.

Never did you think a lover’s crumbling touch would reach you in marriage. And yet it had.

The seeds of undoing were planted with reluctant nights of intimacy, your ex-husband's reason being that the physical limitations of your body made sex too difficult to deal with on a normal basis. They were tended to and watered with later work shifts, a distancing that left you feeling as though the little quirks that made you left much to be desired. Those seeds grew into towering sunflowers in the span of three years, mocking you as they kept ever in line with the sun.

Alone in the flower shop, you noticed rain began in a patter against the windows, giving the place an even more desolate and isolating vibe than usual. More so, it reminded you of when it fell that one cold summer day.

---

Rain doused the curtained windows of your bedroom, shielding you both from the gloom of the stormy morning. The coolness wrought from the clouded weather lowered the inside temperature enough to prickle your skin even through your comforter. Your only recompense on such mornings was from your husband beside you, who then shifted over to encompass your body as he woke earlier than his alarm.

He took a look at the digital clock on your side table through groggy eyes before he buried his face in your hair.

“Mornin’…” Oliver mumbled, his voice rumbly and deepened impossibly further from sleep. His bare skin scorched you through your pajamas, and his hands began to wander in a rare bout of affection. At least, that's how you chose to interpret his morning wood. “We got thirty minutes…”

Mornings of intimacy eventually became few and far between halfway through your marriage. At the start of its wane, though, Oliver would try to rekindle the flames in the ways he knew how, but those ways made it seem like he had veiled the part of his brain that remembered your body. He wanted normal, and if he pretended, maybe one day he’d get it.

He never got it.

But you still tried to keep up.

Even with the chill of the air conditioner he’d set to freezing every night, making your body unable to relax, even with the limitations of your pelvic floor, and his hands that spent too little time to prep you. Thirty minutes would never be enough. You both knew that.

Still, you braced your legs around his thickened waist from time off the field, trying to calm your shivering from the air pocket created when he lifted himself enough to see him attempt to enter you. You couldn’t take him.

He stilted when you hissed, knowing this song and dance, and took the time to rub the tip of him along your slit to help in some way before he tried again. Your reaction was lighter this time, but you were so tense when he nudged inside with a dreadful pop. You gripped his shoulder with your nails, and he hung his head in defeat.

Oliver pulled out and separated from you with a brush of a peck to your temple, his stubble scratching your face. “I’ll just get to work.”

You bundled the blankets around you the moment he got off the bed and resituated his boxers.

“Sorry…” The words left you out of habit.

He looked back at you, swallowing the words on his tongue as he couldn’t figure out how to articulate whatever it was he wanted to say. You didn't think you could stomach it if he did.

“Why can't we be normal?” his eyes read easily enough.

“I’ll be home late tonight,” he breathed lowly instead. He took the warmth with him to the bathroom to care for his problem before the alarm could alert him of the awaiting workday.

On his way out, hair freshly washed and dried, suit and tie donned (though the first three buttons of his shirt never stayed closed), he stopped when he was faced with you again, something pinched between his brows and your heart.

"Bring the umbrella with you. It'll get worse later today," you said to fill the stiff air, moving to fetch the one in the closet by the door, but he stopped you with his hands on your shoulders.

"No need. I'll be fine." He guided you back to sit on the bed. "I'm just taking the car."

My car, you held in the words. His vehicle had been totaled not long before your wedding after a drunken party outing that had set his football retirement in motion. It was a whole sensation in the media. He felt no need to get a new one, even though it left you here.

"Now… don't give me that look, sweetheart," he said, the corner of his mouth tugging up a little. "Call some of the girls. That'll raise your spirits. Tell 'em hey for me."

They're all at work, you internally grumbled. You also didn't like the insinuation that this—this unease—is of your making.

"I should," you said instead. "Maybe we'll go for a walk."

It was said as sarcasm, but Oliver brightened. "There you go, baby. Have fun today. You don't get up to much since you quit working. Don't wait up for me."

You held down the urge to remind him that it was his football career that aided in that.

Maybe it was childish, but you went on that walk. With little to no one about, you meandered the sidewalks without an umbrella, letting yourself swim in the downpour until the work traffic began in the evening. You caught a cold that day.

Oliver didn't notice.

It took a long time before you could approach him about any of your discomforts out of fear of coming across as someone beneath him or throwing a spoiled tantrum. The building was under your name, but your ability to keep both of you afloat mainly stemmed from your family's wealth since you stopped working. Everything was yours.

And you knew if you brought everything to the surface, the foundation you built in marriage would come crashing down, reduced to a skeleton. You didn't want to hear the "I told you so"s from friends or see the disappointment in the eyes of your parents.

Oliver was good, you knew, despite everyone else's protests. He deserved a good marriage with someone "normal." Maybe if you knew that beforehand, things would've been different.

---

Breaking the muffled roar of the rain, the noise grows clear in a sudden whoosh when the door opens, the signature chime going off.

Isagi Yoichi rushes inside the flower shop, soaked to the bone from the rain, with a plastic bag in hand. His breath is heavy as if he ran, and he's without an umbrella. He closes the door to the weather and abruptly halts, his words dying on his lips. Upon feeling the slight chill of the place, he flits to the panel and raises the temperature to the limit you showed him, confused as to why it’s lower than normal to begin with. Nothing higher than the shop needs, warm enough so you won’t freeze.

“I’m really sorry I’m late,” he then rushes to say as he approaches the counter and bows his head to you, drops of rain falling onto the wood from the ends of his dark bangs. “I saw the fridge was out of milk”—he sets the bag onto the counter—“and I wanted to get some more before you drank your tea. I should’ve called you on the way there—I saw a dog in the store and said hi, and then I remembered I don’t have your number—which is okay!—and then the cashier had to tell me the daily sales, and he was a bit hard of hearing. Then the rain really started falling, and I should’ve bought an umbrella, but I figured running would be faster, and an umbrella would just slow me down—and then there was a—” He stops mid-action of fishing in his pocket when he realizes he hasn’t stopped talking. He wilts seemingly out of expectant reprimanding and takes a big pack of gummy worms from his pocket and onto the counter.

You don’t know how they fit in there.

They’re sour-tropical flavored.

“I’m rambling. Sorry… I passed a stall selling these. I thought you might like them, Ms. Sato. Since it looks like it'll be slow today. I’ll mop the floor…”

The whirlwind of events leaves your heart reeling with everything before you—the chill leaving your arms, the tea you’ll be able to have, a snack, and a clean floor—all because he went out in the rain for you without prompt. Warmth blooms in your chest as you stare at the pack of candy and bag of milk and spreads to your face. You can’t stop the smile from reaching your eyes. “Thank you, Isagi.”

His head pops up at being addressed so kindly, mop in hand and working the floor, even though he keeps dripping wherever he mops. When he sees you smiling so happily, and you actually laugh from joy like the kind you gave him the day you met, he suddenly doesn't know what to do with his energy. He rushes back up to the counter, although not knowing for what, the need to be closer outweighing reason.

Those two words of thanks weigh heavily for you, carrying remnants of a past you’re sure he knows nothing of, but the look of utter relief on his face feels as though he does. But that’s impossible.

He nods resolutely. “You’re very welcome, Ms. Sato.”

You chuckle lightly as you take in the sight of him; he looks like a wet cat. “Here.”

He follows you around to the bathroom door in the kitchen area like a puppy at your heels.

“There’s extra shirts in the lockers for you to change into. One of them should fit. They’re old uniforms I stopped requiring ages ago.”

It’s true you used to provide uniforms for all your workers, but that practice has long died down since there wasn’t really a need. It’s not like you need Sakura Ame no Haichi* plastered on everything but the front of the shop.

Isagi rakes a hand through his wet hair to draw it back and nods attentively. The wet blanket of bangs part with the sides falling forward to shape his face at his temples. “I’ll find one. Thanks a lot, Ms. Sato.”

After he steps inside, you exhale a heavy sigh of relief from having been so close to his white shirt, see-through from the water. Combined with his brushed-back hair, you don’t know if you would’ve survived a moment longer. How is it that he’s so muscular? You take a step but pause, a terrible notion crossing your mind.

You turn back to the door.

Hesitantly, you stand like ice with your hand out.

After a moment of poor consideration, you grab the handle and push open the door with a step inside. "Oh, Isagi, there are towels under the—"

The sight of him stops you at the door. He's already shirtless, but a layer of scattered napkins is pressed across his back and front, shoulders and arms, sticking to him from the water. It's like he's wearing a whole new shirt.

Laughter spills out of you before you can stop yourself. "I'm sorry—" You have to clutch your stomach.

You don't know what it is about Isagi Yoichi. But he always manages to clear your head of anything too heavy.

Isagi flushes to the point that his ears turn red, and he whips away from you. "I found tissue, so don't worry!" He scrambles to take them off, but that leaves him bare in front of you, which makes everything worse, so he keeps his back to you out of embarrassment.

Wholly amused, you step forward and pick at his back.

He jumps slightly and looks over his shoulder to see a piece of tissue between your fingers.

"There was a piece stuck to your back," you reason, "so I got it for you." The awkwardness of barging in catches up to you in that moment, so you make to leave quickly. "Let me know if you need anything else."

You don't get to open the door a quarter when Isagi's large hand gently stops it. You feel his burning presence at your back grow closer as he softly clicks the door shut. His hand remains on the door, but it doesn't make you feel trapped. The scent of petrichor and something distinctly Isagi surrounds you.

"Ms. Sato," he asks quietly, "would you mind… checking for more?"

Turning around, it's hard to school the heat rising to your face. His chest is bigger than the view over his clothes suggests, and quite unexpectedly, he has abs. Maybe he just enjoys working out, but it's hard to return your gaze to his face.

Warmth pools in your gut the longer you look at him, and you can see the same behind his eyes. That look he gives you, it's the same one he had that night outside of the restaurant, so innocent yet so sure. His desire stumbles forward awkwardly yet confidently to what it wants, unknowing of the path or way to strike but willing to forge ahead all the same.

You raise your hand to his chest and trace a finger along his collarbone, grazing slowly over his heated skin. He instantly reacts with a hiss and a jolt. Thinking your cold hands startled him, you pull away.

"No—" Isagi takes your hand. "You didn't do anything wrong. It just…"

This awkwardness of his becomes an impetus like that of the tip of a rose's thorn.

He brings your hand back to his chest. "Felt really good…"

Watching closely, you slowly drag your fingers down the valley of his chest and over the gentle seam running between his abs, relishing in how much is surrendered under your touch with each prickle that shoots through his body.

His hair falls forward to curtain his eyes from view as he hangs his head with a full body shudder. Your fingers reach the hem of his dampened pants, and you notice the tent he's starting to sport. This might be the first time your chill has ever been well-received and to such an extent. The notion does something for you.

"Ms. Sato…" He raises his head, dangerously close, and his eyes have soft tears welling in them.

This is enough torture for the both of you, so you grasp the nape of his neck and meet him in the middle again, allowing yourself to fall under the guise of someone who can't hold back, though you'd rather not think too hard on it. Not with how he melts into you this time, much more controlled and fluid despite his excited trembling.

And when he presses you against the door, mouth hot on yours and desperately wanting to trail across your skin if it wouldn't mean separating from your lips, you know which path you're bound to take tonight.

---

This is the first time you've locked up shop while an employee remains inside with you.

The security system beeps in readiness once you press in the code, and you turn to Isagi, dressed in a uniform he no longer has use for tonight. His face is still flushed, but the intensity from the day has settled down to a calm brewing.

You show him to the staircase at the back of the small kitchen area and stop. This is also the first time you will lead an employee up these stairs.

"Ready?" You look to him, hand on the doorknob. No going back.

Isagi nods readily. "Yes."

-----------

*桜雨の配置 "Cherry Blossom Rain Arrangements" was basically what I was going for. I realized I had never named the flower shop.

Kinda late now but—while my other writings and future fics are/will be more inclusive, Blue Hour really is a self-indulgent piece. Ms. Sato isn’t very malleable to fit a lot of people. She’s not much of an author-insert anymore, either. I personally see her as a separate character that fits the local demographic of Japan, but she encounters, experiences, and possesses things that I do; for instance, vaginismus, very poor blood circulation, and having a non-existent chest. Not quite like Ms. Kim from the manhwa, but essentially her. And while I try not to write many descriptive factors for the mc (race, hair type, weight, etc.), I hope readers can still find escape in her.

This one is especially for those with shitty pelvic floors and the itty bitty titty committee. And divorcees—

And frankly those who hate Oliver Aiku. Fuck that guy. Who’s that. Don’t know him.

I'll be going through previous chapters to revise potentially non-inclusive descriptions in the coming days. Thank you for reading!

[rogueacolyte]

♯┆ BOT DROP .ᐟ

˗ˏˋ god of ecstasy ´ˎ˗

— patrick zweig

he can remember the days of devotion, of gentle kisses, whispered confessions. everyone wanted love, and he tried to deliver. he soothed pleading prayers of unrequited love, rekindled flames between lost and disconnected hearts.

centuries passed. things became muddled. misconstrued. lost.

now, he is sex. he is worshipped with gasps and moans, shaking limbs and warm blood. he drinks his wine, fucks his worshippers, letting the days haze away into nothing. until you begin to pray, speaking of a lonely heart, a starved body.

you worship him like he once was. you are gentle and kind. you hold him like he is something to treasure instead of something to touch. maybe love still has its chance.

aka. patrick is the god of ecstasy, affection, love, and sex. over centuries, his followers seem to have turned away from love, taking only his gifts of pleasure. you are the first of his followers in a very long time to worship him for what he truly wants.

˗ˏˋ god of light ´ˎ˗

— art donaldson

you would’ve never admitted it a year ago, but rehab is exactly what you had needed. it became your peace. you found yourself again in the quiet of the treatment center, the beauty of the beach that lays beyond it. you rekindle your love of creation; of music, of stories, of art.

when you meet him, he asks if you would accept his gift, accept clarity, and who are you to say no?

he watches as you heal under the light of the sunrise each evening. he watches you work, watches you create and destroy and rebuild. some days you talk, others you don’t. he’s sat right beside you no matter what.

the final sun is setting. you have grown, you have learned. a plane will be taking you back home at 9am tomorrow morning. it is what you’ve been dreaming of for months. so why does it feel like the world might be ending?

aka. art is the god of light, healing, creativity, and growth. you have been his favorite thing to watch bloom.

˗ˏˋ goddess of victory ´ˎ˗

— tashi duncan

you have been chosen by lady justice herself.

triumph flows through your veins and lights your soul ablaze, which in turn, fuels her fire. she is the fast pump of your heartbeat, the sweat dripping down your skin, the adrenaline singing in every inch of you. her hand guides your racket and leads you to the promised land.

you climb ladders you had never even dreamed of before, reaching higher and higher until you’re unsure of when you’ll reach the top. you win. so much that your coach makes you promise to keep your ego in check.

but nights come swiftly. your limbs ache, your body bruises, your muscles twist and turn, but she is there, waiting for you with a warm embrace. your goddess is not always generous, but she believes in all that is fair. you are her champion. it is only fair she indulges your love.

aka. tashi is the goddess of victory, wisdom, and justice. you are her champion, her chosen, her golden wings. you wear her gift like a brand, each accomplishment a way of worship. of course you’re her favorite.

y’all i am SO excited to share these bad boys. i had an idea for these months ago and just neglected getting them sorted out BUT I DID IT!!! originally, these were gonna be pjo themed, but i realized i have not read those books in a long time and i don’t remember that much anymore so i more just went the vaguely greek route lmao!!! art is a combination of apollo and asclepius, patrick is a combination of eros and dionysus, and tashi is a combination of nike and athena. i eat greek mythology up like candy so this was super fun.

please let me know what y’all think!!! i haven’t tested these out as much as i should’ve but i was anxious to release these guys so please lemme know how they are fairing lol ok love y’all thank u for waiting ten million years for another bot drop ♥️

[multi-fandoms-posts]

X Men Masterlist 2

X Men Masterlist 1

Update: 12/29/24

Charles Xavier:

Christmas Magic

Unrestrained Desires

A Glimmer of Light

A Connection Beyond Time

A Surprising Encounter

United in Battle

Jealousy

"Marry...Me?"

Update: 12/24/24

Cherik:

A Christmas Chaos

Between Love and War

Seductive Power last Part

Chaos in the Multiverse 3/3

Chaos in the Multiverse 2/3

Chaos in the Mutiverse 1/3

A Dance of Powers and Desire

Imagine

Mighty Mutants and Diapers

In another universe 2/2

In another universe 1/2

Update: 12/29/24

Erik Lehnsherr:

A Magical Christmas

His Queen

The Last Name

Powers of the Heart

"Marry....Me?"

Passion in Chaos SMUT

"Erik would you...."

Imagine

Update: 12/26/24

McFassy:

Uni Chaos

Date night

Driving Fun in London

A sweet Moment

A Road Trip They Will Never Forget

Update: 10/31/24

James Mcavoy:

Once upon a time there was a secret, or maybe not.

Puppy eyes

Love in Hard Times

The Perfect Prank

Update: 01/07/25

Michael:

An Unexpected Morning in Vegas 3/3

An Unexpected Morning in Vegas 2/3

An Unexpected Morning in Vegas 1/3

Update: 10/16/24

Paddy:

Jealousy and Blood Paddy x reader x Cal

Unbridled Passion

Bound Paddy x reader x The Killer

A Different Kind of Love Story

Caught in Longing Paddy x Cal x reader

Wild Hearts united

A hard lesson SMUT

Update: 10/16/24

Lord Asriel:

An Unexpected Surprise

Don't Let Me Go Again

Update: 10/31/24

David Percival:

Double the Tension David x reader x Paul

Dangerous Game in Berlin 2/2

Imagine

Dangerous Game in Berlin 1/2

Rekindled Passion

Manipulation and Love

Possessive Passion

Update: 12/14/24

Azazeal:

Secret Nights

[beegomess]

Knockin' On Heaven's Door || Kendall Roy

Summary: After years of heartbreak and distance, an unexpected reunion rekindles the connection between you and Kendall Roy. Amid past mistakes and promises of an uncertain future, you both navigate old feelings and new hopes as you try to rebuild what seemed lost forever. Warnings: Kendall Roy x fem!reader, sad, cute and with obscenities. Simply a whirlwind of feelings like a good imagine with Kendall should be. - Word count: 17k

A/N: Remembering that my first language is not English, so there may be some errors due to the translation. I hope you like it!!

You would always see him with the same eyes as before. But Kendall… he was definitely not the same anymore.

Your relationship, always tumultuous, had been, at the same time, something rare and, for a time, very beautiful. There was something delicate about it, something that made him breathe deeper, almost as if, for the first time, he believed he could escape the weight that imprisoned him. With you, Kendall believed he could free himself from Logan's control. And, for a moment, a moment that seemed too fragile to be real, you believed it too.

With you, he saw possibilities, a future where he could be more than Logan's son, more than a pawn in this dirty game of power and manipulation. He wanted to be there for his daughter, he wanted to maintain harmony in the house, he wanted to believe he could be a different man, someone who deserved the peace and happiness you offered.

But no. It wouldn't be like that. Logan, as always, was lurking, ready to pull you back in, like a magnet that would never let you escape completely. The pressure of the patriarch was what always consumed him, and once again, he found himself being sucked into the emotional and chaotic hurricane of the family. No matter how hard he tried to swim to the surface. Just when it seemed like he was free, the currents pulled him back in.

You saw it happening. With each passing day, you realized that something in him was fading.

When things started to fall apart for good, you knew you couldn't stay any longer. The relationship that once seemed full of possibilities was now nothing more than a field of ruins, and you no longer had the strength to continue rebuilding on what was broken. There was no more room for dreams, there was no more room for both of you.

He walked around as if the world revolved around him, as if he were unbeatable, as if he owned his own reality. But you knew that all that confidence was nothing more than a disguise. Beneath it all, he was lost, sinking deeper and deeper into something you could no longer understand.

A night—a dawn, to be exact—still recurs in your memory. One of those nights that stays with you, immortal.

It was late when you heard the faint ding of the elevator on your floor. By then, you had already left the apartment you two shared, taking your daughter with you. The place, once shared, now seemed like an empty cocoon, a lifeless space where the echoes of everything you had experienced still crawled through the walls. The new apartment was silent, but it was starting to have the kind of calm you needed.

When the elevator doors opened, you didn't need to look to know who was there.

Kendall. Even after everything, you still recognized his signs, even if his eyes were no longer the same, as if everything about him had become distorted somehow.

He was there, standing in front of you. He looked normal, but at the same time so lost and irritated. His face was marked, his body tense. Something about him, maybe exhaustion, anger or drugs, made him constantly conflict with his own body. You felt a slight pang of tiredness just seeing him.

“I need to talk to you.” Kendall’s tone was direct, almost aggressive, but not as much as it had been other times. He was more restrained, as if he was forcing himself to maintain his composure, or maybe it was the emptiness of someone who was far beyond the point of no return.

You tried to avoid confrontation, to keep the conversation there, at the entrance, without giving him any more space to invade. But it was a fight you knew you wouldn’t win. When he took a step forward and crossed the line you had tried to impose, you said nothing. You just watched him, silently, as he began to speak. The words came out of him like an uncontrolled flow, a mix of complaints, justifications and accusations.

You wanted to understand, you wanted to make sense of what he was saying, but at that moment, he had become a distant figure. With each word that came out of his mouth, you simply couldn't hear anymore. It was like turning off the mute button on a TV. He was talking, but he wasn't really communicating. Kendall's words were getting lost, getting tangled up in something that no longer made sense. And you... you no longer had the strength to try to keep up with him.

And then, in the midst of the emptiness of the conversation, she appeared.

The little girl with her messy hair and eyes still lazy from sleep, appeared in the middle of the room, rubbing her eyes with her little hand and a smile that only a child could offer. She had no idea what was going on, she didn't know about the emotional mess between the two of you, the pain you were both carrying. But the moment her eyes met her father's, an expression of pure joy and surprise formed on her face.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed, a simple and sincere happiness written all over her face. She didn't see the man who was there, the anger that still hung in the air, the disjointed words that came out of Kendall's mouth. To her, he was just the father who had been away for weeks, someone she adored without question, without understanding what was happening.

"You're back!"

Kendall stood still, staring at his daughter for a long moment, as if trying to understand what she was saying, what she represented at that moment. His eyes, previously angry and tense, seemed to soften for a second. The smile he forced, although a little tense, was an attempt to reconnect with something that seemed lost, something he no longer knew how to maintain. The little girl ran to him, her steps small and quick, and threw herself into his arms with a confidence that only a child could have. She seemed to think that, somehow, everything would go back to the way it was.

"I missed you!" She said, tightening her little arms around his neck, with the simplicity of someone who didn't carry the weight of the world. Kendall held her, and for a moment, he seemed to get lost in those words, in her touch. But at the same time, there was a hardness in his eyes, a tension that wouldn’t go away.

You stood there, watching the scene, a pang of pain rising in your throat. She was so happy, so genuinely happy, and the irony of the situation was not lost on you. While she celebrated, the world around her was falling apart. Kendall’s attempt to appear present, his attempt to be who she believed him to be, was a facade he could no longer maintain.

At some point that night, he himself had realized that it was time to leave.

He didn’t exchange another word with you. There were no pleas, no goodbyes. When he laid you down, he kissed you on the forehead—a kiss that was more a reflection of what he thought was the right thing to do than a genuine act of affection. And then, in a gesture more forced than any other, he stood up and headed for the door.

The sound of his footsteps echoed in the hallway. You knew he was leaving, and that there would be no going back. You didn’t need words for that.

And it was in that silence that he realized: this was the first time he truly understood that he had lost everything he had built with you. It wasn’t just the home that had fallen apart, nor the relationship that had deteriorated — it was something deeper, more painful. He was losing the only refuge he had left. And that, perhaps, was the worst of it all.

The elevator door closed softly, but the sound was as definitive as the loudest of echoes. He was out of your life.

And so the following years went. The move to Germany came almost as a necessity. Your job, with all its demands and opportunities, demanded the change. You knew you couldn’t stay still, and with your daughter, the decision to start a new life in a new country seemed like the right path.

The first few months were difficult, of course. Adapting to a new culture, missing friends and the family routine that had been abruptly interrupted. But, over time, life settled down. Work took priority, and your daughter, now older, was adapting well to school, learning the language with ease. She seemed happier than you imagined possible, and that, in some way, softened the scars of the separation.

Kendall, on the other hand, seemed... different. He was no longer the lost, confused man who had left. He appeared more balanced, less distracted. He started making annual visits, arriving with a smile on his face, trying to recapture the lost moments, as if everything was fine between you, as if time had done nothing more than change the shape of a worn-out story. Conversations became more pleasant, more superficial, and video calls, which had previously seemed like moments full of tension, became part of a comfortable routine.

It was strange, but almost surreal, how much more present he seemed now than he had been when you lived in the same city. For most of your time together, he had always been absent in some way—physically or emotionally. Now, physically distant, he was there, on every phone call, trying to fill a void that had never had a chance to exist between you, but that now, with the distance, seemed... easier to deal with. It was as if time and distance had softened the sharp edges of your relationship. He had become a constant presence, but in a very different way than he had been before. You still didn’t know what to make of this new version of Kendall. Maybe you never would. Over the years, Kendall had adapted to the new dynamic, understanding that if he wanted to have some kind of relationship with your daughter and, perhaps, start over with you, he would need to navigate this new territory. The visits, the calls, the texts—it was all now part of a “new normal” that he accepted with the hope that, little by little, he would be able to regain something he once had.

But, even though the interactions were more civilized and distant from the chaos of the past, a feeling of dissatisfaction persisted within him. It wasn’t just what you had become, or what he imagined you to be today, but the memory of what you had been. And, often, he found himself lost in his own thoughts, trying to understand what was left of that history that he couldn’t let go of.

And, in fact, there was no letting go on his part, but a silent acceptance of what had happened, an acceptance that seemed more like a remnant of wear and tear than any kind of resolution. Before you were parents or anything else, you were a couple — and that, for Kendall, was hard to let go of. The life you built together felt, to him, like a time capsule trapped in a screen. As if each memory was an echo of something he knew he could never reach again, but that he couldn’t erase.

For you, the confrontation with the past was something even more poignant. Old photos, videos on his phone, they were like ghosts coming out of the shadows. They were frozen moments of a happiness that, in his mind, was no longer possible. The mere idea of ​​revisiting these vestiges of the past always seemed to bring a weight—a weight that you tried to ignore, but that returned with the same intensity as before.

However, for Kendall, things were a little different. He had never been particularly into social media—he rarely bothered to open his Instagram account or see what other people were posting. But then something started to change. Somehow, he found himself drawn to that little button, and that was when the ritual began. At night, alone in his apartment, he would scroll absentmindedly through his account, until, without meaning to, he came to a specific point. A video.

It was a simple video. Almost unpretentious, compared to the whirlwind of events that had come after. A short video, only fifteen seconds long, but that seemed to stretch on endlessly before Kendall's eyes. The scene was a snow-covered landscape, the trees bending under the weight of winter’s whiteness. You and him, younger, more uncomplicated, laughing as your daughter crawled with difficulty in the snow, trying to balance herself, her little legs stumbling and falling every now and then. It was the kind of image that sticks in your memory—innocent, pure, full of simple happiness.

The video wasn’t the only thing that held him, though. What really held him there was the caption of the post.

“Your birthday, our gift! We love you.”

Those words. Short. Simple. But with an unbearable weight. Like a gentle touch of something lost, something he could never get back. They were words loaded with a promise he knew had failed.

And yet, he never stopped watching. Every night, he would watch the video again, wondering if one day those words could become true again.

So when you said Hi, Ken on that call, your voice filled with something he couldn’t decipher, Kendall immediately felt that something was different.

“Hi,” you replied, a smile coming almost as a reflex, although his mind was already on alert. “Is she there?”

“Yes, but…” you hesitated, and he leaned forward, his entire body tense with the pause. “I thought I’d talk to you first. I need to tell you something.”

His heart gave an involuntary jump.

“What’s wrong?” He tried to keep his voice steady, but there was something there, a small crack that you noticed.

You took a deep breath, like someone preparing to dive into icy water.

“Well, apparently my work here is over for now… so they decided to send me back to New York.”

For a moment, Kendall stood completely still. The weight of those words seemed too great to process all at once. Then something began to change in his expression—first a silent disbelief, then a slowly growing glow, until it turned into a genuine smile, so rare and unexpected that it seemed out of place at that moment.

“Are you…” he began, his voice almost breaking. “Are you going back?”

You nodded.

“Yes. We’ll be here in two weeks.”

The confirmation brought a wave of warmth that spread through his body, almost as if he were warming himself up inside after years of endless winter.

“That’s great,” he said finally, forcing his voice to sound light. “For her, of course.”

“Well, that’s what makes sense now,” you said, choosing your words carefully. “My job requires me to go back, and I think it’ll be good for her to be closer to you.”

The sentence was practical, almost neutral, but to Kendall it sounded like music.

“And where are you going to stay?” – He asked with barely concealed excitement, as if trying to control how much that meant to him.

You hurried to answer.

– In my apartment. I still have it, so let’s go there.

And for a moment, Kendall stopped. The smile that was starting to light up his face faltered briefly, as if reality had pulled the brakes on his euphoria. But he quickly regained it, almost as if he didn’t want you to notice.

“Sure, sure. It makes sense.”

He knew he should be grateful. You would be in the same city. This was more than he expected, more than he believed he deserved. But the mention of your apartment was like a reminder that it meant nothing more than what you had said: practicality.

But Kendall knew it wasn’t just about his daughter. He couldn’t stop his mind from running to places he tried to avoid—you were coming back.

“I’m glad you’re coming back,” he continued, and this time the emotion in his voice was too real to contain.

You nodded, looking away for a moment, as if trying to escape the intensity of that moment.

“Thank you, Ken. Anyway, I don't want to take up any more of your time. I'll call her.

And then you disappeared from the screen. He stood there, staring at his phone, with the frozen image of where you had been seconds before. The silly, uncontrollable smile still hung on his face, as if it were something he didn't know how to erase.

____________________________________

The move was efficient and hassle-free, managed by a dedicated team that took care of everything—from packing each delicate item to coordinating the transportation of boxes and furniture. While your daughter busied herself with picking out toys to take on the plane, you simply oversaw the process, delegating smaller decisions and making sure everything ran as planned.

The arrangements included a private jet for the flight and a team at the destination to ensure the apartment was exactly how you wanted it. Impeccable cleaning, custom decor, even the fresh flowers you requested were provided without question. Despite all the logistical comforts, there was a mix of emotions that not even luxury could ease. The weight of returning to New York, with all that it entailed, still hung over you.

Your daughter, on the other hand, seemed delighted. She asked excited questions about her father, about the city, about what her new routine would be like. Her enthusiasm was a reminder that, however complex her feelings, the return was ultimately for her own good.

For Kendall, the days leading up to his arrival were filled with uneasy anticipation. He wasn’t the kind of man to wait passively, so he channeled his anxiety into a frenzy of preparation, like making a reservation at a restaurant you loved without even asking first. Jess watched him discreetly, but she couldn’t hide her surprise. He kept talking about the dinner he had planned. He had too many opinions about the restaurant and even asked her to triple-check the reservation. Deep down, she knew this behavior was unusual even by his standards, but Kendall seemed determined to make sure the evening was perfect. Your landing was smooth, but the calm ended the moment you stepped off the private jet. The movement in the arrivals area betrayed something you had hoped to avoid: paparazzi. They were strategically positioned, their cameras capturing your and your daughter’s every move. The name Roy had always attracted attention, but at that moment, it seemed like everything around Kendall was amplified—and that included you. You stood your ground, holding your daughter’s hand tightly as you guided her toward the car. The flashes were insistent, and your daughter, confused, looked at you.

“Mommy, why are you taking pictures?”

You smiled slightly, even though your irritation was latent.

“They’re just curious people, honey. Don’t worry.”

As the driver took you home, you watched the messages start to appear on your phone. The headlines were predictable: “Roy Family: Kendall’s Wife and Daughter Return to New York.” Some went further, trying to connect the dots of a narrative that was never fully clarified. To the world, you and Kendall had never officially separated. When you moved to Germany, the tabloids had been merciless, calling your departure an “elopement” and insinuating that you couldn’t handle dealing with Kendall, a recovering drug addict. It was frustrating, but you had learned to ignore that kind of thing.

When you arrived at the apartment, everything was as it should be. Spotless, with furniture in place and your daughter’s room decorated with care. She ran excitedly to explore the space while you allowed yourself a moment of silence, collapsing on the couch.

Your phone vibrated. It was Kendall.

“Are you here yet?”

The message was simple, but you could feel the anxiety behind it. You hesitated for a moment, remembering the tone of the headlines and how every move you made seemed fraught with external interpretation. But this was about you, not what others thought.

“Yes, settling in. See you tomorrow.”

His response came almost immediately.

“Great.”

You sighed, putting your phone away. Your daughter appeared in the living room, holding a stuffed animal, and you went to help her finish organizing her things.

As night fell over New York, the weight of what it meant to be back was hard to ignore. The city skyline seemed more intense, almost like a constant reminder of where you were: at the center of it all, but also, perhaps, at the center of a life you’d tried to leave behind. You couldn’t shake the feeling of being in a repeating cycle, even with all the new beginnings and changes happening around you. But there was something about your daughter’s energy, something so genuine and pure, that gave you a small relief. It was rare to see her so excited about anything, especially something involving her father. The idea of ​​surprising Kendall at work, an idea you’d half expected her to forget, had been fresh in your mind the entire drive. As reluctant as you’d been at first, you found it beautiful how much she cared. She wasn’t just wanting to see her father, she was wanting to show him something, something that was hers, no middleman. You, for a moment, you even thought she might lose interest, that her excitement would wane, but that didn’t happen.

As soon as the sun began to cover the apartment with its golden light through the window during the morning of the next day, you found her sitting at the breakfast table, her eyes shining with energy and expectation. Your little girl was excited, she could barely sit still, and you knew that this meant a lot to her.

For a moment, the idea of ​​telling Kendall crossed your mind. It would be good to prepare him for the surprise, to avoid any disappointment with the unexpected arrival of the two of you. But your daughter, with her typical confidence and enthusiasm, made you promise not to say anything. She wanted it to be a complete surprise, something spontaneous. So, without further ado, you put aside the idea of ​​telling Kendall, feeling a slight tension, but also a sense of pride for your daughter’s initiative. She was ready to show her father how much she cared, and you were willing to support that, even if it was outside of your plans.

____________________________________

When you arrived at the Waystar Royco lobby, you couldn’t help but feel a wave of nostalgia. The space was still the same, the hurried movement of the employees who barely had time to look around.

But this time, there was something different: you were no longer a regular presence there.

At the reception desk, a young receptionist looked at you with curiosity and, perhaps, a little skepticism.

“Hello, how can I help you?” she asked professionally.

You remained calm, even as your daughter tugged impatiently at your hand.

“We’d like to go up to see Kendall Roy,” you said, smiling. “It’s a surprise, so we’d prefer not to be announced.”

The receptionist hesitated, clearly suspicious.

“Sorry, but no one can go up unannounced. Who are you, exactly?”

You took a deep breath, trying not to sound rude.

“I am…” you began, but before you could finish, your daughter, with the typical impatience of a child, reached out until she saw the woman’s face on the other side of the counter and blurted out:

“He’s my father!”

The receptionist looked at the two of you, still not convinced.

“Okay… I need to confirm this with someone. One moment,” she said, picking up the phone.

Before the situation could escalate, a warmer voice came from behind the counter.

“Mrs. Roy!”

You turned around and saw Angela, a veteran employee who recognized you immediately.

“Angela!” you exclaimed, feeling a wave of relief.

Angela walked up to the counter with a welcoming smile, ignoring the receptionist who looked disconcerted.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Roy. Can I help you with anything?”

“Actually, yes. We’re here to surprise Ken, but… we don’t want to be announced.”

Angela smiled understandingly.

“Understood.” Don’t worry, I’ll make sure no one interrupts the surprise.

She gave a meaningful look to the receptionist, who now looked mortified.

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding,” the young woman said, but you just nodded, preferring to avoid prolonging the awkwardness.

Angela accompanied you to the elevators, chatting casually while your daughter looked around, enchanted by the brightness and grandeur of the place.

“It’s great to see you back,” Angela commented, opening the elevator door for you.

When the doors closed, the silence was filled only by the excitement of your daughter, who was jumping slightly beside you.

“Do you think he’ll be happy?” she asked.

You smiled.

“I’m sure he will, dear.”

But deep down, you knew that this surprise visit meant more than just the joy of seeing him. It was a kind of return, not only to him, but to the universe to which you had belonged, with all its challenges and complexities. Returning to that office meant returning to a world you had, for a while, tried to avoid—a world you knew was luxurious and unforgiving, but also numbing and sometimes suffocating. There was something uncomfortable about being addressed as his wife after so long away, when the people you had met in Germany simply called you by your first or last name, your name and the White you had inherited from your father. There was no “Roy’s” or “Kendall’s.”

Your mind wandered, full of thoughts and questions, as the elevator ascended. The numbers on the elevator flashed briefly, and before you knew it, you were on a floor that, although familiar, now felt strangely distant. The elevator doors opened, and as you stepped out, you took a deep breath, trying to push away your uncertainties and focus on the child beside you, who was beaming, ready for the surprise you had promised.

As you stepped out of the elevator, the familiarity of the surroundings immediately overcame you. The long, well-lit hallway was bathed in soft light, reflected off the marble floors. The echo of your footsteps on the polished floor resonated, amplifying the feeling that you were back in a world to which you no longer fully belonged. Your daughter was at your side, running in small leaps, her energy overflowing with each step. The path to Kendall's office was the same as so many times before: a succession of doors with different people's names, and the usual hurried movement of employees going from one side to the other, all immersed in their own worlds. You noticed a few furtive glances that crossed your path, and their discomfort seemed to be in the air, as if something was going to pay attention, but didn't dare to ask. Some greeted you with a shy smile, as if they didn't know exactly how to react, while others quickly looked away, aware that your presence there was unexpected. It was a mixture of familiarity and strangeness, as if you were a memory from the past, someone who now seemed out of place in this corporate universe, but still unmistakable.

The door was ajar, your daughter, her eyes shining with anticipation, he gave you one last push, as if he wanted to run through the open door on his own. You hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of what was about to happen, before gently pushing the door open. Kendall had his back to you, his suit sleeves slightly rolled up as he reviewed papers on the table. “Jess, if this is about…” When he turned and saw you, he stopped abruptly. For a moment, time seemed suspended. “Hey,” you said, smiling softly. “We decided not to wait until dinner.” Your daughter ran to him, and Kendall immediately opened his arms, picking her up easily. “You’re here! That’s…” He laughed, the laughter coming out unbidden, lighting up his expression. “That’s amazing.” As he spoke to her, his eyes met hers over her shoulder. There was something there, something that said more than words could express: surprise, admiration, and a happiness he didn’t seem to expect. The moment seemed perfect, almost as if time had slowed down just for you. The sight of Kendall with his daughter in his arms, smiling with that lightness you rarely saw, made your heart warm. But, like an intruder in the middle of an intimate moment, the door suddenly opened.

The man who entered was visibly younger than you imagined, oddly tall, and carrying papers in one hand, while seeming to be in a hurry. His eyes, however, fixed on you immediately, and it was as if the scene had been abruptly interrupted.

“Wow, you’re back!” He said, with an exaggerated smile, almost as if it were an inside joke that you didn’t understand. “This is amazing, a family reunion! I’m happy for you.”

You looked at him, trying to access any memory, any image, but his face remained strange and distant. You couldn’t associate him with any name or memory. The feeling of discomfort increased, and you couldn’t help but feel lost in the situation. He was talking as if he already knew exactly who you were and what you were doing there, as if it were something normal.

You tried to smile, forcing your voice to remain light.

“Oh, it’s really good to see you too,” you said, quickly glancing at your daughter, who was still comfortable in her father’s lap. “Well, we just came to give you a quick surprise, Ken. I don’t want to disturb your work. See you later?”

Your attempt to escape the situation, however, did not go unnoticed. Kendall seemed a little surprised by the way you were moving away, and your daughter looked at you with a confused expression, as if she didn’t understand what was happening.

“But mom, we just got here!” Your daughter protested, her discontented tone growing. She frowned, clearly dissatisfied. “Aren’t you going to stay a little longer?”

Greg, still not quite sure what to do, remained still as a statue, also trying to understand what was happening there, so he decided to make one more comment:

“Um, so... just to clarify... are you and Kendall... like, working things out?” Greg asked, his head tilted a little awkwardly, as if he were trying to decipher a riddle. “Not that I have any doubts, of course, just... well, you know... since you're here... together.” He looked from you to Kendall, an attempt to confirm, perhaps, if that made sense or if he was completely lost in the situation.

The silence that followed was so thick that it seemed to fill the entire room. Kendall paused for a moment, a look of confusion on his face, as if he didn't know what to say to that. The tension was growing, and you felt the heat of shame begin to take over every cell in your body. Your daughter, who had remained in Kendall's lap until that moment, looked at you and, with an air a little more mature than her age indicated, said:

“What does he mean, Mommy?” The question was simple, but full of weight, and you felt you needed to answer quickly, without diving into the murky waters of that conversation.

Before you could answer, Greg, still completely clueless, tried to soften the situation awkwardly.

“I... I just thought it would be, like, important to ask, right? Not that you need anyone's permission.” He laughed, trying to redeem himself, but the joke seemed more painful than funny. “Just... because we're all here, you know? A big family reunion and all…”

You didn't know how you felt. The sensation of being in an environment that should have been comfortable, but was now immersed in tangible discomfort, made each of Greg's words feel like a disguised punch.

Trying to hide your irritation, you gave Kendall a subtle glance before turning your focus back to Greg, with a slightly more forced smile.

“Well, I’m sure the answers to your questions are a little invasive, but…” You pause with a soft smile, but your gaze cold. “But if you decide, I don't know, to go for a walk now, I promise to pretend this never happened.

Kendall sighed heavily, probably relieved by the fact that Greg was finally starting to leave the scene. But the tension still hung in the air, and for a moment, it seemed like time had slowed down. Greg's embarrassment was evident, but his attempt to maintain his composure did not go unnoticed.

"Sure, sure..." Greg murmured, visibly disconcerted. He took one last look at you and, with his head down, left quickly, as if trying to disappear.

You forced a smile, trying to stay calm and not let the discomfort take over. You looked at your daughter, who was now watching the two of you with a mix of curiosity and concern, but without knowing exactly what was going on.

"Look, I think that's enough for today." You said, in a lighter tone, trying to ease the tension in the air. "Daddy has a lot of work to do, we don't want to get in the way, do we?" – You gave Kendall a quick smile, as if trying to convey the impression that everything was fine. – We'll see each other later, so he can concentrate.

Kendall, who was visibly torn between wanting you to stay and the weight of the responsibilities that still awaited him, looked at you with an expression of someone who was trying to find a way to make things work without making the situation even worse.

– Yes, of course... – He finally said, with a heavy sigh, as if he was accepting the proposal. – I think you're right. I still have a lot to do. – He looked at his daughter, who seemed not to want to go, but quickly settled on his lap and murmured an "okay" without much conviction.

You smiled again, taking your daughter's hand who was a little downcast now, thanking the fact that, at least, she wasn't insisting anymore. The last thing you wanted was for her to be more confused about the situation than she already was.

The walk to the door was silent, each of you immersed in your own thoughts, and the feeling that something unsaid was hanging in the air grew stronger with each step. When you reached the door, you hesitated for a moment before looking at Kendall once more.

“See you later?” You said, more as a statement than a question, trying to keep the situation light.

“Sure…” Kendall replied, but his voice carried an undertone that wasn’t exactly convinced. “See you later.”

As you turned and left the room, a strange feeling took over you. The situation had been uncomfortable, but at the same time, it felt like a part of you was dealing with something bigger. Something that had been pushed down for a long time.

Outside the door, as you walked away with your daughter, you felt a pang of regret for not having addressed what was really going on between you. But somehow it was clear that now wasn’t the time, and maybe it never would be. And when you looked at your daughter, you realized that sometimes it might be better to pretend that everything was fine, because the truth would be harder to digest. Kendall, on the other hand, watched you walk away, and with that, thoughts came quickly to his mind. He saw the effort you made to distance yourself, to not give too much importance to what had happened. You were trying, somehow, to maintain normality, but something in your eyes and the way you behaved revealed that this attempt at evasion did not go unnoticed. He wanted to draw attention to it, to ask what was happening, but the last thing he wanted was for his daughter to see it. Kendall felt the weight of the unspoken words hanging in the air between the two of you. There was something there, something he knew needed to be confronted, but he didn't want to. It was easier to avoid, easier to ignore the growing tension. He had been dealing with his own emotional mess for so long that what was happening between you felt like something he no longer knew how to resolve. The desire to fix things was there, of course, but the fear of not knowing how to do it was even stronger.

____________________________________

That night, you met at the restaurant, the tension from earlier in the day had dissipated by now and, although you thought about making up an excuse not to go, you ended up deciding that it couldn't be as bad as you thought. Maybe it would even be a good thing. You would still be with your daughter, so Kendall certainly wouldn't bring up complicated subjects. And it was with this in mind that you ended up accepting in the end.

As the meal progressed peacefully, a soft sound began to fill the restaurant. A singer, accompanied by a discreet piano, played a classical melody. Your daughter, curious as always, leaned forward in her chair, her eyes shining.

"It sounds so cool to sing, can we play that later?" she asked, subtly pointing in the direction of the singer.

You smiled, recognizing the melody.

Kendall looked up from her plate, a smile playing on her lips. "You know, your mother sang too."

You immediately rolled your eyes. "Don't start, Kendall."

Your daughter's eyes widened, excited. – Really, Mom?

– Yes, I sang, but it wasn’t anything special – you said, trying to avoid it.

– Oh, it wasn’t anything special? – Kendall replied, laughing. – Your mom was practically the star of the bars and restaurants near the college.

– Kendall! – you exclaimed, laughing despite yourself.

– That’s true. – He turned to his daughter, excited. – Your grandparents were furious with your mom because of a tattoo, and instead of apologizing, she decided to become a singer to pay the bills.

– That’s not exactly how it happened – you murmured, but it was impossible not to laugh.

– Yes it was – Kendall insisted, amused. – She packed the places.

Your daughter seemed fascinated. – Mom, can you still sing?

You shook your head quickly, laughing. – No, I don’t know anymore. That’s in the past.

Kendall arched an eyebrow, clearly doubtful. – Oh, I doubt it.

– I’m serious! – you replied, trying to keep your tone light. – That was a long time ago.

Your daughter grimaced, disappointed. – But you seemed to like it…

You sighed playfully. – Oh, back then I wanted to be a super famous singer. I even dreamed of touring and everything. Your grandfather almost had a heart attack just thinking about it. But over time, I realized that wasn’t what I really wanted. – You shrugged. – I was just trying to find myself.

Your daughter processed this information for a moment, her gaze full of curiosity.

– So… was it a mistake?

You smiled, leaning slightly towards her. – Not exactly. It was an experiment. But, if you ever decide to do something similar, just… let me know before you get a tattoo, okay?

The conversation dissipated into light laughter, and while your daughter returned her attention to the dessert, you and Kendall exchanged a brief look, full of memories and a touch of complicity. It was a silent truce, a reminder that not everything in the past had to be a source of conflict.

In that moment, dinner felt like more than just a meal; it felt like a step, however small, toward something lighter and more harmonious between you. The conversation, the shared laughter, and the knowing glances created an atmosphere that had seemed absent for so long.

That feeling persisted on the way home, as the car glided through the streets of New York. Kendall, lost in thought, barely paid attention to the lights that flashed outside.

His daughter was nestled against him, her little face pressed against his shoulder, her curls falling like a veil. He adjusted her gently, worried about waking her, but her light weight in his arm felt like a anchor, a feeling he didn't know he could crave so much until he had her there.

Then he looked at you. You were facing the window, the soft reflection of the city lights drawing lines on your face as you slept. Your peaceful expression almost made him smile. He remembered, at that moment, something so small, but that made him feel an inexplicable warmth: you always fell asleep in the car if the trip was long or late at night. It was almost automatic, as if the constant vibration of the vehicle was an invitation you couldn't resist. And now, seeing your daughter asleep next to him, the same trait seemed so evident. He had to look away for a moment, as if the simple beauty of that detail was too much to process. Kendall let a smile appear on his face, a small but sincere smile. It was funny how things like that – so banal, so everyday – could carry so much meaning. It wasn't just about the similarity between the two of you; it was about what it symbolized. You were together, even if for a short time and for reasons he knew were fragile. The car slowed down at a traffic light, and he took the opportunity to absorb more of that moment. He could almost feel fulfilled. Almost. But the "almost" was the difference between peace and restlessness. He had the company of both of you now, but he didn't have you. Not in the way he wanted.

The car parked smoothly in front of the building. Kendall got out first, holding your daughter in his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You grabbed her coat and adjusted the strap of your bag before following them. He seemed comfortable in that position, almost as if her weight in his arms was everyday.

“Come on, honey. We’re home now,” you murmured, lightly touching her shoulder in an attempt to wake her up.

She shook her head, opening her eyes for a moment, but when she realized where she was, she just grumbled softly and tightened her arms around Kendall’s neck, hiding against him.

“Hey, young lady. You can walk there, can’t you?” you tried again, your voice calm, but already anticipating the answer.

Unsurprisingly, she shook her head, tightening her embrace on Kendall, who let out a restrained but amused laugh.

“Do you want me to take you?” – he asked, looking at you.

Deep down, you knew exactly what she was doing. Although you didn’t say anything, you understood what motivated your daughter to insist on that behavior.

“Okay,” you gave in, sighing with a small smile. “Thank you.”

The walk to the elevator was enveloped in a peaceful silence, as if neither of you wanted to break the moment. You walked a few steps ahead, checking your keys in your bag, while Kendall kept his eyes fixed on the small sleeping figure in your arms. There was something comforting about it, something he couldn’t explain, but he felt it deeply.

In the elevator, Kendall looked at his daughter and then at you. It was almost impossible to ignore how natural it seemed. He wanted to comment, maybe make a light joke about how she was becoming more and more like you, but he held himself back. There was something subtly perfect about that moment that he didn’t want to break.

When the elevator door opened, you held the door open for him. The room was quiet and dark, only lights from outside invaded the apartment. Kendall followed you down the hallway to his daughter's room, his footsteps silent on the wooden floor.

When he arrived, he placed her on the bed carefully, as if he were handling something precious and fragile. Your daughter mumbled something incomprehensible, still half asleep, but her arms loosened from his neck. You pulled the blanket, covering her with an automatic and delicate movement.

Kendall took a few steps back, watching in silence as you fixed the girl's hair and turned off the light on the lamp next to the bed. For a brief moment, he wanted to say something, but he bit his tongue. He just followed you back to the hallway, the silence between you heavy, but inexplicably comfortable.

The silence that settled in the room was heavy, but for some reason, that was the first situation of the day that you didn't feel the need to avoid. There was something there, an implicit truce that made the moment easier to bear.

– Would you like something? Water or… water. – You laughed, opening the fridge. – I don’t have many options today.

The soft light from the kitchen illuminated the room through the white countertop, creating a cozy contrast between the two spaces.

– Water is fine. – Kendall replied with a slight smile, but in truth, he would accept anything if it meant spending more time with you. He approached the countertop, resting his hands casually as he watched you.

You searched for glasses, clearly still in the process of adapting to the new house, moving your hands from shelf to shelf, as if the logic of the place still didn’t make sense. Kendall noticed how comfortable you seemed in that space, even amidst the mess. But what caught his attention, almost against his will, were the small details that he had forgotten – or perhaps tried to forget.

The way your skin seemed to glow under the soft light of the kitchen caught his attention. The simple movement of your arms revealed the almost hypnotizing texture, something that made him wonder what your skin really felt like to the touch. Your hair, slightly messy from sleeping in the car, held an intimacy that disarmed him. It was a vivid reminder of how you were in the most relaxed moments, when you still woke up in the same bed.

The sound of the glasses lightly hitting the counter brought him back, ending his daydreams. He watched as you poured the water into the glasses, the casual movement of your arms, the way the light reflected off the crystal clear liquid.

“And how are you at work now? Do you still like it?” Kendall asked, starting the conversation in a relaxed tone, although his eyes were still drawn to you more often than he would like to admit.

You smiled as you finished filling the glasses, holding one out to him.

“I still like my job,” you began, with a genuine tone that seemed to light up your face for an instant. Kendall raised his eyebrows, a little surprised, but attentive. “I just can't stand my boss. - You finished with a theatrical sigh, drawing a smile from him.

- Well, if it's any consolation, I know exactly what it's like to have your own father as a boss. - He joked, tilting his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours with a familiar sparkle.

You laughed softly, leaning casually on the counter.

- But what is it this time?

- Nothing much, my father just expects me to solve world peace. - You answered ironically, but the slight roll of your eyes didn't go unnoticed by Kendall, who now seemed more focused on your words than on the joke.

- Oh, it can't be that bad. What did he ask for? - He said, the lightness in his voice masking his genuine interest.

You let out a short laugh, leaning forward as if sharing a secret.

- I'm not kidding, Ken. He wants me to find a way to negotiate fighter jets with both the American government and the countries of the East.

Kendall paused for a moment, processing the absurdity of what you had just said, before letting out a light laugh.

“Well, then it seems he really expects you to solve world peace.”

You laughed with him, shaking your head, but the slight exchange of glances between you carried something beyond the joke.

“What about your job? Ever since I left, you’ve still been rotating this CEO thing, haven’t you?” you said before bringing the glass to your lips. You knew it was a delicate subject, but you were curious about what Kendall really thought about it. “Does he still use that promise as a bargaining chip whenever he needs you?”

The silence in the room seemed heavier after your question, and Kendall looked away to the glass in his hands. He swirled the liquid inside it for a moment, as if looking for time to organize his thoughts. Although he smiled briefly, the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. You noticed that. You always did.

– Yes… – He answered, his voice almost hesitant. – Well, you know how chaotic this shit is, but yes, we’re still at that same stage. He plays it off as a promise. Whenever he needs to manipulate us…

You nodded slowly, observing the discomfort he was trying to mask. For a moment, you thought about dropping the subject, but you knew it was the right opportunity to ask something that had been stuck in your throat for a long time. Taking a deep breath, you decided to go ahead.

- Ken, I actually need to ask you something, and I need you to be very honest about it, okay? – His tone changed to something more serious, and that made Kendall look up at you immediately.

- Yes, of course. What is it? – He answered, his expression genuine, although slightly tense.

You placed the glass on the counter and crossed your arms, gathering the courage to continue.

- Your father… A few weeks before I left, two years ago, he called me for a talk, just me and him. At the time, I didn't know where you were, so I need to know if he did it willingly or if he had your consent in some way.

Kendall frowned, visibly confused, but you continued, feeling the weight of the words before you even said them. “Logan called it a warning, but I didn't see it that way. Your father asked me if I intended to formalize the divorce and I said yes. But he had other plans.”

Kendall's gaze became more attentive, almost alarmed. He didn't interrupt, but the tension in his posture increased.

“What? What are you talking about?” he asked, confused, his tone betraying a mix of concern and fear of what was to come.

You sighed, trying to keep your voice steady, but the memory still weighed on you.

“Your father vehemently forbade me from leaving the country with our daughter if I filed for divorce. He said he would do everything he could to stop me from taking her with me if I had that intention.” – Your eyes searched his, but Kendall seemed frozen, his lips slightly parted as he processed what you had just said. – Ken, I just needed to know if you knew about this, because if you did… I don’t even know what to think.

The silence that followed was thick, filled with tension and unspoken emotions. Kendall blinked a few times, as if trying to absorb the impact of what he had heard. Finally, he shook his head, frowning as if he were trying to put the pieces of a broken puzzle together.

– I had no idea… – He said, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper. – I swear, I didn’t know about that. My father… He… He did these things without telling me. Fuck, I’m so sorry.

The sincerity in your voice was evident, but you remained silent, trying to gauge whether you believed him. Kendall ran a hand through his hair, a gesture you recognized as nervousness.

– He had no right to do that to you. – Kendall continued, finally raising his gaze to meet hers. – Much less using our daughter as a bargaining chip. I… I would never have agreed to that, ever.

You let out a long sigh, a mix of relief and exhaustion.

“That’s good to hear, Ken. I just… needed to know.”

He nodded, his face serious, but his expression softened as he continued to look at you, a mix of guilt and something deeper in his eyes. It was as if, at that moment, he wanted to make up for not only that situation, but all the weight of the years that were left behind.

“Look, I don’t… I don’t even know what to say. I’m so sorry.” Kendall begins, with a sincerity that you almost don’t recognize, but is interrupted by his calm and light voice.

“Ken, I don’t think I have enough to drink to open this Pandora’s box.” You joke, trying to lighten the weight that fell on the conversation, the light tone contrasting with what was said. “We’ll have plenty of time for that later, don’t worry.” Also, just one important addendum: if I'm going to have to listen to you talk about your family every time we meet, we're going to need to negotiate a fee for each therapy session.

You let out the irony with a subtle smile, and Kendall lets out a muffled, comfortable laugh, as if it were impossible to resist your ability to ease the tension with a silly joke. He settles back, his shoulders relaxing, and decides to joke back, in the same tone.

"And what exactly would you charge?" He asks, the lightness in the air giving way to a provocation disguised as interest.

"Well, you know, I have a lot to consider here." You begin, exaggerating the seriousness, like a theater actress trying to add a touch of drama to the scene, and he, of course, enjoys it. "First thing: you never paid child support, so I guess I'll have to discount that too."

"Oh, the thousands of dollars I sent every month weren't enough?" – Kendall answers, with a slight irony in his voice, but there is something else behind his words, a more attentive look, perhaps more introspective, that suggests an unspoken question. He observes you with increasing intensity, the conversation no longer being just about finances.

You smile, still in the rhythm of the joke, but Kendall's gaze begins to change, and you realize that the lightness begins to mix with something more, more personal, closer to where you both know the conversation can go.

- Well, we will also have to take into account that you, from time to time, are a CEO. – You continue with a sideways smile, maintaining the playful tone. – That should be part of our equation. So, being a good girl, I will settle on the value of the pension at maybe a million dollars and the therapy sessions at about ten thousand, fifteen, if the subject is about your father.

Kendall gives a muffled chuckle, but his eyes don't leave yours. He seems to absorb your words, but there’s something there, something deeper, that he doesn’t know exactly how to verbalize.

“So… a million dollars for alimony, fifteen thousand for therapy, and how much for a second chance?” Kendall joked, his voice now lower, as if the question was more than a simple provocation, as if there was a deeper truth there, something he didn’t have the courage to say directly.

You let out an incredulous laugh, as if the idea were absurd, but deep down, there was something there that caused you an unexpected warmth. He watched your reaction, an involuntary smile forming on his lips, convinced that, somehow, he had disconcerted you, perhaps even more than he imagined.

“Well, considering I arrived yesterday…” You pretend to think before looking directly at him, with a smile in your eyes. “Yes, maybe it’s a little early to open negotiations for that, but I admire your proactivity.” He laughs, the air between you becoming lighter, but also more charged with a silent tension, a feeling that the words, as playful as they were, were revealing something deeper, something that perhaps both of you would rather not face right away.

After a brief silence after the laughter, Kendall finds himself looking at you for longer than he should, as if trying to keep the moment to himself, but then he speaks, interrupting the thought.

“I should leave now, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes, I believe so.” You answer, but still with a slight smile, keeping the mood relaxed, although the farewell was lurking.

“Well…” he picks up the coat that was on a nearby chair before pausing and saying. “I enjoyed today, a lot.”

“Me too, Ken.” You answer with a gentle smile, something in your tone that didn’t go unnoticed by him, a touch of softness that he couldn’t ignore.

He then moves away from the counter, heading towards the elevator again. Before entering, he quickly turns to see you turn off the light and leave the kitchen, now illuminated only by the dim light of the hallway.

“Good night.” He said, with a slight smile on his lips.

“Good night, Ken.” You say goodbye, and he finally enters the elevator, the doors closing softly.

With Kendall gone, you head to the bedroom, where you trying to put her thoughts in order. The silence in the house seemed greater now, filled by his absence. As she lay down on the bed, the emptiness that remained echoed in a strange but comforting way. She knew that things were still open between you, as if the unspoken words still hung in the air. But, for now, rest was the best she could offer herself.

Meanwhile, on the floors below, Kendall was bouncing inside. He descended each floor of the building with an unexpected feeling of lightness. The smile he tried to contain as he descended in the elevator was not at all forced, it was genuine, as if something inside him had finally rebalanced.

The conversations with you, a simple but profound exchange, had touched him in a way he hadn't expected. Every laugh, every look exchanged, seemed to have rekindled something he had tried to keep buried. He didn't want to admit it, but what had happened there, that night, was more than just a simple encounter. It was something more meaningful, something he knew he couldn't leave behind so easily.

As he stepped out of the building, the cold New York breeze couldn't erase the warm feeling he felt inside.

________________________________

As the months went by, Kendall became more and more present in your lives. Little by little, he began to make a point of taking his daughter on trips, whether to a place outside the city or to his apartment, where they would spend the day together. He was more willing to share his time and attention, and this was reflected not only in his regular visits, but also in the care he gave his daughter, in the way he watched her while she played, in the way he adapted to the new family dynamics.

And, of course, over time, his presence by your side became more constant. Initially shy and cautious, he now made a point of being around. He spent more time at your apartment, bringing with him the restless energy he carried with him, but also a touch of lightness when he was there with you. He seemed to need these moments, as if the simple act of being with his family was a remedy for his daily worries.

When the snow covered the streets of New York, the setting seemed perfect for a quiet moment. He was at your house, as usual, at his daughter's request. The afternoon passed between laughter and movies, one of those lazy Sundays when the world seemed to slow down for a while. The screens in the apartment became a cozy setting, a kind of refuge from the cold outside.

He was there, next to you, but his phone never seemed to give him peace. Every now and then, he would step away to check his messages, his appointments, the problems that awaited him. But something had changed in him. Although his phone was always full of urgent messages, he began to lessen his worries when he was with you and his daughter. He tried to divert his attention to the present, to the moment you shared. And, as difficult as it was, he did his best to be present, to not let the weight of the world at work become a burden in the hours he spent with you.

It was on one of those afternoons that he once again noticed how you, almost naturally, fell asleep quickly, as if the simple act of snuggling up in that safe environment was enough to make the tiredness of the day dissipate. He, who always had a more controlled posture, couldn't help but notice how your tranquility affected him. There was something there, in that lightness, that attracted him in a way he still didn't know how to explain.

There was a growing closeness between the two of you, and it wasn't just sentimental. The touch of your hands, the way your eyes met more often, the way the other's presence seemed to no longer be an inconvenience, but a necessity. Kendall didn't know exactly at what point that line between friendship and something more had been lost, but he also didn't seem to want to worry about it anymore. When you were together, the outside world disappeared, and the intimacy between you grew stronger every day. He was beginning to notice these small gestures, the moments when your hands almost touched, the longer smiles, the unspoken words that were exchanged in moments of silence.

The conversations, the laughter, the shared glances, all of that was creating something new, something that he was beginning to feel not as pressure, but as a silent promise that there was something more to be discovered between you. Something beyond words, more than just being together.

With the annual charity event coming up, everything seemed to conspire to make your presence indispensable. For years, your father had represented the family company at these galas, but now, with his return and the imminent transition of power, the responsibility fell to you.

For practical reasons—or so you tried to convince your parents—you decided to go with Kendall. After all, he would also be there, marking his definitive return to the corporate world of New York. But deep down, you knew that this decision was loaded with meanings that went beyond logistics. The butterflies in your stomach as you got ready were proof of that. It wasn’t just the prospect of facing the sharks of the corporate world; it was the weight of walking alongside him again, being seen as husband and wife, at least in the eyes of the public.

The idea bothered you less than it should have. Being part of that “perfect family” image again seemed inevitable. And, even though it wasn’t ideal, you knew you had to deal with it sooner or later. While these questions ran through your mind, your apartment was in complete chaos: makeup artists, hairdressers, stylists, all adjusting the smallest details so that your appearance would be impeccable.

The intense pace was interrupted by an unmistakable sound coming from the living room.

“Grandpa!” your daughter’s excited voice echoed, drawing smiles from everyone present. Your father had arrived, and he seemed more excited than usual.

“Dad?” you called from the bedroom, looking at the hairdresser with a tired smile. “I think it’s okay now, thanks.” 

Standing up, you adjusted the hem of your long dress and walked down the hallway. Your heels echoed across the floor as your dress dragged softly.

“In her room, honey!” your father’s voice answered. Of course he was there. When you arrived, you found the two of you sitting on the floor, surrounded by scattered toys.

“Dad, why aren’t you ready? We have to leave soon.”

“Oh, I decided not to go this time.” He answered casually, without even looking up from his game.

“What?” His voice came out louder than he intended. “Dad, are you kidding? Damn it, why didn’t you warn me before?”

“Hey, watch your swear words, there are kids here.” He finally stood up and looked at you with that expression that always disarmed you, but that today only increased your irritation. “Let’s talk in the living room. I’ll be right back, honey.” He told his granddaughter, leaving the room as you followed him, anger bubbling under the surface.

In the room, which now looked like a battlefield with so many people and equipment spread out, he turned to you, taking a quick look at your outfit.

“Why are you so dressed up?” he asked, and before you could answer, he added: “Is this all to impress your little shit of a husband?”

You took a deep breath, seeking patience.

“No. It’s to represent our company, which is what you should be doing with me!” you replied, but he seemed more interested in teasing than arguing.

Before you could continue, your assistant approached, nervous.

“Just to let you know... there will be a comedian at the event. He’ll probably interact with the guests,” she said, almost apologetically.

“Great,” you muttered, already imagining the kind of joke he would make.

“Who cares?” your father retorted, with a disdainful tone. “He’s just another one of those party clowns. He’ll make half a dozen jokes about old people decomposing and leave. All you have to do is wave and smile. What's the problem?

You stared at him in disbelief, feeling your blood boil.

"I can't believe you're going to leave me alone in this..." you began, but were interrupted by the security guard telling you that the car was ready.

Going back to the room, you kissed your daughter on the forehead before leaving. When you passed your father in the living room, he let out the last provocation:

"If Logan's there, tell him to fuck off for me."

"You're unbelievable!"

As you looked at your reflection in the mirror, you took a deep breath, adjusting your posture and trying to transform your irritation into a diplomatic smile. It was the least you could do before facing the night ahead.

As you left the building, a black SUV was waiting in front, escorted by two others. The security guard opened the door for you, and inside, Kendall was already there, sitting, her gaze fixed on her cell phone.

He took his eyes off you when you entered, a quick moment that captured your entire journey. Even though he seemed accustomed to events like this, something in the way he looked at you made it clear that there was still admiration there.

The silence between you on the way was almost palpable. You were tense, your thoughts spinning in circles: your entrance into the event, the possible comments, the anticipation surrounding your presence alongside Kendall. Then, he finally spoke, breaking the tension.

“You look beautiful.”

The simplicity of his words brought you back to reality. Turning your face toward him, a soft smile formed on your lips.

“Thank you.”

And that was it. He realized that you were distant, with your head full, and decided not to insist. I only found out when you sighed deeply, preparing yourself for what was to come.

When the car pulled up to the entrance of the venue, the flashes appeared before the door was even open. Kendall got out first, adjusting his jacket, and waited outside. He thought you would follow him, keeping a certain distance, but he was surprised when you stopped next to him. Your smile was carefully posed, calculated for the cameras. Naturally, you guided his hand to the exposed part of your back, where the fabric of your dress ended. Kendall felt the heat of your skin under his fingers and, for a moment, he forgot about the paparazzi, the flashes and the questions that popped up around him. A few voices shouted questions about recent scandals, about business, about you as a couple. But none of them deserved his attention. The walk along the red carpet was brief, just enough to keep up appearances, before they were guided inside the event. The atmosphere was opulent, but heavy, as if every piece of decoration was impregnated with formality and corporate history. You looked around and blurted out, almost without thinking:

“God, this looks like an asylum.”

Kendall, beside you, let out a low laugh.

“Welcome back to the social circle, I guess.”

You laughed lightly, but without taking your eyes off the room, already scanning the room.

The room was full of familiar faces, faces you had already crossed paths with at other events or seen in business articles. Some of these people responded quickly and answered. Kendall appeared beside you, wrapped himself in the calm posture and you figured he always showed off in public, but the familiarity between you was visible — the way he tilted his head towards you, as if you were inviting him to command those interactions, was something new and unexpected.

After the initial cocktail hour, just before dinner was served, you saw Logan approaching. His walk was slow but firm, as if the weight of the entire room was spinning around him. You felt his presence before he even spoke, and the sound of his voice carried that peculiar tone of cutting sarcasm that was his trademark. “So…” Logan began, with a fake smile that you knew well. “Has your father decided to throw himself to the sharks so early?” You didn’t flinch. Your eyes met his, and the smile that spread across your face was as fake as his. “He knows when a son is ready to take on these things.” His answer was cordial, but it carried an implicit firmness. Logan inclined his head progressively, assessing you with that clinical gaze. “I hope you’re sure. It wouldn’t be good to rush things, you know how this could end.” He took one last look at you, then cast a quick glance in Kendall’s direction, who was further away, before turning and walking away. You took a deep breath, relieved that he was gone, but the feeling of having passed an invisible test lingered. A short time later, Kendall approached you again, his eyes searching yours with a curiosity that didn’t need to be voiced out loud.

Soon after, people were settling in for the dinner that would soon begin, and you were led to one of the main tables, as expected for such central figures at the event. Kendall sat next to you, the room around you filled with conversations about business, philanthropy, and politics.

You tried to pay attention to the conversations around you, but it was hard not to be distracted by Kendall’s presence. He was incredibly at ease, navigating the discussions with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. The way he articulated his arguments and engaged others was something you hadn’t seen in a long time—corporate Kendall in action.

As he spoke, you couldn’t help but notice subtle details: the way he frowned slightly when he was focused, or the way his voice naturally modulated as he addressed different people at the table. You realized you were admiring him more than you wanted to admit, and it caught you off guard.

On the other hand, Kendall also seemed uneasy, but for different reasons. He felt your closeness like an electric current, a heat that seemed to intensify every time your shoulders or arms lightly touched. At one point, when he leaned in to whisper something in your ear about how terrible the wine was, your faces got dangerously close.

“I’ll remember to bring you a decent wine next time,” he murmured, and you laughed softly, the soft sound making his chest tighten in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Then there was the moment when your hand accidentally brushed against his as you reached for a glass of water. It was a brief touch, but enough to make you both feel a slight shiver. You looked at him, and the look you received in return was direct, intense, almost as if he were trying to read your mind.

Kendall also noticed things that seemed small, but left him disconcerted. The way you smiled at the people at the table, polite and impeccable, but with a hint of irony that only he could perceive. Or the way your voice changed subtly when you addressed him, softer, almost complicit.

The lights dimmed even further around the tables, while the stage was illuminated by an intense spotlight. You felt a familiar tension tighten in your stomach. The comedian was known for having no boundaries, and with Logan Roy present, the chances of him avoiding delicate subjects were practically zero. Taking a deep breath, you adjusted your posture and kept your smile light and controlled. You were prepared to face the moment, or at least try to appear that way.

He started off in a relaxed manner, drawing easy laughs from the audience with generic jokes about the corporate elite. Even you laughed at a few, allowing yourself to relax for a few seconds. However, when he started addressing “family dynamics in the media” and mentioned Logan, you knew the worst was yet to come.

— I admire this guy, but I always have doubts: is he indecisive or is he waiting for some streaming service to make a reality show to decide which son will take over his company. — Laughter burst out instantly, and he paused strategically, savoring the moment before continuing: — They would be like the Kardashians of the corporate world.

The room reacted thunderously, with laughter echoing from all sides. You kept your smile on, but you noticed Kendall's jaw tighten slightly. At the same time, Logan, at another table, remained motionless, with an expression that mixed disdain and coldness.

Then the comedian lowered his voice, pretending to whisper into the microphone, but loud enough for everyone to hear:

— We already know which one Kendall Roy would be, don't we?

You smiled slightly, controlled, but instinctively turned your face to Kendall. He kept the smile on his lips, but his gaze was fixed on the stage, his fingers drumming almost imperceptibly on the table.

The comedian noticed the tension and decided to double down.

“But there’s no denying it, the guy is a visionary.” He pointed dramatically at Logan, drawing more laughter from the audience. “This man could start a war in no time. We should be worried, really.”

The room was divided between laughter and palpable discomfort. You noticed Logan’s gaze, cold and calculated, as if he were considering ways to turn that man into an irrelevant stain on the floor. Kendall’s breathing beside you became heavier, and you knew he was also feeling the impact of the moment.

But the comedian didn’t end there. He looked directly at your table, as if he was about to deliver the “main joke.”

“Now, here’s the masterstroke.” He smiled, pausing to build anticipation. “Logan Roy married one of his sons to Charles White’s daughter. Do you understand that?”

The room erupted in laughter, but the laughter was different now—it wasn’t just amusement, but also that underlying discomfort, as if everyone knew the joke was about to cross the line.

You knew exactly what he was implying, and so did the audience. The media caused the conflicts; your family’s company offered the solutions. Cause and effect, perfectly woven into a single marriage. The narrative was irresistible to anyone who loved a scandal.

The comedian gestured as if asking the crowd to calm down.

“Please, this is a joke.” He took a theatrical step back from the stage. “Don’t send a bomb to my mailbox.”

The attention was completely focused on you now. Your smile was controlled, polite, but your eyes said more. You couldn’t show the irritation that was beginning to boil, and that was exactly what made it all the more frustrating.

The comedian began to pace the stage again, as if he were building the next joke in his mind. He looked at the audience and smiled, as if he knew he was about to say something controversial.

“Now, I have to comment…” He paused, gesturing with his hands to emphasize the drama. “Isn’t it ironic? A charity event, all of us here so concerned about helping others… and we have the illustrious presence of the White family, whose greatest “act of charity” is funding wars.”

The audience let out a muffled laugh, and the sound echoed in the room, mixing with the slight buzz of discomfort. It was a heavy provocation, but the comedian had a talent for keeping the tone seemingly light, as if it were all harmless.

You felt the weight of the words, but your face didn’t change. A perfectly calculated smile remained on your lips, while you maintained your composure, adjusting your posture slightly in your chair.

“But of course, I’m not judging!” He added, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. — After all, someone has to make money while the world loses its mind, right?

The laughter grew a little louder, and he continued, clearly enjoying the moment.

— It's like I always say: while some make donations, others build planes.

Kendall, next to you, let out a low laugh — almost inaudible to the others, but enough for you to notice. He tilted his head slightly toward you, his lips still curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

— Are you having fun? — He murmured in an almost ironic tone, so low that no one but you would hear.

You glanced at him sideways, holding back the joking tone to keep up appearances.

— You have no idea. — You replied, still smiling at the stage.

Before he could answer, the comedian moved on to another topic, but the discomfort persisted at the table. You took a deep breath, picking up your wine glass to try to center yourself. Kendall noticed the gesture and discreetly touched your leg under the table, as if to let you know he was there.

It was a brief touch, but enough to surprise you.

When the event finally ended, you and Kendall walked together towards the exit, greeting the other guests with the impeccable cordiality that the occasion demanded. There was an almost rehearsed naturalness between you, as if you were in fact the perfect couple that so many believed – or wanted – you to be.

The flashes continued outside, and Kendall, once again, placed his hand on your back as he helped you into the car. Inside, the air seemed denser, charged with the emotions of the event. Kendall broke the silence as the car began to move, his voice carrying a carefree tone, but with that sarcasm that was almost automatic for him:

“So, which of the Kardashians would I be?”

You turned to him, surprised by the question, but unable to hold back your laughter.

“Kim, probably,” you answered, throwing it back with the same lightness.

He arched an eyebrow, intrigued, a discreet smile playing on his lips.

“Kim? Why?”

You pretended to think for a moment, before shrugging with an amused smile.

“Well… she’s the most controversial, don’t you think? Always in the spotlight, but somehow she manages to turn everything into fame.”

Kendall let out a low laugh, shaking his head.

“Controversial and turning everything into fame? I don’t know if that’s a compliment or a disguised insult.”

You tilted your head, your smile growing.

“It depends on how you choose to interpret it.”

The rest of the drive was light, almost childish, as if you had temporarily left behind the pressures of the real world. Comments about the event, observations about the people you saw, even spontaneous laughter. It was as if time had compressed, and when the car stopped in front of Kendall’s building, you were taken aback.

He leaned slightly toward you, his tone casual, but his eyes betraying something more:

“Do you want to go up?” The question seemed simple, but there was barely contained excitement in his expression. — Just to talk.

You stared at him for a moment, assessing the situation. There was something undeniable about that invitation, a tension that hung between you. And while you could question his intentions, you knew yours weren’t that different.

“Sure, why not?” You replied with a gentle smile, and it was enough to make Kendall’s heart race.

The walk to the apartment was smooth, almost natural, as if you were just walking home together after a long night. In the elevator, he stood next to you in silence, his hands stuffed in his pockets, but his gaze would occasionally stray to you, as if checking to see if you were really there.

When you arrived, Kendall turned on the soft lights in the living room, heading to the bar with familiarity. As he poured two shots of something you couldn’t identify at first glance, you kicked off your shoes, setting them aside, and dropped your bag and cell phone on a nearby table. The atmosphere was cozy, almost nostalgic, as if the apartment still held traces of the times you had been there before.

You settled into the couch, crossing your legs as you accepted the glass he handed you. Taking a sip, your eyes followed him as he took off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt in an unpretentious manner. His casualness seemed to contrast with the small electric charge that was beginning to form in the air between you.

“The view from your apartment is still better than mine,” you commented with a playful smile, breaking the silence. But there was something else in your voice, something that carried a hint of vulnerability, as if the situation was pulling memories from a shared past.

Kendall laughed, low and husky, as he approached, sitting next to you on the couch.

“Well, it’s hard to compete with something so unique,” ​​he said, indicating with a slight nod the glass wall that revealed the lights of Manhattan.

You followed his gaze, but when you looked back at him, he was already watching you. There was something in his eyes—an intensity that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. 

“It’s weird,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him.

“What?” Kendall asked, leaning in slightly.

“Being here again. It doesn’t feel like that long ago, but at the same time… it feels like a lifetime ago.”

He nodded, his smile softening.

“Maybe because some things never change.”

There was a pause, tension building in the space between you. You felt the warmth of his presence, the subtle touch of his knee almost brushing against yours. Without thinking, you slid your fingers along the cool glass of the glass in your hand, while the other rested on the couch beside you, close to his leg.

“And is that good or bad?” you asked, your voice lower, as if you didn’t want to break the moment.

He tilted his head, his gaze going from your eyes to the curve of your lips and back again.

“I guess it just depends on how you look at it.” You barely had time to process his answer before you felt the weight of his hand on yours, which was on the couch. His touch was light but determined, as if he were asking for permission without using words. Your eyes met, and something finally gave way.

Kendall leaned in slowly, and you did the same, the world around you disappearing when your lips met. The kiss started hesitantly, almost shy, but it quickly deepened, carrying a mixture of longing and repressed desire. Your hands rose to his face, while his slid down to your waist, gently pulling you closer.

The glass fell to the floor with a dull thud, but neither of you seemed to notice. The sound was lost in the growing heat between the two of you, as if the world around you had completely disappeared. You only moved closer to his body, pulling him closer, while his hands explored the fabric that still covered your skin.

It was as if the dress was an unbearable obstacle. Kendall, now impatient, let his hands slide down your back, searching for a zipper or any tie that would undo it. But the careful search gave way to a certain desperation, his fingertips pressing against your skin, as if he simply could not wait any longer.

“Fuck, just rip this shit off.” His voice was firm, almost authoritative, and he paused for a moment, chuckling against the curve of your neck.

“Always so direct, huh?” he murmured, but there was something husky and full of desire in his tone.

The mischievous smile remained on his face as his fingers gripped the fabric of your dress and, with a quick, decisive movement, ripped it. The sound of the fabric giving way echoed in the silent room, followed by the sensation of cold air against your skin. You gasped slightly, but soon felt his heat fill the space again, as if he could not bear to be away for even a second.

Kendall seemed mesmerized. His eyes roamed over your now partially uncovered body, his breathing irregular as he absorbed every detail as if he were seeing you for the first time. He was lost, intoxicated by you, and he didn't even try to hide it.

"You're... unbelievable," he said, his voice low, almost reverent, before leaning in again to kiss you, this time deeper, more intense, as if each movement carried all the emotion he couldn't put into words.

Lying on the couch, you felt his weight on you, the way his firm hands found your waist, your hips, as if they wanted to memorize every curve of yours. For Kendall, that wasn't just desire. It was need, urgency, something he couldn't name, but that seemed to consume every part of him.

As he kissed you, his hands moved with a mix of instinct and intention, exploring every inch of your warm skin, as if he wanted to map the territory that was now exclusively his. For Kendall, the world didn't exist beyond that moment. Everything about him was focused on you, and he seemed determined not to let anything interfere. You were immersed too, completely enveloped in his presence. All you felt were his touches, the way he pulled you closer, as if he feared you might slip away, as if he needed to anchor you to himself. There was a fervor in the way he held you, almost desperate, but at the same time controlled, as if he wanted to prolong the moment for as long as possible. The wet kisses Kendall spread over your body were a hypnotic delight. Each one felt hotter, more intimate than the last. However, it was when you felt his hand slide slowly, with purpose, that the tension rose. He traced a lazy path to the last piece of clothing that still covered you. His fingers lightly ran under the elastic of the lingerie, the soft touch like an implicit promise. He pulled the fabric just enough to loosen it and let it snap back against your skin. The sound was almost inaudible, but the intention behind it was deafening. He was teasing you, testing your limits, playing a game he already knew the end of. Kendall then pulled back slightly, just enough to observe you from above, his eyes roaming every detail of your body with overwhelming intensity. The smile that curved his lips was devilish, a mix of desire and triumph. He knew exactly what he was doing—and he loved the way you reacted, your breathing quickened, your eyes fixed on him, begging without saying a word. “You have no idea how beautiful you look like this,” he murmured, his voice husky as his fingers traced a slow, deliberate path across your skin. He was savoring every moment, stretching the tension as you felt the heat build, the anticipation becoming almost unbearable. Your breathing was ragged, as if each moment of waiting stole a little more of your breath. Your eyes shone, almost teary, such was the intensity of desire that ran through the room, electrifying every movement.

Delicately, you raised your body a little, supporting yourself with one hand. This gesture made your faces dangerously close, just a few inches apart. His breathing mingled with yours, hot and accelerated, and Kendall's eyes automatically dropped to your parted lips, now so close that he seemed hypnotized by them.

You took advantage of the hesitation, this delicious distraction, and with your other hand let your fingers slide slowly to his belt. Your movements were intentional, soft, but full of an undeniable promise. When your fingers curved around his belt, you tugged lightly, enough to get his attention and claim a little more control in that silent dance of provocation.

— Please, Ken… — Your voice was low, hoarse, a whisper that carried within it a plea and, at the same time, a veiled order. It sounded like a prayer, a desire materialized in words, angelic and overwhelming.

His eyes returned to yours, intense, as if those few words had crumbled any resistance he still had. But you didn’t stop there. Your expression softened for a moment before a bold smile appeared, echoing the energy he had exuded minutes before.

— I thought you wanted to fuck me. — The sentence came out with an almost challenging tone, as if you were testing his limits, playing the same game as him.

The smile that formed on Kendall's lips was slow, dark, a reflection of how those words had ignited something even fiercer inside him. In one decisive movement, he closed the distance between you, claiming your mouth with a kiss that was anything but restrained.

Distracting you completely, he took advantage of the moment when your attention was lost to slide his fingers deftly. The thin fabric was pulled aside without you noticing right away, giving him space to explore your hot, sensitive skin. When his fingers finally found the center of your desire, dragging slowly, collecting the moisture that revealed how much you wanted him, the sound that escaped your lips was involuntary — a low, hoarse moan, filled with pure need.

Kendall broke the kiss, but didn't pull away completely. His forehead remained pressed against yours, and your heavy breathing mingled with his, creating an intimate space, almost suffocating in its intensity. He continued the slow, mesmerizing movement, his fingers mapping every nuance of your reaction until, without warning, he positioned them at your entrance.

The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. From his point of view, it was a spectacle to see how your body reacted, arching involuntarily, as if you were offering yourself even more to him, silently begging him not to stop. When he finally invaded you with his fingers, a wonderful moan escaped you—a sound he had never forgotten and that seemed to echo in his memory, as addictive as the moment itself.

Your eyes closed as an automatic reaction, surrendering to the whirlwind of sensations. Your head fell back, leaving your neck exposed, while your body became a symphony of electric sensations. Every movement of his hand sent waves of pleasure through your body, making you move in tune with him, seeking more, wanting everything he could give. Kendall watched your every reaction as if it were a prize, his gaze fixed on the movement of your head, on the subtle tremor of your body under his touch. He wanted to prolong this moment, to engrave every detail in his memory. With his fingers still inside you, he began to move at a firmer pace, exploring your insides with precision, as if he already knew exactly where to touch to make you fall apart. “Look at me.” His voice came husky, low, almost a whisper. Your eyes opened slowly, meeting his. The dark, focused look he wore was almost overwhelming, but behind it, there was something else—pure admiration or a desire so intense that it seemed to swallow everything around it, including you. “Ken… Please…” Your voice came out almost as a whisper, a plea full of vulnerability and need. The weight of the moment felt overwhelming. Your senses were all focused on him; every touch, every movement made you lose any sense of control. Your eyes blinked erratically, barely able to stay open, while your vision began to blur. Your body gave him away in every possible way, especially with the way your walls contracted, revealing that you were reaching your limit. Kendall noticed immediately, and a slow, triumphant smile formed on his lips. He leaned closer, until his mouth was next to your ear. “You have no idea how much I missed this.” His voice was low, husky, almost a moan, but the words carried a weight that indicated how much he had stored up that feeling. Every syllable of his seemed to set something on fire inside you. But at that point, the world around you disappeared completely. You couldn’t hear anything anymore; everything was a blur of sensations and emotions. Your eyes rolled back with the intensity of the pleasure, and your nails dug into the fabric of his shirt, almost to the point of tearing it. Kendall loved seeing you like this, so surrendered, so dominated by what he was doing. He left a wet kiss on your neck before whispering with a mixture of fascination and desire: “You’re perfect… absolutely perfect.” Your mind was already so far away, lost in the sensations that dominated your body, that nothing else seemed to matter, except the pleasure that flowed in waves across your skin. Suddenly, that sensation exploded, overwhelming and intense, and you lost all sense of control. Your legs trembled uncontrollably, and your body arched off the couch, as if you wanted to escape from yourself, your eyes closed and your voice released in loud moans, revealing how deeply you were immersed in that moment. Kendall watched you, amazed, as if he was unable to believe the raw and pure beauty before him. His vision was blurry, but the pleasure on his face made everything around him disappear. He kept moving, guiding you until the last bit of pleasure ran down your hands, as if he wanted to prolong that ecstasy, bringing with him the fabric that, by now, was completely soaked.

When he pulled away, it was with the same reverence that he treated the moment — amazed and cautious, but at the same time thirsty for more. He leaned over you, enchanted by the way you tried to catch your breath, as if the air had been knocked out of your body. He thought you would need some time, maybe some space to recover. But instead, you pulled him firmly, wrapping your hands in his hair, deepening the kiss with a fierce urgency.

He didn't have time to react before you pushed your body back, making him settle more comfortably on the couch. You stood up smoothly, with the confidence of someone who already had control of the situation, and settled on his lap, your defiant gaze like a flame that only intensified.

With a mischievous smile on your lips, you began to slowly unbutton his shirt, each open button a silent invitation for the next step. And, with a low voice, full of desire, you declared:

"You still have too many clothes on."

The desire in your gaze was immediate, and the tension in the air, palpable. He knew there was no turning back.

Of course, here's the continuation:

Kendall felt the provocation in your words as an irresistible invitation, and his body reacted instantly, a deep desire taking over every movement. With eager hands, he finished what you had started, taking off his shirt in a hurry, as if every second was crucial. The heat between you increased with each touch, with each shared sigh.

When the last piece of clothing was gone, he pulled you back into a deep kiss, more desperate now, as if words were no longer necessary. He wanted nothing more than you, the intensity of his desire reflected in every gesture, in every look. You let him guide you, but you also challenged him with your own will, your movements flowing in tune with his. There was no rush, but there was no hesitation either — just the certainty that this moment was just for you.

Your bodies met in a way that seemed to be the sole purpose of your existence at that moment. Pleasure took shape, amplified by the genuine connection that was established between you. Kendall's hands roamed your skin with reverence, while you, in turn, guided him with the same intensity, both immersed in the moment without any more worries.

The room was filled with sighs and moans, like a silent melody. Each movement, each touch seemed more meaningful, as if you were surrendering to an inevitable destiny, a destiny that only the two of you could understand. And when the climax finally arrived, it was like an explosion of sensations, where time and space ceased to exist.

Kendall, still panting, remained there, your bodies intertwined and heated, with the rhythm slowing down as you both tried to catch your breath. The silence between you was filled only by your irregular breathing and the distant sound of the city outside. He raised his eyes to yours, the usual intensity softened by something rare—a tenderness you had never seen before. Without saying anything, he leaned in and captured your lips in a kiss, this time slow and tender, as if the world outside didn’t exist, as if in that moment, only the two of you were real.

When he finally pulled away, just enough to look at your face, you laughed softly, breaking the silence.

“We should go to the bedroom now.” Your voice was low, almost playful, but without taking away the closeness between you.

He smiled, still with a trace of that expression that seemed reserved only for you, and nodded.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He agreed, adjusting himself and closing his pants with quick movements. Then, before you could react or say anything else, Kendall wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly and standing up with one decisive movement.

You let out a surprised laugh, the soft sound filling the space around you, but you made no attempt to intervene. Instead, you let yourself be carried away, feeling safe in his arms as he walked towards the bedroom.

After getting ready for bed, the room was plunged into a peaceful darkness, illuminated only by the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. Kendall lay down next to you, watching as you snuggled into him, so naturally, as if the last few months had not created this distance between you. He could feel the heat of your body against his, your breathing slowing as sleep began to approach.

The silence was comfortable, but in his mind, emotions were a whirlwind. You were there. No matter how much reason screamed that maybe it was just for that night, his heart was filled with a deep satisfaction, almost a peace he hadn't felt in a long time. Having you so close, the way you always were, made him feel that, for a brief moment, everything was right in the world. Kendall couldn't take his eyes off you. Your relaxed face, your slightly parted lips, the way you moved to get even closer to him. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to record every detail of that moment, as if it were possible to keep it intact forever. She's back? — the question echoed in his mind, bringing a subtle fear, but he refused to let it ruin the moment. For now, you were here, and he would enjoy it as much as he could. He lightly ran his fingers through your hair, a touch so delicate that it was almost unnoticed, but for him it was another reminder that you were real. Finally, he settled in better, pulling you closer, wrapping his arm around you in an almost possessive gesture. A soft expression, almost of relief, took over his face as he felt your body mold itself to his.

“I missed you,” he whispered softly, almost afraid to break the spell of that night. Even without an answer, he knew you heard, or at least felt it. And that was enough.

The sound of your cell phone broke the cozy silence of the room, slowly pulling you from a deep sleep. Still a little groggy, consciousness came in fragments: Kendall’s shirt covering your body, the warmth of the bed that seemed more comfortable than anything else, and his rhythmic breathing beside you.

When you opened your eyes, you remembered where you were. Your phone was nowhere to be seen, which meant you had probably forgotten it in the living room. When you turned around, Kendall was still sleeping, his features relaxed, his breathing slow and even. His tranquility seemed rare, almost as if he were far from the weight he carried during the day.

You didn’t want to wake him. You quickly put on his shirt, feeling the soft, slightly looser fabric against your body, before going in search of your phone.

When you reached the living room, the state of things brought back flashes of the night before: the knocked over glasses, the dry wine on the floor, the crumpled pillows scattered across the couch and carpet, and your torn dress abandoned near your heels. You stopped for a moment, taking in the scene and feeling a slight blush rise to your face.

It wasn't just the mess that caught your attention — it was the weight of what it represented. The intensity of the night before seemed to be stamped on every detail, from the torn fabric to the marks on the couch.

It was then that you heard a noise coming from the kitchen, the clear sound of someone moving utensils. The team was already on the move. A touch of panic ran through your body when you realized that you were only wearing Kendall's shirt, and nothing else. Before anyone could notice your presence, you turned on your heel and ran back to the bedroom.

As you entered, trying to silence your hurried footsteps, Kendall spoke, taking you by surprise:

“What are you running away from?”

His hoarse voice, marked by sleep, carried an amused tone that disarmed you. You glanced at him quickly, still near the door, and found him half-lying down, his eyes half-open and a lazy smile that made him seem dangerously charming.

“I forgot to pick up my cell phone yesterday…” You answered, almost breathless, walking back to bed.

When you lay down, Kendall turned slightly, resting his head on his arm as he watched you. His eyes were intense, but there was no rush—just a calm admiration, as if he was absorbing every detail of you there.

“You know you look beautiful like this, right?” He said, effortlessly, with a low, serious voice.

The sincerity in his words made your heart skip a little beat. You didn’t answer, but your expression gave it all away. Kendall reached out, his fingers slowly tracing the line of your jaw, moving up to brush back a strand of hair that had fallen over your face. His touch was gentle, almost as if he feared breaking the moment. He leaned in, the movement slow and intentional, until his lips met yours. The kiss was soft, full of a silent affection that seemed to hold something deeper—something he perhaps didn’t yet know how to express. When he pulled away, you smiled softly, the heat of the moment still pulsing between you. He lay back down, pulling you close to him, and you snuggled into his chest, feeling the slow rhythm of his breathing. For a moment, everything felt right, as if the world outside had ceased to exist.

In the end, for Kendall it was like knocking on the doors of heaven asking to come back, and ending up being accepted back.

masterlist

[falllight]

you were doing so well. did the dog eat your homework again?

↪ satoru x suguru x shoko x gn! rdr, angst with slight comfort, slow burn && realisation, slow paced from rdr. ep 3 yet to come.

days blurred together, but the strings only continued to snap against your fingertips, and you couldn't help but look back on the memories you once made with your bandmates. now ones that were rising to stardom. or doom. you saw in suguru too, once, the darkness. the bleariness of the days in foggy lens was a dissociating feeling; maybe that's why he first came at your side.

after the beach day-out that satoru had managed to remarkably pull off, everyone went to their designated rooms. although they had a mini arguement about who'd get to share the room with you, the virtual randomised wheel eventually landed on suguru's name.

which led you here, in a bedroom with two separate beds, and suguru. although hydrotherapy does do wonders, it can only benefit for so long. so, you did what you'd do as you did in your teenage years: grab noise-cancelling earphones, and plug them in; drown out the world, even if it's temporary paradise.

it's been awhile since suguru's been watching you. glancing at you. taking in you. what makes you you, and why he thinks that, just perhaps, that part of you is missing. he's known you since he first brought you that electric guitar you adore and hold onto with pride.

a quiet yet valuable beyond words can convey ( through shared expressions of happiness and dedication ) les paul special-II E1, in the very own colour his own hairlocks were. he'd been there to first help you tune it, to learn how to work your way with wires and chords, and sheets. the way your pupils glimmered with curiosity and interest, was a sight he'd never get sick of seeing.

now, he wishes to see that spark ignite again in you. the light you helped rekindle in him? he wants to see that in you too. he wants to be that person for you too.

he knows of the other two's interests in you too, but they all silently agreed to keep quiet. because they had plans. a bit faraway, but it was planned. but he'd never tell you it was from way back when the three of them realised it was way too.. barren with all of them together, which included you. that night where they were all drinking ( asides satoru, he'd helped himself to a cream soda ) and there was an untouched soda pop on the table.

so, he leans in when he sees you relax. slowly, so that you're aware of him moving closer and don't get startled, and he places a gentle hand on the back of your head, easing you into his chest— aka an absolute vrooming tranquiliser.

he'll ask the questions tomorrow morning. he'll wait for you to let it out this night.

© falllight / do not reproduce.

[justanotherdinboshipper]

I just find this interesting…

When Grogu left with Luke, Din had already compromised his Creed. He removed his helmet, fully aware that his Tribe would likely cast him out because of it.

At that moment, Din had the opportunity to live according to his own will, free from the restrictions of the Creed. He could have chosen the life Omera once offered him on Sorgan—a life he previously refused because he was both a bounty hunter and bound by Mandalorian tradition. But by the time Grogu left, Din had already abandoned bounty hunting, and by removing his helmet, he had forsaken his Mandalorian identity.

Yet, did he return to Sorgan to rekindle what he had lost? No, he didn’t. Instead, he went back to bounty hunting and sought out his Covert, hoping to reclaim his place as a Mandalorian. Despite having the freedom to do otherwise, we never once saw him remove his helmet in front of others after Grogu left, even though he had already broken his Creed.

This suggests that Omera was never meant to be Din’s endgame. If he had truly felt a deep attachment to her, he had every chance to return, yet he didn’t.

When Grogu returned to him, Din still had the option to go back to Sorgan. At that time, there were no immediate threats—everyone believed that Gideon had been in custody, meaning both he and Grogu were safe. In fact, Episode 1 of Season 3 even highlighted this possibility when Greef offered Din land to settle on Nevarro.

Yet, Din refused.

For what?

Because my guy wanted to be redeemed! At this point, the Armorer kept discouraging him, insisting that redemption wouldn’t be easy—that it might not even be possible. But Din was willing to risk everything just to reclaim his place within the Creed, the very way of life that forbids him from showing his face to others. It mattered to him. He was truly that devoted.

At this stage, he could have chosen to give up. He could have settled down, lived a peaceful life as something other than a Mandalorian—maybe even returned to Omera.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t go to Sorgan. He didn’t settle on Nevarro.

Where did he go?

Not straight to Mandalore.

He went to Bo-Katan.

The Darksaber was a loose end, and that tied him to Bo. But did he have the chance to sever that tie? Yes. Paz told him he had the ancestral right to it—if Din wanted to be rid of the saber, he could have surrendered it. Instead, he fought fiercely to keep it.

Why?

Because he wanted to honor their agreement. He knew Bo wanted it—needed it. So he safeguarded it for her until he could return it.

He had also asked the Armorer about Bo-Katan, which meant he was already curious. He knew she wasn’t easy to deal with—she was a cautionary tale. Seeking her out was a risk. Maybe even a mistake.

And yet, he still went to her.

For Din, Bo-Katan could help him regain his purpose. But was she truly essential to his redemption?

There were plenty of reasons to stay away. She wanted the Darksaber—the very weapon he had won by accident, practically stealing it from her. She had every reason to take it, even by force. Gideon himself had tempted her to do exactly that. But Din still trusted her. He had trusted her to help rescue Grogu from Gideon. He reinforced that trust when he told Grogu to go to Bo when he was trapped on Mandalore.

Beyond that, Din already knew where Mandalore was. He had a ship. Sure, he didn’t know the exact location of the Living Waters, but if that was his only reason for seeking Bo on Kalevala, he could have just asked. Something simple: “If I don’t have to join you, can you just tell me where the Living Waters are? My only reason for being here is redemption.”

But he didn’t ask.

And we know Din—he’s not one to dance around business.

From the start, his intention was clear: “I’m here to join you.”

Din sought out Bo-Katan to fulfill his end of the deal they had made. After two years—long enough for Bo to have stopped expecting him to honor it—he still returned, wanting to make things right. He wasn’t just there for redemption or to ask for help.

He was there because he had given his word.

No discouragement from the Armorer, no Jedi Order rule about attachments—nothing could deter him from fulfilling his vows. To the Creed, he was willing to journey into an uncertain, possibly poisoned, and dangerous planet just to live by its tenets once more. To Grogu, he was willing to visit him, even though the Armorer told him the child was no longer his concern. And to Bo-Katan—despite the Armorer calling her a cautionary tale, despite the fact that Bo probably wanted to kill him every time she saw him—he still went to her.

So what makes Bo-Katan different from Omera? From Cara? From any other possible love interest for Din Djarin? Why does Bo deserved to be with Din?

I realized the answer through something another character named "Bo" once said—Bo Peep from Toy Story.

Bo Peep is the love interest of Woody, the protagonist, who—like Din—displays unwavering loyalty. Woody belongs to Andy, and in his eyes, it's his duty as Andy’s toy to always be there for him. In the opening sequence of Toy Story 4, when Bo asks Woody to become a lost toy and stay with her, Woody almost does—but in the end, his loyalty to Andy is too strong. He simply can’t walk away.

Years later, Woody and Bo reunite. As a kid, I never really questioned their romance—it was just there. But then there's this dialogue in Toy Story 4 that made me realize, Bo really deserved Woody's affection and love.

When other toys dismissed Woody’s devotion to his kid as foolish, when they saw his loyalty as nothing more than blind, misguided stubbornness, Bo didn’t. She saw it as something admirable. She loved Woody because of his loyalty.

When Din explained to Omera what bound him to the Mandalorian Creed—when he told her he had never removed his helmet because this is the Way—she pitied him. She told him she was sorry.

At first, it seemed like she was apologizing for the loss of his parents. But she said it after he revealed that he had never removed his helmet since childhood. If her "sorry" was only for his parents, Din wouldn’t have responded with This is the Way. Even if part of her sorrow was for his past, it was clear from her words when she tried to convince him to stay—Wouldn’t it be nice?—that she saw his life as unfulfilling. That, to her, a life without the Creed would make him happier.

To Omera, Din was trapped in that life. But he wasn’t. Being a Mandalorian was his choice. It gave him belonging, a purpose. He even said himself—he was happy the Mandalorians took him in.

Din loved being a Mandalorian as much as Woody loved being Andy’s toy.

And yet, nobody truly understood his commitment. They respected it, but that was all.

But Bo? Bo started to see it differently.

When did Bo begin to admire Din? When did people start to see them as a potential endgame?

Season 3, Episode 2—the Mines of Mandalore.

As Din recited his Creed in the Living Waters, the camera kept returning to Bo. Her expression said everything. She was moved—by his loyalty, by his unwavering determination to be redeemed. He was choosing this life. He believed in it. That’s why, when Axe Woves dismissed Din for not being Mandalorian by birth, Bo fiercely defended him like: “Do you know what this man went through just to be called one of us?!”

In that moment, she admired Din—not for what he could offer her, not for what he could do for her cause, but for who he was. His devotion, his honor, his loyalty.

That’s why, when he sank into the depths, she dove in after him without hesitation.

That’s why, on the flight back to Kalevala, she was unexpectedly warm toward him—joking that she would have invited him for a feast, complimenting him after their dogfight with the interceptors, and even suggesting he stay longer to inspect their ships. She wasn’t in a hurry to send him away, despite having intended to shut him out for good that very day.

That’s why she remained with him at the Covert, abiding by rules she never cared for, living among people she once dismissed as a cult.

Because she wanted to understand him. To understand the way of life he was so devoted to.

Bo loved Din because of his loyalty to the Creed—to the very culture she was born into, the people she had spent her entire life fighting for.

Many expected that the love Din needed was the kind that would persuade him to abandon the Creed—that in order to be truly loved, he would have to let it go.

But Bo? Bo loved him because he refused to abandon it. That was what drew her to him.

That’s why she’s endgame.

That’s why Din felt more at ease with her than with anyone else.

That’s why Din would always return to her.

And remember what we’ve learned? Nothing and no one comes between Din Djarin and his vows.

At the end of Season 3, he had one final vow left unfulfilled.

His pledge to serve Bo until her song is written.

So trust that Din will return to Bo again.

Just like Woody returned to Bo. And we all know how Toy Story 4 ended.

Woody chose Bo.

And so will Din.

He will choose his Bo.

[icycoldninja]

Hello! Feel free to ignore this request but I had an idea for a while - a childhood friend of Dante and Vergil who used to be a very sickly child (think of heavy anemia) and who became a half/part-demon due to painful experiments after Dante and Vergil's home was attacked.

Imagine Dante and Vergil reuniting with said friend years later, surprised to see how they changed (got new scars and abilities and such) and that they're a devil hunter now. Maybe even rekindling some old childhood feelings and such.

Maybe you could add V into this too, somehow, since he's a part of Vergil and probably has memories of said childhood friend.

Hope you have a good day!

I most certainly will, thank you! May you have a great day too!

Sparda twins + V x Old Friend!Reader headcannons

¤ Dante ¤

-Dante didn't recognize you at first. You looked so different than what he remembered.

-He was surprised, too. The last time he saw you, you were barely able to get around your own house, and now you were a devil hunter? A pretty capable one, too. He wonders what happened.

-Turns out you were forcibly changed into a half demon through experiments, and while your existence was an unclean one, you were far more mobile than you were before.

-He wasn't really sure how to respond to all that, though. He was happy you could do more things now, but worried that you might hate yourself for what you've become.

-That aside, he was having a great time reconnecting with an old friend, chatting about the past, present, and future.

-Dante quickly decided he was going to invite you to join him at Devil May Cry after your conversation.

■ Vergil ■

-Vergil was happy to see you out and about since he remembered how sickly and weak you used to be.

-He thought you'd just gotten better thanks to some miracle medicine or something, and never suspected you became a half devil devil hunter like him.

-Of course he questioned you, demanding to know how the hell that even happened in the first place.

-Learning of the experiments you had to go through made his heart ache for you--the first time it had done that in years. You never deserved any of that pain. Why did all the bad things have to happen to you?

-He promised to help you out if you need anything, which you thanked him for. The conversation then shifted to the good old days; for a moment, it was like Vergil was a kid again, sitting at your bedside, excitedly going on about his new favorite book because you were the only one who understood him.

-Vergil wants to hang out with you more, he wants you to hunt devils with him, he wants to start a book club with you; he wants to make up for all that time you guys lost.

● V ●

-V cannot fully remember who you are, but he recognizes you.

-He doesn't know why, but as soon as he laid eyes on you, he finds his head being flooded with memories he wasn't aware he had.

-After talking with you for a while, he deduces you must have been a friend of Vergil's--and a close one, at that.

-He cannot recall the details of your relationship, but he vaguely remembers that you were a very frail child. When did that change?

-You are surprisingly open about your past, quick to tell him all about the experiments that were performed on you, and what they did. You were a half demon now, though not naturally.

-V expresses his sympathy to your situation, but beyond that, there's not much he can do. At least you seem to be okay with it all.

[11queensupreme11]

Are the yans going to be loyal to Percy or like the gods would they have other lovers?

i'll start with the easy answers to get them outta the way

poseidon: loyal!

hades: loyal!

apollo: loyal!

anubis: loyal!

okay, that's done, now everything beyond this will be least likely to most likely to cheat:

beelzebub: will THINK about fucking someone to make her jealous just so he'll know that she still loves him, but he's smart enough to know that it's a bad idea. yes he wants her jealous to reassure himself that she still loves him (or maybe as a punishment), but knows that this would break her heart and cause resentment

loki: would fuck someone to get percy's attention (like maybe he's feeling jealous and wants to punish her) and then lose his shit when she doesn't care lmao

and now.......... (this is a long one lmao)

cú chulainn: he's like the zeus of the celtic pantheon, which means he's a huge whore.

he fucked (consensual and not) so many women, there was one instance where he fucked through a whole family (mother, mother's sister (through rape), and then mom's married daughter (they had an affair behind her husband's back)), HOWEVER....... i'm not done with reading through all of the ulster cycle myths, but so far i can only find one instance where he cheats on his wife, emer, with fand, a daughter of a sea god.

his reaction was shitty af omg. when emer becomes understandably upset, for some crazy ass reason she gathers a bunch of other angry women with knives to go kill FAND and not her cheating skank of a husband, and cú chulainn basically mocks her and acts like a huge dick about her being upset over his affair. he also gets angry at her for daring to deny him from fucking other women

(back then, not just in ireland, but in ancient times in general for most societies unfortunately, a man cheating was considered the norm. in some cases (like in ancient greece for one) a husband fucking another woman wasn't even considered "infidelity" and just him releasing his urges. it wasn't the same for wives tho, THEY had to be loyal)

anyways, emer finally decides to give cú chulainn up and FAND is the one whos like "oh no no, im so sorry you can have him 🥺". emer and cú chulainn make up, and they get their memories wiped of the affair 💀💀💀💀💀💀

ANYWAY. because of that ^^^ he is obviously the one most likely to cheat. not just because he actually did cheat on his previous wife, but also because of how he reacted to her grief and how archaic he since he's ancient too. he did end up apologizing to emer, but percy's not emer. if he were to cheat, percy won't forgive him at all. first he rapes her and forces her into a marriage she never wanted and now he has the gall to treat her like this? nope! cú chulainn's pretty much stuck in a loveless marriage now. he could either do the right thing and set her free with divorce, or try to desperately rekindle things which will be very very VERY hard 💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

[yallthemwitches]

My fic Masterlist

In love with 70s wizard love.

Catch the Wind--Hating him was easy, a feeling as natural as time marching forward. But something had changed with James Potter and Lily couldn’t ignore it so easily anymore. He was becoming, Merlin forbid, attractive. Explicit, Canon Compliant ,Multi-chapter

A Matter of Fairness: James' Quidditch match is derailed by a very distracting Head Girl NSFW, Mature, Oneshot

Slipping Away:Snape didn't think his life could get much worse---until Lily was falling in love with James Potter right before his eyes. A compilation of 3 particular moments between 6th and 7th year. Oneshot, Mature for one scene, canon compliant

Legitimens: Perhaps the real James was doing it on purpose--using memories of Lily to either drive him insane or to push away the real secrets that hid beyond. If it was true, he was succeeding on all accounts.

During a duel, Snape attempts Legilimency on James. Canon compliant. Oneshot, Mature

Bad Moon Rising:James comes back from a Full Moon outing with the marauders to find someone in his bed. Explicit, Canon Compliant Oneshot, smut

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner: Vernon thought a dinner at the Evans' house would be perfectly normal like all the other times--unfortunately for him, Petunia's sister is home and she has company. Vernons POV, T, Canon Compliant oneshot

Simple Math: Remus notices something is off about James and Lily at the Prefect's meeting. Teen ( some suggestive content), Canon Compliant, Written for Jily Week 2024, Prompt: Hair

United Front:Lily and James have the best intentions when showing up to Petunia's engagement party. Teen, Canon Compliant, Written for Jily Week 2024: Prompt: Teamwork

Force Majeure: It’s tempting. He could say yes. Climb those steps and sit on her bed next to her. It was entirely possible to stay friends in that scenario. To do simply as she said: listen to a record as friends because that’s what friends do.Teen, Canon Compliant, Written for Jily Week 2024, Prompt: In Vino Veritas

Those Who Wallow: Against better judgement, Lily uses her invisibility cloak to spy on James. Teen, AU Role Reversal (sort of) Written for Jily Week 2024, Day 3: Role Reversal

The Sound of Silence: Minerva always had a soft spot for Potter. Maybe that's why when it was time to choose a Head Boy alongside Lily Evans, he was was clearly the only option--- A series of vignettes of James and Lily's seventh year through McGonagall's POV. Teen, Canon Compliant, Written for Jily Week 2024, Day 5: Matchmaker

Not a Bang, But a Whimper: During their sixth year, Severus Snape goes out after curfew to give information to Lily that he thinks will bring them back together. Unfortunately, he finds her already with someone else. Teen, Canon Compliant. A companion piece to my other oneshot "Slipping Away" for Jily Week 2024, Day 7: Continuation Station

Playing Dirty: When Lily won against Potter during dueling practice, Snape couldn't think of a better way to finally rekindle their friendship. But Potter was a sore loser and Lily seemed far too willing to entertain him. E, Canon Compliant, Oneshot in Snapes POV

The Seat with the Clearest View: Lily and the marauders were his constant, like two separate stars orbiting his universe. But year after year stars get older. Their orbits start to move closer. It is only a matter of time before they collide. Three part series of Jily through the years. Remus POV. Rated T

Crash Into Me: A collection of unrelated, prompt based fics and ficlets for Jily Kinktober 2024. E, various situations but generally plotless smut, Canon Compliant

Until the Light Takes Us: A collection of unrelated, prompt based fics and ficlets for Jilytober Fest 2024. G-T depending on fic. Canon Compliant

The Storm, The Aftermath: Due to a snowstorm, Lily spends the night at the Potters. The continuation of my Jilytober fic 'The Storm.' E (Though part one is rated T), Canon Compliant. Smut

Whispers in the Dark: When Lily is awarded her prefect badge in fifth year, they warn her that James Potter has a talent for disappearing... but if that's true, why does he keep coming to her night after night, hoping to be caught? Rated T, Canon Compliant

A Hundred Visions and Revisions: “I know it’s silly—but can you tell me the future? The way you see it,” she whispers, curling into him so the top of her head can rest right under his chin, book falling abandoned onto the floor. She knows he’s no divination master–she’s seen his grades to prove it—but they both know that’s not what she's asking. Rated T, Canon Compliant

Getting Better: “Do you do this for all your sick mates?” She asks, breaking the silence with a wry smile.He chuckles, hand still sliding against her cheek. “Only the ones who deserve it—only the ones I’m especially fond of.” Rated T, Canon Compliant

At Least I'm Gonna Say That I Tried: The only thing more mortifying about kissing the girl you fancy and not being able to reciprocate properly is having to stand in front of a bloody crowd after said kiss and not look like you are about to fucking implode. Rated T, Canon Compliant, jily Xmas fluff

[writingquestionsanswered]

I love planing out my ideas in great detail but when it comes to actually writing the story it’s like pulling teeth. It goes from being fun and interesting to being nothing more than a dull chore. I’ve tried planning less to see if having some things unknown might help, but that didn’t work. I could spend forever writing and rewriting my ideas and making changes to them. But when I try to write an actual story it’s like I physically can’t. What should I do?

Details Planned But Unable to Write

If you have the details of your story planned out but still aren't able to write it, it's probable that one of the following things is happening. See if any of these strike a chord with you...

1 - Details and Plot Are Not the Same - Sometimes writers say they have all the details in their story planned out, but what they actually mean is they've fleshed out character and setting details, maybe even backstory and some general scene ideas, but they couldn't tell you what the story's conflict is, what the inciting incident is, what goal the protagonist is pursuing and why, what's at stake, or what the major plot points of the story are. No matter how detailed your story is in terms of characters, setting, backstory, and even general ideas about scenes, if you don't have a conflict to tie them all together, you don't really have a story. You just have details. A plot can't be moved forward if it doesn't exist, and if you don't have a conflict, goals and motivation, stakes, an antagonistic force and obstacles, etc., you don't have a plot. Solution: take some time learning about Goals and Conflict, Plot Driven vs Character Driven Stories, Basic Story Structure, and How to Move a Story Forward.

2 - You Lost Interest in the Story - If you have your story properly plotted in addition to having the details fleshed out, and you're still unable to write, it could be that you've simply lost interest in the story. This can happen when we spend a lot of time on a story, especially if we spend a lot of time fleshing things out. Solution: Guide: How to Rekindle Your Motivation to Write, Getting Unstuck: Motivation Beyond Mood Boards & Playlists, Getting Excited About Your Story Again

3 - Something in the Story Isn't Working - Imagine someone riding a horse and they come to a rickety old bridge, but the horse balks and refuses to cross. The horse may just be stubborn, but it's quite possible it's picking up sensory information its rider can't... creaks and groans the rider can't hear, a worrisome tilt or sway the rider can't perceive... If you sit down to write your well planned out story and can't, the same thing could be happening with your gut instinct. Like the horse that doesn't want to cross the bridge because it senses danger, something inside you is saying "this story doesn't work" and isn't excited to get involved. Solution: Read through your outline or plan and see if you can spot the problem. Maybe the character's goal doesn't make sense with the events of the story. Maybe the antagonistic force isn't doing enough to oppose the protagonist. Maybe the character arc is out-of-sync with the events of the story. If nothing else, talk it through with a trusted writer friend to see if they have any thoughts. Sometimes just hearing the questions they have about the story can be enough to highlight what isn't working.

4 - Life Stuff Is Getting in the Way - Even if your story is well fleshed out and thoroughly plotted, and everything works and you're excited about writing, there can be other things going on in your life that stand in your way. If you're putting too much pressure on yourself to write or reach certain writing goals, it makes writing feel stressful and our brains are wired to avoid stressful things. It could be that you're not feeling well physically or mentally. You could be distracted by other things you want to write or do. You could just be too busy with other things to really get into it. Or you could just be not in the mood to write. Solution: Try to pinpoint what's getting in the way and see if there's a work around. For example, if you think writing has become stressful and that's why you're avoiding it, figure out what you can do to make it fun again. Or, if you think you're just not in the mood to write, figure out some things you could do that would put you in the mood to write.

5 - Fear Is Getting in the Way - Details are easy, writing is hard. No matter how much planning and plotting you've done, actually putting those details into coherent words in a way that is compelling and well-paced--that's not so easy. And, the tough reality is that until you've had a lot of writing experience, your writing probably isn't as good as you want it to be. You want it to be good, and you know what would qualify as good, but you're just not able to produce that quality yet. And the only way to get your writing quality to that level is to let yourself write things that aren't as good as you want them to be. You have to write a lot of "just okay" stuff before you can write "really great" stuff. AND THAT'S SCARY!!! And--that's not even the only thing that can cause fear for writers. Maybe you have written a lot and your writing is where you want it to be, but maybe your fear is with the next step... sharing it with others. Maybe you're afraid others won't enjoy it as much as you want them to. Solution: figure out what's causing the fear, whether it's quality-related or next step related, then try to push through it. Remind yourself that writing not great stuff is part of the process. Remind yourself that sharing with others is part of the process (usually, unless you're writing for yourself.) Have a spin through the bottom half of my Motivation master list for other fears and solutions.

I hope that helps!

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[zuppizup]

A Dark Alternative: Chapter 39

Summary: In a world where the border between Xadia and the human lands never truly existed, humans and elves live along side each other, but not together. Years ago, Callum made an unlikely friend, one he thought long lost to time.

By chance, their paths cross again, but considering how much they’ve both changed, is it possible to rekindle their friendship?

Or have their differences become too much to overcome?

Pairing: Rayla/Callum

Rating: Mature

AO3 Link: A Dark Alternative

“You and your dirt.” Soren laughed, winking at Rayla.

Callum felt his stomach clench at the sight, though he was happy to see Rayla barely react, beyond a quick blink of surprise.

“Yeah, me and my dirt.” Callum took the insult, just wanting this conversation to end. Maybe he could steer it round to the primal stone and pretend to be focused on that. “Em, your Dad said you had the primal stone?” He glanced at Claudia, trying to appear interested. Which he had been, but the whole thing with Rayla was occupying far more of his thoughts than even magic.

“Oh, yeah.” She reached into her bag, pulling out a dark sphere and holding it out for Callum to take. “I’ve got a book of runes too, but you’ll probably need to speak to one of the council members to get them translated. I know my way around most elven languages but a lot of the ones in there are pretty obscure.”

“What about Ebarna?” Soren raised his eyebrows, grinning at Callum.

“Who?” Claudia asked, heaving a large book onto the table.

“Ebarna, a sky elf Callum spent all night cozying up to,” Soren smirked, leaning back in his chair.

“Soren, that- No, I wasn’t.” Callum felt his gut twist, eyes darting to Rayla as the primal stone flashed and glowed in his hands. “She offered to help me with magic and runes and stuff.”

Read More On AO3 – A Dark Alternative: Chapter 39

[if-loki-was-a-fox]

(re: Oscar)

"the first friend beyond me had to be someone you never really got to say goodbye to" something John can relate to now, post-"maybe spain"! ^-^

It would be interesting to see how that might effect things if Arthur ever tried to rekindle things with Oscar. John having had a mirrored experience/relationship, gives an extra layer of sympathy, alongside the guilt, to combat any remaining resentment