#this is so stupid but i had to get it out

[pseudophan]

dan and phil playing these types of secret spilling games is so fucking stupid. imagine playing with them at a party, everyone gets asked about their worst breakup and someone drunkenly spills their heart out about this long relationship they had that ruined their life for five years and then dan or phil goes and is like "so back when i was 7-" girl shut the hell up

[daryltwdixon]

Joel Miller meeting your parents

this is just a stupid little thing from seeing this gif of him in this post ok thank you and goodnight. Been having writers block so if an idea can get this far on docs I’m posting it

|| fluff, little bit nsfw, daddy kink, old man joel, peepaw joel meets your parents, reader's dad is kind of a hard ass, I suck at flirty banter tbh, cracking up at some of the shit I put in here, enjoy ||

“Baby, I’m serious—” Joel said, but his hands betrayed him, gripping at your hips like he couldn’t help himself as you climbed into his lap. Your knees framed his thick thighs, still clad in worn denim, while his green plaid shirt had come untucked and bunched around his waist. A sliver of soft, tanned stomach peeked out as he leaned back against the bed frame.

“I’m serious too,” you murmured, voice thick with want as you pressed your mouth to his neck. Your fingers wove through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Need you, Joel. Been thinking about this all day.”

“We’re gonna be late if you keep this up,” he rasped, even as his head tipped back to give you more of his throat, groaning low when your teeth grazed the scruff along his jaw.

“Don’t care,” you breathed, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “They’ll be fine.”

You hiked your skirt higher, rocking down against him, already expecting to feel that familiar ache of him beneath you—but instead, your hips stilled at the softness of his lap. You blinked, confused, pulling back just enough to search his face. But Joel wouldn’t meet your eyes. His gaze darted everywhere else, over your shoulder, to the wall behind you, the damn nightstand—anywhere but you.

“…Joel?”

He still wouldn’t look at you. You moved your hands to his chest, flattening them against the flannel, feeling the heavy thudding of his heart beneath your fingers.

“You okay?” you asked, softer now, studying him. He looked nice tonight with his hair slicked back, beard freshly trimmed, and his shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the veins in his forearms.

You cocked your head, more curious than concerned now as you really looked at him. “Are you…” You reached up, cupping his jaw, gently turning his face until his eyes finally met yours. “Joel Miller, are you nervous?”

He let out a long breath, his voice low and a little rough. “Course I’m nervous, baby.”

“Why?” you asked, easing back in his lap. You could still feel the warmth of his hands on your hips, thumbs sweeping slow, steady circles. It was more soothing for him than you now, grounding himself in the feeling of you.

“Any man’d be nervous meetin’ his girl’s parents for the first time,” he muttered, eyes flicking away again. Then, quieter, “Even if they weren’t his own damn age…”

You smiled softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips—gentle, unhurried. He let you, kissing you back with a quiet sigh, the kind that said he was trying not to get pulled under. You hovered close, noses brushing, before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes again.

“They’re gonna love you,” you whispered.

Joel gave a dry huff, eyes flicking away. “They’re gonna think I’m a damn pervert.”

“You are a pervert.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, narrowing just a bit, the muscles in his jaw tightening. You didn’t miss the way his brows dipped or how his eyes darkened, heat stirring just beneath the surface.

You bit back a grin, fingers tracing along the collar of his shirt. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

He rolled his eyes, still glaring up at you, and you let your shoulders drop, giving in. “Okay, so you’re older than me, who cares? You’re also respectful. And kind. You’re a good man. You even built my cat a window catio.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, though he still wouldn’t look at you.

“And you didn’t have to say yes to any of this,” you added, quieter now. “But you did.”

He let out a breath, one hand tightening just slightly at your waist.

You leaned in, your nose brushing his. “And if I thought for one second they wouldn’t like you, I wouldn’t be dragging you into this.”

Finally, his eyes flicked to yours, unsure but searching.

You gave him a small smile. “You’ve got nothing to prove. Just… be yourself. Maybe with slightly less scowling.”

His lips twitched into even more of a smile then, and you kissed the corner of his mouth, lingering there a moment. “But if it helps…” you murmured, lips grazing his jaw now, “I can think of something to get your mind off it for a minute.”

Joel let out a slow breath, one he’d been holding in the entirety of your reassurances, his head falling back against your pillows again.

You smiled against his throat, lips curved with mischief. “I mean… if you really want me to stop…” you murmured, pressing your mouth to the spot just under his jaw. “I could get off your lap.”

Your hips shifted like you might, and his grip on you instantly tightened.

“But then…” you went on, voice all innocent and sinful at once, “what should I do about all this?”

You reached down, took his hand in yours, and guided it between your thighs, right over your panties, where the heat of you was unmistakable. His palm pressed flush against the soaked fabric, and you felt his breath catch sharp in his chest.

He hummed low in his throat, something dark and approving, and as your fingers slipped away, his own pressed harder. His touch was firm, possessive, like he’d been dying to do it but holding back until now.

“This’s all for me?” he finally muttered, voice rough as gravel. “Just from sittin’ in daddy’s lap, huh?”

You whimpered, rocking into his hand, desperate for more friction as you nodded. He gave it to you, slow circles with his fingers that had your breath stuttering, your thighs trembling around his. Even with the fabric between you, you could feel his rough calloused pads of his fingers perfectly against the heat of you.

“Joel,” you whined, barely even meaning to say it.

With a grunt, he shifted, and suddenly your back hit the mattress with a soft thud. He was over you in a flash, his body heavy and hot as he settled between your legs, looking at you like he was starving.

“You got me all worked up now,” he muttered, voice thick and low as his hands dragged your skirt higher, exposing more of your thighs. “Can’t let you walk out that door like this.”

He dipped his head to your neck, lips brushing over your pulse point before suckling gently. The scrape of his beard followed, rough and hot, as he worked his way lower, mouthing at the curve of your collarbone. Then down further, pushing your shirt up as he went, lifting it just enough to mouth at the soft skin of your chest.

“Let me take care of you,” he rasped, dragging his tongue over the top of your breast, nipping at it like he couldn’t help himself. “Let me take care of this little problem, huh, baby?”

You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Knew I’d get your mind off it, old man.”

His hands were everywhere now—palming your thighs, gripping your hips, pushing your panties aside just enough to slide his fingers back where they belonged in your wet, glistening entrance. His mouth returned to your skin, kissing and suckling until your back arched and your breath hitched in your throat.

Joel finally lifted his head, eyes dark and hungry as he hovered over you.

“You gonna be the one tellin’ your parents why we’re late?” he quirked his eyebrow with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You smirked, hands sliding up his shoulders and onto his neck, tugging at the nape of his hair, “I’ll say I had to help you calm your nerves. Blow off some steam. Pretty sure I’m doing everyone a favor.”

Joel huffed a low laugh, shaking his head as he looked down at you. “That so?” he murmured, his smile pulling a little wider. “You’re real proud of yourself, huh?”

You grinned up at him, eyes sparkling. “You’re welcome.”

He chuckled again, the sound low and warm in his chest. But then something shifted, his gaze lingering a little longer, smile easing into something softer. His eyes flicked around your face like he was locking it into his memory. The mischief faded, replaced by something deeper, something heavier.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t playful anymore. It was deep and unhurried, messy and slow, full of everything that had led up to this night, where you were finally taking this next step, where things became even more real. One hand braced beside your head, the other deep inside you between your trembling legs, dragging you closer to the edge with every slow, deliberate roll of his hips.

Your breath caught. He pulled back just slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he murmured, barely audible, like it had slipped out before he could stop it.

“Love you too, big guy,” you whispered, smiling as you pulled him back down to you.

The porch light flickered on above you as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the worn steps. Joel stood just off-center in front of the door, fingers loosely laced, jaw tense, shoulders drawn up like he expected to be called into a principal’s office.

You watched him for a moment, the way his eyes kept scanning the darkening yard, how his foot tapped once, then twice. He was wearing that soft brown light jacket over the green flannel, the one you loved so much. His hair was smoothed back now, but you could still see the faint tousle where your fingers had been tangled in it less than an hour ago. There was something boyish about how nervous he looked.

You stepped in close and laid a hand flat against his chest.

“Hey,” you said gently. “You’re okay.”

His eyes finally met yours, soft and searching, and you offered him a small smile as your fingers smoothed out the front of his shirt, pressing down a wrinkle that wasn’t really there.

“You’re gonna be fine, Joel. It’s just dinner.”

“Do they know that I’m–?” he mumbled.

You leaned up, brushed your lips over his, cutting him off. It wasn’t hungry or rushed, just soft, sweet, and steady. 

When you pulled back, your voice was quiet. “Relax. Like I said, they’re gonna love you.”

He exhaled through his nose, a little shaky, and gave a small nod. His hand came up to rest gently on your waist, thumb brushing over your hip like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

Then, behind you, the front door creaked open with a slow, familiar groan. You turned just enough to see the porch light glint off your dad’s glasses.

Joel straightened like he’d been caught doing something criminal. “Sir,” he greeted, stepping forward to shake your dad’s hand.

Your father was stone-faced, giving Joel a single nod as he returned the handshake. He stood in the doorway, quiet and watchful, eyes moving between the two of you without a word.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

“Are they here!?” came a familiar voice from just inside. A second later, your mom popped her head around your dad’s shoulder, her hands clutching his arm. Her eyes lit up the second she saw you.

“There she is!” she squealed, practically barreling into you for a hug.

You let out a soft laugh as she wrapped her arms around you, warm and overwhelming in the best way. She pulled back just enough to hold you at arm’s length, eyes flicking over your face like she was making sure you were really here.

Then her gaze shifted.

“And you must be Joel!” she said brightly, stepping toward him with a big smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied politely.

“Oh, don’t call me that,” she waved him off, offering her name instead.

You caught the twitch of a smile on Joel’s face as he repeated it, his voice soft with that drawl you knew so well.

She reached out and placed her hands on his arms, eyes roaming over him with zero subtlety. “Well, aren’t you handsome,” she said with a wink.

“Mom…” you groaned under your breath.

“Come inside, you two. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

Joel glanced at you, his jaw tight but his eyes softer now. There was still a flicker of nerves there, but beneath it was something quieter. Maybe even grateful. Like he couldn’t quite believe he got to be standing here, hand still warm from your dad’s handshake, your mom’s voice ringing with welcome, your hand just a breath away from his.

You offered him a small smile, one he returned without thinking, and the two of you stepped inside together.

You leaned up to kiss your dad’s cheek as you passed, and he returned it gently, one hand settling on your arm in a quiet, welcoming squeeze.

“So,” your dad’s voice carried from the head of the table, “what is it you do, Joe?”

“It’s Joel, dad.”

Your father raised his eyebrows like he hadn’t noticed the correction, even though he absolutely had.

“I own Miller Contractin’,” Joel said, calm and steady. “We build houses, do commercial work, though mostly stick to residential these days. All across the county.”

Your dad nodded, still not looking up from his plate, chewing a little harder than usual. “Miller Contracting… That just you, or you got a crew?”

“My brother and I are partners, we got a good crew of guys.”

“Hmm.”

A long sip of iced tea later, your dad’s voice pipes up again: “What kinda permits you gotta pull for that subdivision on the west side?”

You blinked. “Dad—”

Joel didn’t miss a beat. “Depends on the parcel. New builds gotta go through the county first, then the town for inspection sign-off. If it’s remodels or additions, we skip the land survey.”

Your dad finally looked up, eyes narrowing. “And your license number?”

Joel raised an eyebrow right back. “You wanna write it down?”

That earned a chuckle from your brother across the table, who quickly masked it with a bite of roll.

Your dad gave a grunt that could’ve meant anything, then pointed his fork across the table. “You hunt?”

“Not in a while,” Joel said. “Used to. Mostly just keep a few rifles around now, in case somethin’ needs shootin’.”

Another nod.

Then, after a long pause, your dad took another bite and mumbled around his food, “Built that deck out back myself, y’know. Back in ’98.”

“Yeah, when I was 8 months pregnant and bout ready to burst from stress,” your mom quipped with a little scoff.

Joel, bless him, didn’t so much as smirk. “It’s a good build. Still holdin’ up well.”

Your dad’s fork hovered in the air, then he gave a small, barely-there nod like Joel had just passed some pop quiz of his.

You finally started to relax until he opened his mouth again.

“One last question, Joel,” your dad said casually, sawing through his steak.

Joel’s shoulders tensed slightly. “Yessir.”

Your dad glanced across the table. His eyes flicked to your neck, then to Joel. Then back to you. With his knife, he gestured loosely toward your collarbone.

“That a hickey on my daughter’s neck?”

You nearly choked on your water.

Joel froze, fork halfway to his mouth.

There was a beat of stunned silence before your mom smacked your dad’s arm.

“David.”

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence, still chewing.

Joel cleared his throat. Loudly. “I—uh—must be… a-a nasty bug bite or somethin’.”

You stared down at your plate, cheeks on fire, absolutely refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

Your dad just grinned around another bite, like he’d just scored the winning point in a game no one else knew they were playing.

Later, the two of you ended up shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, trading off dishes and bumping hips as you loaded the dishwasher and tackled the giant roasting pan your mom had insisted was ��vintage, not ancient.”

Joel rinsed a plate, set it in the rack, and glanced at you with a sly grin. “You always this bossy with kitchen duty?”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “I’m not bossy. I’m efficient.”

“You barely let me step up to the sink before you were shovin’ the dryin’ rag in my hand.”

“I did not.”

“Reckon ya did, sweetheart. And to think I’m just tryna be a good guest.”

You laughed, nudging him with your hip. “I just know where our strengths and weaknesses lie is all.”

“Uh-huh.” He held up the rag and dish in hand dramatically. “Well, I’m puttin’ it on my résumé.”

“Oh yeah? Skills: contracting, firearm safety, surviving dad interrogation, and above-average dish drying?”

He turned to you, eyes playful. “You forgot exceptional boyfriend.”

You pretended to think about it. “Jury’s still out.”

He gave you a mock glare. “Keep talkin’ like that and you’re gettin’ another one of them hickeys on your neck. Right on the other side. Bet your dad would love that.”

Your eyes widened. “Joel.”

“Symmetry,” he said with a shrug, like it was the most reasonable explanation in the world.

Joel stepped back from the counter, towel still in hand, and playfully flicked it toward your backside. You squealed, swatting at him with your sudsy hand, and nearly bumped into the oven.

You were both laughing when the kitchen door creaked open and your dad leaned inside.

Joel straightened like he’d been caught red-handed again, shoulders stiff.

Your dad gave a long look at the two of you, then cleared his throat. “Joel.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You drink beer?”

Joel blinked. “Sure do.”

Your dad nodded once, like he’d already made the decision before asking. “Come out on the porch. I got a few in the cooler.”

Joel shot you a quick look, like he was trying to read if this was good or bad.

You just smiled and mouthed, go.

He followed your dad out, wiping his hands on a dish towel as he went. You watched him go with a little flutter in your chest.

“Oh,” a sudden thought crossed your mind, “daddy?”

Both men turned.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Yes, honey?”

The silence that followed was crippling.

Joel went stiff as a board, like he’d just realized he’d stepped off a cliff and was waiting for gravity to finish the job. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He looked between you and your dad with eyes wide as saucers, face draining of color.

Your dad was staring at him. Hard.

You turned crimson, choking on air. “I—I was just... I was gonna ask if you wanted some—Mom said there was pie for dessert. Or maybe it was cheesecake? I don’t–I don’t know. Actually, let me go ask her.”

You slapped the sponge onto the counter and bolted, eyes on the floor, muttering something that might’ve been English as you fled the kitchen.

You sat curled into the corner of the couch, a slice of pie balanced on your lap and your second glass of wine halfway gone. The living room was dim, lit mostly by the lamp beside your mom’s armchair and the soft flicker from the TV, playing some home renovation show you weren’t really watching.

Your mom leaned back, swirling her wine. “So… he’s cute.”

You smiled behind your fork. “Mmhm.”

“And polite. Little stiff.”

“He was a little nervous. Bein’...” you shrugged, “You know, same age as you guys and all.”

Your mom raised her eyebrows, taking another sip from her glass. “Please. Age is but a number these days. The amount of older men I dated when I was your age…” she chuckled to herself at the memories.

You snorted, shaking your head as you scooped another bite of pie, the quiet of the house settling in around you like a blanket.

She tilted her head, watching you with that knowing, mom-look. “He seems like a good man, honey.”

“He is,” you said softly, nodding.

Your mom’s gaze softened as she looked at you over the rim of her glass. “I see the way he looks at you. The way you two laugh together. It's nice… seeing you like this.”

You felt your smile pull a little deeper, the warmth in your cheeks not just from the wine. “Yeah,” you murmured. “It feels nice, too.”

The moment settled between you, quiet and soft until your thoughts drifted to the porch. You tried not to let your mind wander, but it crept in anyway. Whatever conversation Joel and your dad were having out there… you hadn’t wanted to hear it. After the fiasco in the kitchen you just hoped he was alive. But then you heard the back door open, the low rumble of Joel’s voice, and your dad laughing about something involving backyard irrigation, you knew whatever happened, it hadn’t gone badly.

Joel and your dad stepped into the living room, their voices trailing off mid-conversation.

“—and I told him if he tried to DIY those stone steps without checking the grading, he was gonna bust his ass in the first rain.”

Your dad huffed a laugh. “You’re not wrong. Maybe I’ll call your company in spring.”

Joel just gave a polite smile, his eyes finding yours immediately.

Your mom rose to her feet and crossed the room to kiss him on the cheek, then turned to wrap her arms around you. “Thank you for comin’ tonight. Come back anytime, you two.”

You smiled, hugging her tight. “We will.”

“You picked a good one,” she whispered in your ear, giving you a little squeeze before she headed toward the hallway, bidding you goodnight.

You turned just in time to see Joel and your dad shaking hands. It looked firm, respectful, less like a test this time and more like an understanding.

You crossed the room and kissed your father goodbye, and while he didn’t say much, his hand on your back lingered for a second longer than usual. That was about as close as you were gonna get to a blessing.

You and Joel walked out to the truck in the cool night air, his hand brushing your lower back, just enough to feel steady.

Once inside the cab, he pulled the door shut and let out a massive exhale, sinking into the seat like he’d just survived a firefight.

You grinned at him, cheeks warm from the wine and your heart even warmer.

“You did good tonight,” you said softly.

He looked at you like you’d just handed him a ribbon at the county fair. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Really good. You survived my dad. Didn’t insult his deck. Kept it very buttoned up.”

He huffed a laugh, “It is a nice deck.”

You leaned your head back against the seat, looking at him through your lashes. “Kinda hot, actually. Watching you all nervous and respectable.”

He gave you a look. “Few times in there I wasn’t so sure. Thought he might shoot me right then and there when he asked about your neck. And don’t get me started on your stunt in the kitchen.”

You groaned and covered your face. “I didn’t meaaaan it.”

Joel chuckled, the sound soft and low as he reached over and gently tugged your hand away from your face. “Still nearly gave both me and your old man a heart attack.” 

You grinned at him as he kissed your hand gently, one knuckle at a time, “But you’re my old man.”

He let out a breath, shaking his head as his smile tugged wide and helpless. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re gonna be the death of me, darlin’.”

You leaned in, bumping your nose against his. “Worth it.”

[laserbobcat]

A WIP i'll never finish, i tried! I started this before march and will never finish it properly. I'm glad I had the energy to at least clean the last panels enough. I was trying a new style/process and it doesn't stick. Anyway, I'll just tell the rest of the story since I (probably) won't draw it, and maybe some of you like to read:

Nari turns into a god again, to his surprise. Turns out it's because the Lamb fucked up a new age reversing ritual they're trying out, and turned themselves into a baby. Too weak of a vessel, so the crown had to jump ships back to him. Narinder enjoys this IMMENSELY. Makes a dramatic evil laugh and give some kind of speech about how the Lamb is stupid and he's the boss now. He tells Aym and Baal to babysit the Lamb until they're old enough to be trained like they both were and "Maybe this time around they will learn obedience" and exits- also dramatically. The cultists start to panic, what the hell is that giant god, what do you mean it's Narinder are you kidding me? The tsundere Lamb's friend? The grumpy fisherman? Oh no what are we gonna do without the Lamb etc etc... Until Leshy laughs out loud and says "Just ignore him and wait a day or two, he's gonna get tired of bossing people around and miss his precious Lamb. He'll find a solution." Aym deadpan says five, Leshy says five days seems too long he'll cave in sooner than that, but Baal says "No we mean five minutes." And BAM the temple's door open again and Narinder is here yelling MORTALS I need you to remember EXACTLY the words they made you chant, I need it to reverse the ritual!

He quickly realized that this Lamb will not be HIS Lamb, HIS lamb is gone for good if he doesn't cook some good magic real quick. And that's the start of a period of time where Nari has to bust his ass trying to undo the Lamb's failed magic. I had bunch of stuff in mind, including: -Lambie being the worst and most insufferable baby ever. No one sleeps on their watch, and no one gets to be distracted for a second otherwise they start eating rocks. their yell is the loudest noise ever heard. The goat is a joke next to them. Everyone has the tired parent trait now. -Narinder smashing people to death when they're annoying and distracting him from his research. He adds their name to "the resurrection list" for the Lamb to deal with later. The followers somehow get used to it. -Morgan trying his best to keep Leshy away from his irritated brother, despite his intense need to annoy him at the worst time possible. -Narinder yelling "Fetch me my thinking Lamb!" and then squishing the baby between two fingers like a squeaky toy to help him focus (the baby enjoys that) -Saleos and Irene forcing a huge ass exhausted and irritable 19 feet god to take a rest, maybe go fishing to get some air. -Narinder accidentally hitting his head on the door frame of the temple. A lot. -Narinder reluctantly having to officiate the important rituals "I don't care about your damn crops but let's get this over with- NO we're not having an exhibitionist dance go back to work!" -Thena having to read most of the Lamb's writing for him because they write in cursive that is so pretty it's unreadable -Thena making him realize how much work the Lamb is doing everyday. Narinder keeps in mind that he will have to make him rest later. The end would be Narinder finally managing to reverse the ritual, and a butt naked, befuddled adult Lamb appearing on the floor of the temple. Narinder takes the crown off of his head and throws it at their face, and yells at them while changing back into his mortal form and stomping out of the temple: "You IDIOT baby god trying to CREATE new magics when you're not even able to master the old ones completely I CAN'T BELIEVE you would try something so stupid do you even realize how much of a pain in the ass it was to understand your weird logic and clean your mess I SWEAR if you ever do something like that I'll let you rot in whatever pit you dig for yourself AND DON'T YOU DARE SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THE RESURRECTION LIST-" And slams the door on his way out, leaving the lamb astounded.

Cut to Narinder getting back to his house in his tree, and flopping on his bed, exhausted. He massages his arms, visibly relieved to have them back to normal, without the pain. He sighs with a little smile, stretches, curls into a ball and falls asleep.

That's how the lamb finds him later when they carefully come to talk to him after hearing about all of what happened. Except the black cat loaf on the bed changed into a baby.

Rinse and repeat.

[gf2bellamy]

HI!! LOVE YOUR WRITINGS YOURE INSANE!!! could i please request angst/fluff for spencer reid (later seasons) where spencer kinda gets mad at reader and she leaves his place thinking he’s super upset at her and something happens idk she gets in a fender bender or gets sick for a few days and has to go to the hospital but doesn’t answer when he calls bc she thinks he’s so upset he wouldn’t want to know and at some point he finds her in the hospital after he’s been going crazy because he couldn’t get a hold of her i’m so sorry this literally makes no sense i fear this came to me in a dream😣

accident - spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship , reader gets into a small accident, mention of a forehead injury / blood and a headache ( reader is fine though ), reader ends up in the hospital , argument between spencer and reader a/n: hai hai !! hope you like this <3

The silence in Spencer’s apartment was suffocating.

“I said I’m sorry,” you mumbled again, your voice barely above a whisper, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of your sweater. The words felt hollow, even to you, but you didn’t know what else to say.

Spencer let out a slow breath, his long fingers raking through his already disheveled hair—a telltale sign of his frustration.

It had been such a small thing, really.

A misplaced book. His book.

One he had lent you weeks ago, one you had cherished, only to accidentally tuck it away in the wrong stack of papers. When you’d finally found it, relief had flooded you—until you handed it back, and instead of the soft smile you expected, his lips had pressed into a thin line, his words sharper than you’d ever heard them.

“You could have been more careful.”

The words stung. You hadn’t meant to be careless. You loved his books, loved the way his eyes lit up when he talked about them, loved the way he’d underlined passages just for you to find.

But today, his patience was thin, his tone clipped, and now you stood there, feeling smaller than you had in a long time.

Spencer turned away, his back to you as he carefully slotted the book back into its place on the shelf.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t say another word.

Your chest ached.

Swallowing hard, you grabbed your bag from the couch, your jacket slipping silently over your shoulders. “I’m going home,” you murmured, unsure if he even heard you.

But the sharp click of the door behind you? That, he definitely heard.

The sound made him freeze.

For a long moment, Spencer stood there, staring blankly at the spines of his books, his breath uneven. Then, with a heavy sigh, he sank onto the couch, dragging a hand down his face.

What was wrong with him?

It wasn’t about the book. Not really. It had been a long day—no, a long week—of dead ends and sleepless nights on the case, of too much coffee and too little patience. And instead of dealing with it like an adult, he’d taken it out on you. The one person who had done nothing but be kind to him.

Guilt settled deep in his stomach, cold and nauseating.

Outside, the engine of your car rumbled to life. You were leaving. Because of him. Because he couldn’t keep his frustration in check.

Spencer’s throat tightened.

He should call you. Should run after you. Should fix this.

But his pride—or maybe his shame—kept him rooted in place.

Meanwhile, you gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, the streetlights blurring as you blinked back the burn in your eyes. You didn’t want to leave. You hated leaving things like this. But you hated upsetting him even more, and right now, space seemed like the only option.

You just hoped he knew you hadn’t meant to let him down.

An hour later, you were in the hospital.

It wasn’t anything serious—just a fender bender, a stupid accident born from exhaustion and bad luck. The woman behind you had been just as distracted, just as worn thin by the day, except she hadn’t braked in time. The impact had been sharp, sudden, your seatbelt locking as your forehead struck the steering wheel with a dull thud.

You’d assured the other driver you were fine, even as warm blood trickled down your temple. And now here you were, lying on a stiff hospital bed, the antiseptic sting of the air making your nose wrinkle.

The lights overhead were too bright, drilling into your already pounding head, and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing the throbbing to ease.

What a night.

Your phone buzzed against the bedside table. You didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

Spencer.

Of course it was Spencer.

You stared at the screen, his name flashing insistently, the call vibrating through the hospital room. Part of you wanted to answer, to hear his voice—even if it was still edged with frustration. But the other part, the stubborn, bruised part of you, hesitated.

He’d had a hard enough night already. You weren’t going to add to that.

So you didn’t decline. Didn’t accept. Just let it ring.

The call eventually went to voicemail. The room settled back into quiet.

You exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead—gently, careful of the fresh bandages—and tried to ignore the hollow pang in your chest.

Time dragged. The hospital was busy tonight—understaffed, overworked—and what should have been a quick check-up turned into an endless wait. You stared at the ceiling, counting the speckled tiles, listening to the distant beeping of machines and the muffled voices of nurses rushing by. Your phone sat silent beside you. You wondered if Spencer had given up. If he thought you were ignoring him on purpose.

Then—

"Which one?" The voice cut through the noise of the ER.

His voice.

A nurse murmured something in response, and before you could even sit up properly, the curtain around your bed was yanked aside with too much force, the rings screeching against the metal rod.

Spencer stood there, breathing hard, his hair even more disheveled than before, like he’d been running his hands through it the entire way here. His eyes locked onto yours, then dropped to the bandage on your forehead, the dried blood at your hairline that the nurses hadn’t quite wiped away.

His expression did something complicated—guilt, fear, anger (at himself, always at himself)—before settling into something painfully soft.

You swallowed.

"Fender bender," you mumbled lamely, as if that explained everything.

His throat worked as he swallowed. "You should've called me immediately," he whispered, taking another step closer. The fluorescent lights caught the dark circles under his eyes, the way his cardigan was buttoned wrong - one side higher than the other. He must have thrown it on in a hurry.

You shrugged, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at the bandage. "You had a bad day. I didn't want to make it worse."

Spencer made a wounded noise in the back of his throat, his hands finally lifting to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing feather-light beneath your eyes. "That doesn't matter. You matter. You're bleeding in a hospital and I—" His voice cracked. "How could you think I wouldn't want to know?"

A beat of silence.

Then, because you had to know: "How did you even find me?"

The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Garcia."

Of course.

"When you didn't answer... I may have panicked. Slightly." His fingers traced the edge of your bandage with heartbreaking gentleness. "She tracked your phone. I owe her approximately twelve favors now."

You huffed a laugh, then immediately regretted it when your head throbbed. Spencer's expression darkened with concern.

"Hey," you said softly, catching one of his restless hands. "I'm okay. Really."

He didn't look convinced. "You're in a hospital bed."

"And you're here," you countered, squeezing his fingers. "That helps."

Spencer exhaled shakily. "Never do that again," he murmured. "Walk out, not call me, take the blame for my bad mood... Any of it."

You closed your eyes, breathing him in - the familiar scent of old books and that terrible cheap coffee he loved. "Only if you promise to talk to me next time instead of biting my head off over a book."

A pause. Then, quiet you almost missed it: "Deal."

The discharge papers took forever.

You sat on the edge of the hospital bed, swinging your legs slightly while Spencer hovered like an anxious shadow, reading every line of the doctor’s instructions twice before reluctantly letting you sign them. His fingers kept twitching toward you—adjusting the collar of your jacket, brushing imaginary lint from your sleeve—as if he needed constant proof you were really there, really okay.

The nurse handed you a packet of aftercare instructions with a knowing smile. “Someone’s eager to get you home,” she murmured, nodding toward Spencer, who was already holding your bag and car keys like a man prepared to carry you out of here himself.

You flushed.

The ride home was quiet. Spencer drove with one hand on the wheel, the other clasped firmly around yours, his thumb tracing absent circles against your skin every time you hit a red light.

You watched the way his jaw clenched whenever you shifted in your seat, how his eyes flickered to you every few seconds like he needed visual confirmation you were still there.

"You're staring," he murmured, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Am not," you lied, even as your fingers tightened around his.

The apartment was dark when you arrived, the book still sitting innocently on the shelf where he'd placed it earlier. Spencer hovered as you toed off your shoes, his hands fluttering near your elbows like he wasn't quite sure where to put them.

"Sit," he ordered gently, nudging you toward the couch. "I'll make tea."

You wanted to argue—you weren't an invalid, just a little banged up—but the way his voice cracked on the last word had you sinking obediently into the cushions.

Through the kitchen doorway, you watched him move with frantic precision: boiling water, selecting chamomile (your favorite), digging through drawers for the honey bear he kept just for you. His hands shook when he poured.

When he returned, he didn't hand you the mug right away. Instead, he knelt before you, his knees hitting the carpet with a soft thud. The vulnerability of the position stole your breath.

"I was an idiot today," he said, pressing the warm ceramic into your hands. His eyes were liquid in the low light. "Not just about the book. About everything."

You cradled the tea between your palms, letting the heat seep into your skin. "You were stressed."

"That's not an excuse." His fingers brushed the bandage again, so light it barely registered. "I hate that I made you feel like you had to leave. Like you couldn't—" His voice broke. "Like you couldn't come to me when you were hurt."

You set the tea aside.

Spencer didn't resist when you tugged him up onto the couch, didn't protest when you maneuvered him until his back was against the armrest and you were curled into his chest, your ear pressed over his heartbeat. His arms came around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head, careful of your injury.

"Next time," you murmured into his sweater, "I'll call."

He exhaled, long and shuddering, his lips pressing to your hairline.

"Next time," he negotiated softly, "I'll do better."

And when you woke the next morning, his arms still wrapped around you, the book was open on his nightstand—a new passage underlined, just for you.

[p1astr81]

hey bestieeee, i am craving some oscar fics after the win!! I was thinking maybe something to do with when people say oscar doesn’t show any emotions or rarely smiles, is stoic. And like to his gf is so funny because when he is with her, he is so different compared to the way he shows himself on the press. He is (obviously) more comfortable, he is more relaxed, funny, maybe a bit clingy, idk whatever you feel like!!! Loveee uuuuu🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

(not so) secret moments in a crowded room

synopsis: the stoic Oscar gets caught on camera in a not-so-stoic moment with his girlfriend.

pairing: Oscar Piastri x fem!reader

warnings: not proof read! So sickly sweet like omg I need to go brush my teeth now sweet.

He’s emotionless. He has the same face if he wins or if he dnfs. I think is face is permanently stuck in a straight face.

The comments bothered you, but Oscar didn’t seem to mind them. Of course.

He’d gotten another win, the third of the season and all Twitter was raving about was how he’s never happy enough when celebrating his wins.

He shouldn’t win if he’s not going to be happy about it.

But that wasn’t Oscar. He was happy about it, over the moon really. He’s just reserved.

You knew he wasn’t emotionless and he proved that when he found you after the race.

You were hidden away in the back of the garage, letting him have his moment with the team. When he spotted you, he couldn’t help the way his lips split in an open-mouthed smile. His laugh echoed down the pit lane as he called your name and did a stupid little jog over to where you stood.

The both of you were unaware of how the cameras—streaming live to anyone who had access to sky sports—followed Oscar to the back of the garage and zoomed in on the both of you.

“Hello my winner!” You greeted, arm wide. He reached you just after, wrapping his arms around your torso and lifting you into the air for just a moment. A burst of adrenaline.

He put you down, but didn’t distance himself. Hands gripping your waist made sure that the front of your body stayed flush against his.

“Someone’s happy.” You poked him in his sides, then rested your hands on his shoulders.

He shrugged. “Only because you’re here.” He joked.

“So it’s not because you just won your fifth Grand Prix?”

He shook his head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was so natural, you didn’t notice it.

The buzzing of the garage and the noise of the team faded into the background. It was just you and him. He gazed at you like you’d hung the stars in the sky, the very ones you guys map shapes out of at night, curled up in each other. You gazed at him like the made the ground you walked on from his bare hands, just for you.

Love. An undeniable connection between the two of you. Not a single soul could deny it no matter how hard they tried.

Not when you looked at each other like that. Not when he held you so tight—like he was afraid he made you up and reality would take you away at any moment. Not when he loved you so much he couldn’t help but laugh—if not he may have cried. Too many emotions circled his veins at once. It was overwhelming in the best way possible.

And when Twitter got their hands on the clips, lord did they notice everything.

THE HAIR TUCK OMFGGGGG

Sending this to everyone who calls him emotionless bc why is he looking at her like she is literally his lifeline???

HELLO OSCAR??? STAND UP???

I too would be this down bad if I was dating y/n

Even though you weren’t thrilled that the broadcast caught such an intimate moment, you were glad it was silencing all that ‘emotionless’ talk.

[paperbackribs]

What i f I told Tommy to fuck off?

"Hey," Steve's head lolls onto Eddie's lap with a thump, "what do you think if I told Tommy to fuck off?"

Eddie thinks he might dance a jig, take a shot of tequila, and then blow Steve if he'd let him near him. But that's not in the cards. They've been roommates for four years now, the two years they'd lived in and out of the Harrington House and the Munson Trailer before then notwithstanding.

"I think that you're full of shit," Eddie retorts, ignoring the warmth of Steve's head in his lap. Ignoring how easily his stupid head turns to lustful images of shoving his palm against Steve's cheeks and turning him face-down to use his mouth in a way that Eddie can only dream of on the most holy of nights.

"No, really," Steve insists, hazel eyes earnest and staring up at Eddie. "You keep telling me that I'm worth more--"

"More than a bastard that fucks everthing that walks and then comes begging back to you? Yeah, sure. I have some standards."

Steve scowls up at him, eyes squinted, "I have standards."

Eddie stares right back, unwilling to back down, "Sure you do, sweetheart." He sinks enough scorn into the last word to push Steve away but Steve continues to squint back. He stares at Eddie with such unwavering certitude that it's Eddie who wavers.

"Robin told me something," Steve says calmly. Head still in Eddie's goddamn lap.

Eddie hums, looking away from the intent gaze. Ignoring it. Ignoring every moment he thought was more over the past six years.

"She told me that I'm not imagining things. That I'm not stupid--"

Eddie interrupts, exasperated after all this time that Steve still thinks so low of himself, "Of course you're not stupid. You have to stop listening to Tommy - he's full of shit and talks you down so that he's bigger. But you're bigger, Steve. You're a whole shitting statue looming above the teeny tiny human he pretends that he is. Just forget him for Christ's sake."

"Not that you will," Eddie mutters even as he's annoyed that he had spoken so candidly.

"So you're saying that I should trust my instincts?" Steve asks, eyes burning and frame oddly taut against Eddie's legs. The television flickers in the background, casting blue shadows against the planes of Steve's face and all Eddie can hopelessly think is how desperately he wants to lick the sharp lines of it.

Before he can sink into the moroseness of it all, Steve scrambles up and Eddie grunts at the unexpected force as elbows poke at sensitive parts only for Steve's sweet, sincere face to be hovering over his.

Eddie stares up, lacking understanding and any idea of what to do next. The beautiful eyes staring back down at him are captivating, the pretty marks against the canvas of his skin enthralling and, in that very moment, Eddie's head is so blank that he can't be counted on to make a decision or recall one past decisive thought.

"Kiss me," Steve demands and an arrow pierces Eddie's chest so cleanly that he thinks he'll never breathe easily again.

"What?" he wheezes, but Steve simply nods resolutely.

"Kiss me if you feel anything for me."

Steve's jaw is clenched, Eddie can see, in the way he does when vulnerable and sad. It makes something in Eddie's gut tighten in sympathy. Because all he has wanted for years is for Steve to kiss him. To want to kiss him. But here Steve is, looking for all the world like he expects Eddie to push him away.

He'd never.

Palm raising shakily, Eddie cups Steve's jaw, bringing their lips together in a union that is soft and unsure.

Just as shakily, Steve exhales, brow furrowed and lips pursing in distress. "That's it?" he sighs heavily, sadly. Looking away and nodding to himself as if he understands a terrible truth, "I get it. And I'm sorry, I shouldn't have forced you to--"

Consumed by a sudden fierceness, Eddie surges forward, taking Steve's beautiful face in his hands and his lips in a passionate fusion. Their lips merge in a slick embrace while breaths combine, becoming one.

Drawing back with a wet schlick, a translucent ribbon connects their mouths before snapping away. Steve looks as dazed as Eddie, the both of them reminiscent of cartoon characters whacked over the head with rolling pins.

"I should..." Steve stutters.

The whole of Eddie's body softens, sure in that this is the moment. This is his moment and it's Steve's too. It's their moment to make a future worthwhile.

"You should tell Tommy to fuck off," Eddie says, hoping against all hope that Steve will meet him beat for beat.

Steve licks his lips, a smirk spreading across his delectable face, "Because you feel something for me."

Confidence fills Eddie and he smirks right back, "Because I feel everything, sweetheart." Steve's face brightens as Eddie repeats, "Everything."

[babeyun]

losing the war 🥀 p.js [m]

synopsis: even when the world seems bleak, he can't help but try and prove that love still exists. the love you yearn for exists, because he is full of it - and so are you. genre: regency au ; "forbidden" love au ; angst, fluff, smut. pairing: royal guard!park jongseong x princess!reader word count: 15k (and i'm not sorry about it!!) rating: 18+. minors do not interact. warnings: mentions of: death (non-descriptive), blood/injuries, war, illnesses. swearing, mentions of food/eating. mentions of trauma/grieving. reader and jay are so in love it's disgusting LOL. smut warnings: mentions of pregnancy, making out, brief grinding. virginity loss (both). oral (f.rec), fingering (f.rec), slight nipple play, brief handjob. biting, hair pulling, slight body worship (f.rec), unprotected sex in missionary because i said so, creampie (because they're stupid.) petnames (baby, my heart/love, etc.) what to listen to: yours - conan gray ; always - bon jovi ; salut d'amour - edward elgar ; heaven's cloud - seventeen ; step to my girl - souls of mischief ; do i wanna know - hozier. author's note: [misc dividers] by @/saradika here on tumblr! well, we're back with the 6th installment of enhypen birthday fics! granted, this one is by far the longest and the latest, as it is now officially two days after jay's birthday :( i'm sorry! it normally wouldn't take me this long, but things happened and also it was easter sunday so...it's fine! as always...happiest birthday to my jaybie. i love u!

PARK JONGSEONG HAD ALWAYS BEEN RESPONSIBLE.

Poised, smart, calculated. Direct with his words, never saying more than necessary to get his point across. He operated quietly and discreetly, mostly in the shadows so as to keep you safe.

Your mother ran the Decelis Kingdom like the Navy. Everything and everyone had a place, and she expected them all to be there when she strolled the halls at night. Never once did she walk past your room and not see him posted outside the door, alert and ready to protect the princess at all costs.

He doesn't care that you're a princess, or the princess, really. To him, it's supposed to be a job. A person to protect, to feed, to take care of until you're moving onto the next big thing.

What is the next big thing for you?

Neither of you really know. It's like a winding rollercoaster ride, and your fate is the cruel operator that never lets either of you get off.

He's never at rest when he's with you. He sleeps when he can, but never lets his fatigue show in front of your mother and his fellow guards. He never lets his shoulders sag, he never lets his eyes get low as he follows behind you to wherever you're going. 

He finds it hard to remind himself that it's just a job when you softly christen him with the petname my heart.

He finds it hard to remind himself that it's just a job when you pull him into the library, and sit on the thickly carpeted floor. You always make him sit with his back to the wall, your dress brushing his thighs as your hands splayed gingerly across worn leather books and yellowed pages. He finds it hard to remind himself it's just a job, when you whisper that he can sleep, and you'll wake him if you hear your mother. He finds it hard to remind himself that you're just part of his job when he wakes up to your warm hand gently patting his cheek, finding he's fallen asleep and resting his head on your shoulder. You always smile warmly as he opens his eyes tiredly, your laugh is soft as you ask him if he's feeling well rested.

The answer is always no, but he never says it.

You're the kindest person he's ever had the pleasure of meeting. You're not soft spoken by any means – always assertive, always dominating the conversation when it comes to anything that has to do with your kingdom. You're flirty, even if you don't realize that your words mean more than meets the eye. You're generous, smart, beautiful…you're…everything.

You're everything to him.

And he knows better than to ever let that be a thought at the forefront of his mind, even when you give yourself to him so willingly. Even when your lips trace the slope of his neck, when your moans fill his ears and make him feel insane.

Even when you make him feel loved.

Amongst the positive attributes you have, you have a few bad habits in the eyes of your mother. The Queen has no problem with reprimanding you – her hand often carrying a wooden ruler that pats your chin gently when you speak out of turn, lightly tapping the small of your back if you're slouching. Just as the Queen is strict, she is gentle, she is fair.

The Queen was once bright. She wore the brightest, most colorful of dresses – pearlescent satins, shimmering tulles, beaded and sequined. She was the prettiest flower in the garden, the warmth of her smile being felt for miles throughout the kingdom. She was the sole collector of all the books in your library, the seamstress of all your dresses, the sole ruler because the kingdom was only ever truly hers – and soon, yours.

Of course, all good things come to an end. 

He grew up just outside of the kingdom, his family settled in a soft cottage in the thriving forest surrounding the castle. During his younger years, he awoke every morning to the sound of horses trotting past, the sound of your mother's skilled hunters chasing after deers and elk. He and his father would often go foraging, bringing home their own catches – rabbits, salmon speared at the flowing river. Every once in a while, they managed to pelt the unsuspecting deer, his heart always sinking in his chest as he watched their eyes lose their light.

He became a skilled hunter despite the sinking feeling, and easily manuevered his way through the forest on foot. His father made a bow and arrow set for him on his fifteenth birthday, and it'd been put to use for many years since – birds, squirrels, even the occasional frog.

His mother was an apothecary that managed a small shop and garden out of the back of their cottage. She sold the wild berries and any herbs Jay and his father managed to forage, and that was how he met your parents. Your father was incredibly ill, draped across a mighty steed that your mother steered to the best of her ability in her state of distress.

As it turned out, your mother had grown up with his – and trusted no one more than her to help your father. They stayed in his cottage, in his bedroom, for three days and three nights. 

After he recovered, your mother tried to pay a hefty sum of gold. His parents adamantly refused, and through the door of his bedroom he heard his mother ask that the Queen take care of him, should he ever need something. A job, education, something.

And your father agreed, without hesitation.

But there was still a heavy sack of gold sitting in the corner of his home when he woke up the next morning.

When he thinks about it, the King was an insane visual compared to your mother. He dressed in nothing but black, his shoulders covered by a thick bear's pelt and feet clad in heavy boots. His knuckles were almost always smeared with dirt and blood, and his voice was gruff and intimidating to the unfamiliar. He was scary to most of the townspeople with his dark eyes and solemn face, and they cowered in his presence – but he never, ever scared him.

Your father admired that.

The King became a frequent visitor at the shop Jay's mother ran. He bought berries almost exclusively, and usually the entire stockpile. Jay remembers his life being slightly easier during those times – and he felt it in the way his parents wouldn't hesitate to buy any book he picked up during their visits to the market on the weekends. He felt it most when he'd have warm soups to eat during the winter when berries and herbs were scarce.

However, the King once arrived on foot, guiding his horse by the lead and talking gently. Usually he'd be atop his horse, but instead – you were sat upon it. You wore a simple, champagne dress with ivory bows along the belled sleeves, and your hair was worn pinned back. You were smiling brightly, your eyes wide as you took in the greens of the forest and the spots of the sunlight on the forest floor, the chirps of the birds gathered in trees high above.

Your eyes landed on him, covered in dirt and carrying a deer on his back. He remembers the way his heart lurched – and he nearly fell under the weight of the cervid. And he remembers the laugh that slipped from your mouth as your father stopped in front of the shop. It was so beautiful, hidden behind your hand and so melodic.

"Jongseong! Good to see you, son. Is your mother in?"

He couldn't reply then, watching the way your lips shaped around your silent repetition of his name. He remembers blinking, clearing his throat.

"Your Majesty. My mother is at the market this weekend, I've been left to tend the shop. Is there something I can get for you?" He'd dropped the deer on the workbench with a grunt before turning around to tend to your father, only hearing your voice as you pulled at your father's pelt.

"He's cute."

He felt his cheeks grow hot, his eyes darting away as he stood behind the display of berries and pretended he didn't hear you. He remembers the way your father rolled his eyes, a smile gracing his features. He'd never seen your father smile.

"Go on, pick your poison." He'd helped you off the horse, your hands folding behind your back as you approached the display. Jay couldn't help but follow the glow of your dress in the spotty sunlight, before your father cleared his throat behind you.

"It's her birthday." He said warmly, and Jay remembers the way you rolled your eyes as you picked a blackberry from the display, rolling it between your fingers.

"It's not that special. He always makes it a big deal." Your gaze was playful, but your words were serious. "It's really just another day."

"Isn't every day we rise with the sun worth celebrating?" 

You stopped then, your teeth sinking into the delicate flesh of the berry in your hand as you glanced up at him. Your father laughed heartily behind you, before you tilted your head.

"Will you be coming to the feast tonight? My father has invited the whole of the kingdom." 

Your eyes were expectant, and he shifted slightly under your gaze. Your father had the same eyes, albeit darker.

"I can't make it, Your Highness. I've got prior committments." He had jerked his thumb in the direction of the deer, making you nod. "That's a shame…I'll take these, then." You sounded disappointed then, as you picked up the large crate of blackberries. Your father swept to your aid, grabbing the wooden crate quickly and firmly attaching it to the side of the horse's saddle. You smiled softly, "How much do I owe you?"

"Oh, don't worry about it. Have a safe trip back, have a nice birthday." He shook his head, giving you both a curt bow before turning on his heel and disappearing into the shop. He heard the horse trot off moments later, murmurs shared from you and your father too muffled to digest.

However, even as nightfall came and went – he couldn't get you out of his mind. The gentle slope of your neck, the shimmer of thin beeswax on your lips. A small, gold locket resting on your chest over your dress, with the crest of the kingdom engraved into it. 

The softness of your eyes. You returned the next day, this time, only accompanied by your horse. You donned a dark green dress with gold flecks across the fabric, your hair in disarray around your face as you slowed to a stop in front of the shop. He was drenched in sweat, the midday heat exhausting as he lugged firewood towards the cottage. His mother had just arrived for lunch, wrapping an apron around her waist as you rung the bell in the window.

"Princess! What brings you to this neck of the woods?" 

His back tensed as he packed the wood in the corner of the kitchen, only to hear his name slip from your lips.

"I've just brought something for…Jongseong." He still remembers his mother's face of surprise when she called for him, his cheeks flushed from the heat (or so he tried to convince himself) as he made his way over. "Yes?" "The princess is here for you, son."

She slipped away then, leaving you in his presence alone. He tilted his head, before realizing you had a box in your hand, wrapped in a soft green bow. You held it out to him, a smile gracing your lips. 

"For you. I made it." He took it gingerly, "Thank you."

You only nodded, stepping away from the shop. "Enjoy."

He didn't explain anything to his parents as he slid the small box on the kitchen table, their eyes curious as he unwrapped it to the sound of your horse bolting in the distance. It was a tart – lemon curd with blackberry preserve swirled throughout in a shortbread crust. There was a note attached to the side of the box, but he shoved it in his pocket to read in the privacy of his room later that night.

My father seems to like you. He doesn't like anyone. Should I expect you at the suitors' ball this winter? – Y/N ♡ 

He didn't see you again after that, the seasons moving forth as if he'd never met you. 

The suitors' ball would not happen, either.

He was soon awoken by royal knights banging his door down – on orders from the Queen to gather all able-bodied young men to fight in an ambush in the wooded mountains, brought forth by Fort Allingham claiming a broken alliance with the King. Despite his mother's protests, he went – wide eyed and scared, but he trusted himself. He trusted his knowledge of the woods and his skills as a hunter would get him through it.

They say even the mighty fall.

He felt dirty; covered in splatters of blood of men he'd never met. Men who had families, surely, and it haunted him. He wanted to close his eyes and end the nightmare of it all – fallen bodies, the crimson brew of life seeping through clothes and into patches of grass sprouting through the thick layers of snow atop the mountains, the feeling of the arrow's pile that speared through his shoulder. He wanted to hide, to cower, to unsee all he'd lived the moment he left the cottage. The worst of it all?

He was the one to find your father – bloodied and bruised at the base of the mountains, his sword tossed into the flowing river and his fingers nearly purple with frostbite. The remaining soldiers gathered with him, word spreading to those from Fort Allingham that the target had been hit. It made his stomach turn.

He tried what he could – the warmth of a fire, muddling medicinal herbs into a paste…but he slipped away by morning. He could only picture you and your mother's faces as he and the remaining soldiers walked for three days to return to the limits of the kingdom. He held nothing on his back but your father's pelt, the bloodied sword and his bow. He carried it like it held all the weight in the world to him, because he knew it would to you.

He remembers the crestfallen look on your mother's face as he and the soldiers hobbled into the throne room. They all knelt before her, the pain in his face evident as he tried to hold the bloodied sword over his head.

That was the last time he saw your mother wear something bright. A cream dress that glittered in the early winter sunlight, a singular tear stain on the skirt.

The soldiers had their injuries treated by town apothecaries and fed by the palace cooks while the townspeople were in mourning. The death of the King took a toll on them all – and a flourish of stories of his kindness spilled from every crevice of the kingdom. Your father was well loved and your mother proved it – a three-day feast was thrown in his honor, all of his favorite dishes displayed across the palace courtyard. Nights of loud music, drinking and dancing.

Nights that you spent away from it all, deep in the forest. Wading in the river, your hands blistered from climbing the rocks that lined the streams. Your face swollen from crying, your back covered in the thick pelt that once belonged to your father.

It was all you had left. Your mother asked him to work for the kingdom soon after. She practically begged, in fact – and Jay went home to think about it. He spent the rest of the winter there – coping with the loss, with the fear, with his pain. He took the time to relearn to use his bow with his injured shoulder, he shoveled snow from the pathway to the cottage. He spent his nights in the warmth of his room, reading and reading the books he'd collected, and sitting on the decision of whether or not to go forth to the palace.

Until the winter solstice brought the Queen barreling back to his cottage, seeking his mother and her medicine once more. This time, for you – your skin was sweltering even as you were stripped to nothing in a warm bath, your lips chapped from the dry winter air. His room was once more taken, with your mother glued to his windowsill and staring at the falling snow. The sound of your pained groans made his chest hurt as he pressed cool compresses to your face and neck through the night – waking up to your mother gone and a sore neck from sleeping in a cot.

You stayed for two days longer, his mother carefully and quietly tending to you. She fed you warm soups with lots of garlic and ginger, hot feverfew tea with honey and lemon, even drawing you hot baths to soak in. She had Jay rub analgesic oil into your scalp after your baths, and the repeated stroking would ease you to sleep.

It was on the third day that your mother returned, her hands gripping a dark blue dress in hopes you'd be feeling better. You were still stricken with fatigue, but you managed to make your way out of the cottage with a weakened thank you. Your mother once more asked Jay about coming to work for her at the palace as she helped you climb onto the horse, your cloak just thick enough that the winter air didn't make you shiver too much.

And, he agreed. Without hesitation, without much thought – he told your mother he'd report to the palace in one week.

Dinner with his parents was very quiet that night, with only a murmured apology from him as he cleared the table. His mother insisted he had to do what he felt was right, that his duty was to his heart.

But where has his heart led him? It's gotten him an injured shoulder. It's shown him death, up close and personal. It's shown him how deeply a person can mourn, how thoroughly the end of life can rip someone to shreds.

Nevertheless, he packed his clothes and his favorite books, and he went. He was stationed in the room next to yours, the constant warmth and hearty food a luxury he yearned for his parents to experience. He didn't check in with you, instead finding your mother in her study – in a long, black dress.

He then learned that you were his assignment. 

"The loss of her father has left Y/N incredibly fragile." The Queen started, her pen gripped tightly in her trembling hand. "She's not the same, which was to be expected. She feels it's her fault."

The Queen went on to explain why – you'd told your parents that you weren't one with the idea of an arranged marriage.

Your father had been the first born son of the King of Fort Allingham – and it was only by chance that the Queen had fallen in love with him. They'd met at the suitors' ball many some years ago when it was your mother's turn to inherit the throne – and had become immediately enamored. It worked well in your grandparents' favor, as they had long been in bad standings with the opposing kingdom over unclaimed land.

The marriage between your parents meant a truce, that said unclaimed land would remain untouched.

Desrosiers, named aptly after the rose gardens that spread vast and wide across their land – was another kingdom just south of Decelis that also had ties to the same plot of unclaimed land. The truce there?

You'd marry their first born son. It'd been set in stone by your grandparents, and was something your parents had been looking for a way out of since before you'd even known about it. 

However, the marriage between your parents was untraditional – the Decelis throne belonged to your mother, and as the only heir, there wasn't any way she'd give it up. Your father moving across kingdom lines raised some concerns, but at the end of the day – it was marriage, and it meant peace.

Your father's youngest brother became the King of Fort Allingham shortly after your father's departure. However, he was never fond of the fact that your father left. Something about betrayal, something about treason – but over all, your father had something that he wanted.

Your mother's love.

He, too, had been at the suitors' ball that winter so many years ago. He too, yearned to dance with your mother in the low light of the ballroom, to earn her affections, to be hers.

They say greed is the root of all evil – if he couldn't have your mother, no one could. He didn't care about the land, it was truly only a bonus.

It had been discovered a few weeks after your father's death that he, too, had been killed in the ambush. By none other than the first born son of Desrosiers – and with no heir to the throne of Fort Allingham, the Queen of Fort Allingham took over and cut ties with both kingdoms. The land was up for grabs, and your mother traveled to Desrosiers when you were sick to settle things. 

The Prince of Desrosiers had no interest in marriage, and willingly gave up the idea of a truce with your kingdom if it meant he got the land. No devil in the details, no exceptions, no ifs, ands or buts.

"She told me that she feels that though she may have won the battle…" The Queen hesitated, clearing her throat as tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back, tonguing her cheek. "We've lost the war." Jay finished for her, and she nodded. "It's not her fault. She has to know that, deep down somewhere."

"I don't know anymore. I know it's a lot to ask, too. She needs to be waited on hand and foot, and I can't lose my composure. I have a kingdom to run." The Queen had gestured to the air around her, making him nod in understanding.

"All I ask is that you…nuture her. Keep her company, get her outside. Show her that love still exists, even if the world seems bleak. It's not her fault. It never will be."

"I will try my best, Your Majesty." And, that led him to this point. By your side, at all hours of the day. 

It'd been two years since then, and you'd seemingly progressed – you drifted through the gardens, you settled on the carpet in the massive library. You visited his parents with him, and they treated you like their own. He taught you how to hunt and forage, and often caught you lingering at the end of the riverbend. Your feet in the water, your hands clutching your dress high so as to not get it wet. You closed your eyes, taking in the soft song of the birds flying through the trees and the chitter of the squirrels.

And he couldn't hear you cry yourself to sleep through the door anymore.

Instead, he was subjected to your soft looks and subtle comments. You'd sweep his hair out of his eyes, you'd adjust the hood of his cloak. You'd lean into him a little too deeply when he helped you fix your posture while shooting arrows. You'd bake him things, read him things, even ask him to sit outside with you deep in the night to stare at the stars. You'd point out the brightest one, and say it was your dad.

He hated the way his heart warmed up to you. You'd always been something interesting – from the very moment he met you that fated day at the shop. He wondered, still, if you would have chosen him if the suitors' ball had happened, and if your father would've given him his blessing.

He wonders if you feel the same things he does when he bids you goodnight – the yearn to kiss your lips softly, to lay next to you and hold you close. To breathe you in, become one with your soul and feel the fire of a million bursting suns.

He wondered then if you wanted him, too.

He wouldn't have to wonder for long.

"PRINCESS, IT'S LATE. YOU SHOULD BE SLEEPING."

Jay's voice was stern as you tugged him out of bed, still awake as the clock struck two in the morning. The moonlight was seeping through his open window, and you only pouted as you stomped your foot. He sighs, setting his book down on the nightstand to give you his full attention.

"First of all, I told you to stop calling me that. I'm Y/N to you. Or, baby." You climb onto the end of his bed with a wink, and Jay only groans, falling back against his pillow and grabbing the other to hold over his face. "Second of all, come on! I haven't seen you all day!" Jay gives another grunt into the pillow as you jump up and down the empty side of the bed, before throwing it back. "Because I went to go see my parents, and you didn't wanna come!"

You stop jumping, a sly smirk sliding onto your lips as he sits up abruptly.

"Don't you dare. Someone could hear you." He points a menacing finger at you, but you only laugh as you sink onto the soft bed. "Y/N." "Ooh, I like it when you say my name like that. So scary." You're teasing him, knowing it'll get him to do whatever it is you want without a fight as long as it means you'll get the hell out and shut the fuck up. Granted, he always wants to do what you ask of him, he just likes the little game of cat and mouse.

"What do you want? Quickly, I'm tired." He runs his hand over his face, before carding his fingers through his hair and pushing it off his face. He doesn't like the way you nibble on your lip before you look over at the door, his cheeks growing hot as you scamper off his bed to lock the iron knob. He raises a brow, attempting to appear nonchalant as you also close his window.

"It gets hot in here, why would you do that?" He feigns interest in your actions as you walk back over, rolling your eyes as you climb back onto his bed. You push the covers down, sliding in next to him. He instinctively moves over, the sheets cold beneath him as you snuggle into the warmth he's left behind.

"Spies." You shrug, fighting a smile as you lay your head on his pillow. He tongues his cheek as your hand traces shapes into his arm, before inching closer to rest your chin on it. You peer at him with the most charming look known to man, and he feels his resolve breaking.

"Y/N." "Jongseong." He sighs, before extending his arm out. You smile giddily as you snuggle into his side, your fingers ghosting over his bare chest. He wraps his own around your shoulders, gently poking your ribcage and getting a squeal out of you.

"You're horrible for my health, you know?" He murmurs, before feeling you smile against his skin. "I missed you, Jjongie." You admit, your fingernails drawing featherlight patterns into his stomach. He allows it, but you know his senses are on high alert should your mother make a surprise nightly round and not find you in your bedroom.

"I missed you, baby. But you know we can't keep doing this." He laments, feeling his heart sink as he feels you pout, your breath warm against his chest before you nod. 

"Is it love at all, if in the dark?" You ask, before looking up at him. 

He nods slowly, "I think so. I don't think I'd ever want to exist in a world where you're not all I am."

He swipes your hair back, before softly pinching your cheek between his knuckles. You scowl, shoving it away with your own hand, but he interlaces your fingers. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on the warm skin before holding your hand to his chest. "Don't do that." You mumble, your eyes softened as you pull your hand away reluctantly. He knows what you mean – don't kiss you. Don't kiss you if he's not going to kiss you everywhere, if he's not going to remind you that there will never be someone who loves you as he does. Even if hidden, even if both of you are so full of adrenaline any time you're under the covers together, you know it – the love Jay holds in his heart is uninhibited, it's unmatched, it's irrevocable.

And it's all yours, all for you.

"Mmh." He presses another to your forehead, your eyelids, your cheeks.

"Jay. Stop." You huff, your skin growing hot under his lips as he plants a kiss on your nose. "But I've missed you." He whispers against your lips, "I've missed my pretty girl."

"Jay." You pull back, only for him to trail his lips down your neck softly. "This is not what I was looking to do tonight." "Are you complaining?" He nips at your clavicle, and you laugh softly as you shake your head. "No." You move back, your nose bumping his as he meets your eyes. "I love you." "I love you." He mumbles back, before you press your lips to his chastely. Once, twice, three times. "What did you do today?" "Mmh, wonderful question from thee Park Jongseong." You cradle his face in your palm, absently stroking his cheek with your thumb. "I had lunch in the gardens with my mother. The Queen expects much of my attention, you see. I'm a very busy woman." He snorts, "So busy." You grin, "Incredibly. I wasted away today, however, because the love of me wasn't here. I spent my hours locked away in the library like a princess held captive, reading books of lovers who never abandon their soulmate–" "You are so dramatic." He buries his face in your neck, sinking his teeth into the muscle of your shoulder as you yelp. "Be quiet, someone could hear you." "As if you're not sinking your teeth into me like I'm some piece of meat." You scoff, pushing his head away to reveal blushing cheeks. "And I'm not dramatic, you abandoned me." "I 'abandoned' you on my given day off, and I invited you! You wanted to lounge in bed all day." He protests as you tug at strands of his jet black hair, "You just want me when it's beneficial, I know you." "Not true, I want you all the time." You snort, before swinging your leg over his hip and pull him closer. You press a kiss to his lips, "I need you all the time." "Need me, huh?" "Now who's being dirty?" He only laughs, his hand sliding high on your thigh as he pulls you impossibly closer. He slots his lips with yours, feeling you melt into his touch carefully. He can taste mint and chamomile on your tongue as you slip it into his mouth, a soft whine from your throat as sucks on it gently. "I missed you." He breathes against your lips as he moves to hover over you, but you don't get a chance to respond as he settles himself between your thighs, your dress riding high on your hips as your lips meld with his. It's slightly desperate, like he hadn't kissed you in years – but still so full of love, of adoration, of yearning.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, earning a groan from his lips as he pulls your hands away from him, pinning them above your head with one of his own. He kisses down your jaw chastely, before his teeth tug at your earlobe.

"Behave." "Do the tongue thing." You pant out, feeling his teeth graze the skin of your neck again as he laughs. "Please, please–" "You don't have to beg." He soothes, his free hand moving to the underside of your thigh. You lamely clench around nothing as he keeps kissing your neck, down your chest before you feel his teeth pull at the buttons of your nightgown. "Jay." "So impatient, princess." You huff, opening your mouth to argue when his cool fingers ghost over your bare slit. A squeak leaves your throat, making him laugh as you try and buck your hips into his hand. He pulls it away, tugging at the fabric of your nightgown.

"Wanna see you, pretty. Can we take this off?"

You nod eagerly, sitting up quickly to pull it over your head. He shoves his pants down his legs, and tosses both items to the other side of the bed before pushing you onto your back, pressing a kiss to your lips. You jerk slightly as you feel the weight of his cock against your hip, your mouth watering slightly at the idea of it stretching you out.

It hadn't, yet. Ever, actually.

"I love you." "I love you, Jjongie."

He smiles, your cheeks growing hot as you feel his lips trail further. His hands are soft against your skin, gently rubbing your hips and sides. He trails up your breast, his tongue darting out from between his lips to flick against your nipple. Your hand immediately flies to his hair, tangling in the dark locks as he does it again.

"Feel good?" You can't respond, feeling almost embarrassed at how worked up you've gotten over almost nothing but kissing.

But it's not just kissing, is it?

It's missing him, wanting him. Hating the feeling of knowing this could be a secret for the rest of your life. You know he knows that's where your mind goes as he continues, because he thinks the same thing. It always floats back to you when you're bare in front of each other, baring more than just your bodies. Your hearts, souls. Everything you yearn to hold in your hands, and know you do – but only behind closed doors.

He's on the other side now, the slight scrape of his teeth on your pebbled nipple pulling you back to the moment and drawing a breathy sigh from your throat. Your free hand covers your mouth, before feeling him suck the sensitive bud between his lips. He rolls his tongue against it, earning shaky, bitten-back breaths and your grip tightening in his hair.

"J-Jay–" "Mmh?" 

He trails down your body, peppering kisses on your soft belly with carefully timed nips of his teeth.

"So beautiful, my love."

He murmurs against your hip before he presses a chaste kiss to it. He always did it, for whatever reason, before his hands splayed on the underside of your thighs and pushed them up. You feel his lips trail the inside of your thigh, feeling his teeth sink into the plush flesh and ripping a moan from your throat. He laps his tongue against the marks of his teeth, before he really pushes your thighs up and away – and you feel a bit of shyness settle in your belly as he sighs.

"Fuck, baby." He leans in, making you jolt as his nose bumps your clit. He wraps his arms around your thighs, inhaling deeply before flattening his tongue against your pussy. You bite back your groan, your eyes rolling back as he laps at your wet cunt like he can't get enough. He's savoring you, and you feel your breath get caught in your throat as he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. He lets you rock your hips into his face, his own slowly humping against the mattress at the sheer taste of you. Your pants of yes, yes, oh my God bounce off his ears before he slides his hand down, tracing your hole with a finger. He draws gentle circles into your clit with his tongue as he eases it inside you, and you feel embarrassed at the wet sound that you hear as he carefully works in another.

This is the fullest you'd ever been, your pussy clenching around his fingers as he makes a mess of you on his tongue. He curls them slightly, your thighs threatening to close around his head as you feel your belly fill with warmth. Your moans are slightly breathier as he pushes his fingers in and out of you, your vision spotty as he curls them perfectly into that spongy spot inside you. 

"Jjongie." You whine loudly, your free hand moving to your chest. Your fingers trace over your nipple, still slick with his spit; your body writhing against his tongue and fingers with the added sensation. He hums into you, and you feel your body tense against his face, a choked whimper sliding out of you as your orgasm washes over you. 

You feel his fingers slip out of you, the wetness being smeared on your thigh as he buries his tongue inside your sloppy hole. You can feel him moan into you, your senses in overdrive as he cleans you up, his lips placing a teasing kiss on your thigh before hovering over you. He presses a soft kiss to your mouth, your hand moving to the base of his neck to keep him in place as you slide your tongue into his mouth. You both groan as the taste of yourself fills your mouth, tart and heady in the back of your throat as you feel him press against your thigh unconsciously.

"Baby…want you." "You have me, sweetheart." You shake your head, your hand snaking between the two of you to touch him. His eyes flutter shut as your hand wraps around his cock, the tip dribbling with a bit of precum that you spread with your thumb. He lets out a shaky breath, rocking his hips into your hand when he hears you speak again.

"Want you inside me. Wanna feel you." You mumble against him, squeezing your hand around his tip. He groans, bucking into the sensation involuntarily.

The idea of going all the way had been on the tips of your tongues for months, since you started this, really. It was a flame neither of you dared to touch, but the desire for it only grew the more either of you denied it. You resorted to kissing, touching…his tongue between your thighs any time you had a handful of minutes. You only got to return the favor with your mouth if your mother was out of the palace the next day – which, unfortunately for the two of you, wasn't very often.

"You know why we can't." "I don't care, I want you."

Your eyes are wide and wet as you work him in your hand, feeling him shudder above you as you brush your lips against his cheek.

"Please. Please, my heart."

He sighs shakily, his eyes squeezing shut as you slow the pace of your hand.

"You'll tell me if I'm hurting you, right?" His forehead is rested on your shoulder, pushing your hand away from him. You nod quickly as he physically wipes your hand against the sheets before folding his fingers into it, and sighing. "And this doesn't…change anything, right? You still…" He trails off, and you press a kiss to his shoulder. "I love you, no matter what happens."

He nods against your skin, "Okay."

He steadies himself above you, letting go of your hand to spread your thighs gently. He breathes out, one of his hands moving to align the tip of his cock with your entrance, but you're still so wet from the first round that he slides between the folds. His tip kisses your clit, making your stomach cave in in a breath. Your hand claws at the sheets, gripping them tightly as he mumbles a dazed apology.

His brows are furrowed slightly as he does it again, watching the way you shudder at the feeling. He files it to the back of his mind, before lining himself up carefully. "Are you sure? We can stop any time. We can stop right now." He licks his lips nervously, but you shake your head. "Please, I'm ready. I want you, all of you."

He pushes forward carefully, his eyes fixed on your face. You smile softly at him, your hand reaching for his. He takes it gently, interlacing your fingers as he sinks in deeper. Your nose scrunches slightly, and he stops. You swallow slightly, squeezing his hand with a nod of your head. He moves a bit more, a soft whimper from your throat making him stop again when you shake your head, squeezing his hand again to signal that you're okay.

He sinks into you the rest of the way, trying not to close his eyes at the warmth of your gummy walls surrounding him. You let out a breath through your mouth, his hand on your thigh moving to trace circles into your clit. The way you clench around him nearly makes him fall forward, but the scrunch in your brows starts to dissipate the more he does it; before you move his hand, away. "Move, Jjongie." You whisper, before feeling him move to hover over you once more. His lips brush against yours gently, your hands cradling his face to kiss him. He uses the moment to pull out slightly, before pushing back in. You grimace, feeling his hand slide to your hip, squeezing as he kisses you again. He moves, trying to hold a groan back as you squeeze around his cock.

"Jay…" Your voice is breathy against his lips, and he sighs shakily before thrusting into you again carefully. You moan in his ear, feeling his head fall against your shoulder as your hands move to his back. You feel him mutter soft curses into your skin, whimpers filling your ears.

"I love you." You whisper as he peppers kisses along your skin, feeling your eyes water as you hear him say those precious words back. "I love you, my heart."

He feels so good, filling you to the brim with shallow thrusts that are somehow angeled perfectly to hit that spot inside you. Your legs wrap around his hips as a tear slides down your face, locking your ankles as the sound of your pussy swallowing him fills the room.

When you feel a wet drop on your neck, a muffled fuck in your ear as he thrusts particularly hard, knocking the wind out of you.

"Shit, I'm s–"

You silence him with your lips smashing into his, the feeling of his cock dragging against your walls so overwhelming that you feel dizzy. His movements grow slightly sloppy as your pussy flutters around him – the same familiar feeling in your lower belly growing as your nails dig into his back as he pulls away from your face and buries his nose in your neck. "Say you're mine." His voice is breathy, making you shiver as you nod eagerly, your voice nothing but a whine as you mouth at the small scar on his shoulder.

"Yours. Only yours."  Your thighs tighten around his hips as you cum around him, a groan from his throat filling your ears as he spills inside you. He kisses the side of your neck tiredly, the shallow thrusting of his hips slowing to a stop as he carefully pushes off you.

Your pants fill the room, eyes fluttering closed as his hands knead the soft flesh of your thighs.  "Are you okay?" He murmurs, hands moving to squeeze at your hips and sides. You nod lazily, humming in his direction as if asking the same. He nods in response, planting a soft kiss to your lips before carefully pulling out. You wince at the sudden emptiness, running a hand through your hair as you look to see he's slipped off the bed, rustling around his dresser. He returns with a towel, pressing a kiss to your knee before gently wiping you clean.

"You are absolutely terrible for my health, princess." He mutters, earning a scoff from you as you nudge his hip with your foot. He snickers, giving your side a soft pinch and making you squeal before swatting his hand away. "You love me, Park Jongseong." You retort as he smiles, tossing the dirty towel to the hamper. He nods, nuzzling his nose against yours as you pout. "Tell me you love me." "I do love you, angel. You know that." He gives you a pointed look as he lays next to you, before kissing your lips softly. "I will love you, until the end of my days. Don't pretend like you don't know I'd give my life for you." You huff as he pulls the blanket over you, his han on your back pulling you close. You allow it, swinging your leg over his hip and resting your head on his bicep. He presses a kiss to your hairline, your own lips peppering over his collarbone.

"What happens tomorrow?"

Your voice breaks the silence, and he sighs. He knows tomorrow starts a long week of festivities, ended by a Saturday morning gathering of the entire kingdom – for you to step up to the throne as Queen. Your mother had made it clear that the death of your father would not push back your growth within the kingdom, and you'd be taking over come Saturday morning. You'd be sat in your best dress, your hair swept back and donning your heaviest jewels. You'd be sat in front of the entire kingdom, presented with your mother's crown and her staff.

You'd be Queen, and he'd be left to yearn behind the scenes.

"I don't know, my love." "I won't marry if it's not you, you know." "I won't either. You know that."

He looks down at you, your eyes wide as you scan his face. He feels his cheeks warm as he cradles your face gently, your hand moving to his wrist.

And just for this moment, you're not the Princess of Decelis. You're not the princess of anything, you're nothing but his. His to hold, to cherish, to love. His to kiss and worship, to kneel before and ask forgiveness for his sins. The queen of his heart.

"I love you, Jongseong." "I love you, Y/N."

IT'S THURSDAY EVENING, AND IT'S THE FIRST TIME HE'S GOTTEN A MOMENT TO HIMSELF SINCE THE START OF YOUR FESTIVITIES.

He's sitting at his windowsill, resting his cheek on the heel of his palm. A glass of wine sits untouched next to him as he stares at the stars. They're dim, but they're there – freckling the sky and accompanying the moon, the beauty of it reminding him of you. The kingdom is quiet aside from the trotting of a few horses on the cobblestone, the laughter of teenagers echoing through the town as they sneak pints of mead and bottles of wine from the back of the local brewery.

He hasn't been able to speak to you much since that night in his bedroom, and he feels his stomach turn every time you make a moment to talk to him – only to be pulled away. By a childhood friend wanting to dance, or a man thinking he has a chance to win your heart – he always lets you go, seeing the bit of anger flare in the back of your eyes as you slip away. He misses you, and you're only ever two or three inches away. He walks alongside you, his hands folded behind his back as yours rest in front of you. With every move of your arms, the collar of your dress reveals the dotted bruising of his teeth against your shoulder – to the point that he adjusts your hair over it several times.  No one thinks anything more of it. Just a devoted guard that cares for the safety and image of the Princess of Decelis. 

He misses when you were just his heart. The reason behind the wild thundering of it in his ribcage, the sole reason he breathes and lives. He hates the way your gold locket burns under his clothes, hidden under the collars of his shirts since you clipped it on him on Sunday morning with a silent kiss to his lips.

Now?

You're moving throught the gardens below with your mother, he spots you a few feet into the rose bushes. The moonlight illuminates the satin of your baby blue dress, the glitter catching his eyes as you stop suddenly. You turn around, your eyes dancing around before you look up, meeting his. Yours widen, lips parting before your mother speaks and you close it.

"Don't look at me that way, Y/N. It worries me." His brows jump, and he sees the way your eyes fill with guilt before you look away from him. "Everything worries you, Mother." You respond, your hands clutching the fabric of your dress as the Queen comes into view. Her dress is a deep sea blue, the belled sleeves gathered around her hands as she folds them in front of her. "Y/N, I run a kingdom and make thousands of decisions in just one day. Now, I've got an daughter that picks at her food in front of guests, of course I worry. What has gotten into you? Please tell me now, lest I pull it out of you."

Your mother's voice is quite soothing to him, and he feels a rift in the air as he hears the heels of your shoes click on the cobblestone.

"Mother, I…I don't want you to be upset." "Darling, please. Spit it out before I get collywobbles."

Your face crumples slightly, and he sits up quickly when he sees you cover your face with your hands. Your mother quickly pulls you into her embrace, her hands smoothing over your hair as you cry into her chest. She shushes you as one does a baby.

"I could never be upset with you, Y/N. You're everything to me, you have to know that." She rubs her hand over the back of your head, carefully tucking your hair behind your ears. "Everything I do, I do for you. The kingdom, the feasts, everything is for you, Y/N. As long as you're happy, I'll never have any reservations." Your head lifts, and the moonlight shines on the sheen of tears down your cheeks.

"What happens when I become Queen? Will I have to marry someone of your choosing?" 

Your mother looks taken aback, before shaking her head. Her hand carefully adjusts the bejeweled tiara on your head, before tucking her hands behind her back.

"I married for love." She says softly, but it's still heard in the still of night. She turns, walking carefully down the pathway to one of the stone benches. "I married for love, and mighty me, did I love." The Queen sits on the edge of it, looking up at you making your way in front of her. She smiles softly, and he sees so much of you in her. "This is about Jongseong." He feels his heart stop, the sound of his name from your mother's lips so foreign. She awarded him curt nods, gentle smiles since his station at the palace, but nothing more. 

He looks to you, seeing the tiara in your hand and you picking at the silver framework. "It wasn't on purpose." "Yes, it was."

His brows furrow at the admission, only to see you mirroring his expression. 

"What?" The Queen shrugs, a small smile gracing her features as she plucks one of the roses off the bush next to her.

"Your betrothal wasn't a thought that crossed my mind until your father came to bed after your celebration feast." She picks at a petal, letting it float to the ground beneath her feet. "I'd long run my options into the ground, I was trying to pull any and every string to get you out of the alliance marriage with Desrosiers. It was eating me alive."

You knelt before her, eyes riddled with curiosity as he leaned further out the window.

"He said you thought Jongseong was cute. That you were in the kitchen with the chef, and making him a pastry with the berries you bought that day. I remember I went to check your bedroom when he said that, and you weren't there. I asked one of the maids to find you, but she told me you were busy making a lemon curd." She nods, a fond smile gracing her lips as she picks another petal off the bud.

"And then, you wore your favorite dress the next day when you left the stables. I saw you from my bedroom, and you had the giddiest smile on your face." She laughs, her fingers gently spreading the unbloomed bud to reveal the anthers. "Your father smiled the same way, you know, when we met on the night of my suitors' ball. We snuck out to this very garden, sat on this bench and looked at the stars."

"I catch the two of you out of the corner of my eye quite often. When you're visiting his parents in the forest, and he helps you onto your horse. When you're in the library, reading all the books he recommends and he falls asleep on your shoulder. When he's teaching you things that he loves, and you listen instead of scrunching your nose and turning away. That's…that's something I could never arrange, ally, or even enchant. You don't find that anywhere, not like this." 

He hears a soft sniffle, before seeing her slide the rose over your ear.

"He's done just as I've asked of him. In a world so bleak, where the devil is in the details…he's shown you love." Her hands cup your face gently, "You…are everything to me. You're the apple of my eye, and I know I could never, ever take something so pure away from you. The crown, the throne, the kingdom…it's all yours. Yours for the taking, the ruling, all of it. And it's something you've never had to earn, even if you've worked hard for it." The Queen stands, pulling you to your feet and into her arms.

"You don't just get love. You earn it. You earn every caress, every kiss, every moment of companionship. That boy…you've won him over so dearly. He's kind, and gentle. He's responsible and I know he'd love you until the end of your days." 

She pulls away, cradling your face in her hands with a stern look settled in her brows.

"Don't you dare break his heart, Y/N."

"I would never." You smile mischievously, your hands circled her wrists as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

"Is this what you've had your stomach in knots about? Jongseong?" Your mother trills her lips, pinching your cheeks. "Go on, off to bed you go. You've got quite the rehearsal tomorrow."

"Yes, Mother. And…" You glance over her shoulder, your eyes pinning him in place as his cheeks burn in embarrassment. "Thank you." "I'd bring the stars down if you asked, my darling. Now, scram. I've got many things to do before tomorrow's festivities." She wiggles her finger at you as you clutch your dress in your hands, your tiara grasped in one of them as you nod. You turn on your heel, the click of them against the cobblestone getting louder as you made your way back to the castle.

He watches fondly as the fabrics flow behind you, his chest warm as you disappear into the north tower entrance. He goes to move from the windowsill, but something stops him as he sees the Queen's shoulders sag. She sits down once more, a sigh from her lips as she takes the heavy golden crown atop her head and thumbs at the large gems. She sets it down in her lap, her hands reaching around her neck and a locket similar to yours appears in her palm. She opens it, her finger tracing the photo inside it with sigh. She holds it to her chest, a deep breath slipping through her lips.

"Oh, my heart. How I miss you, so." She sniffled, before inhaling shakily and closing the locket. He hears the door of his room open, but he doesn't turn around as he feels your arms snake over his shoulders. His hand reaches for yours, interlacing your fingers as your lips brush his cheek.

"She's so…sad." He murmurs, feeling your thumb trace soft circles into his skin. He can feel your lips open to say something, when your mother speaks again.

She looks up to the sky, the brightest star shining to the left of the moon.

"I know you're looking down, my heart. Do you think they'll marry? She'll miss you there." She stands, holding her crown in her hand before taking a deep breath and placing it atop her head once more. "But, I'll see you there. I know it." She clasps the locket around her neck once more, tucking it beneath the collar of her dress before another sigh comes out.

"Goodnight, my heart. I love you dearly." The Queen folds her hands in front of her, her head bowed as she quietly made her way through the garden. He sighs, before turning to you. Your brows are furrowed as you stare into the night, the cogs in your head turning before you pull him away from the window. He allows it, following you down the hall with his hand interlaced with yours.

"Come, we've got work to do before my coronation."

THE DAWN OF SATURDAY WAS BROUGHT FORTH WITH SERENE SILENCE.

He was taking a deep breath in front of your mother's bedroom, having reluctantly left the safety of your arms. He held the bouquet he'd arranged the night before, with Friday being bursting with activities and way too much on your plate.  Marigolds, Grand Cru lilies, with speckles of baby's breath and the touch of white bouvardia. A bouquet you saw much of during your parents' marriage – with gifts of berries from Jay's family, pastries made by your father's careful hands, songs played by the royal orchestra at your father's order. 

You'd seemed like a madwoman last night, darting around in the kitchen and giving him things to do. He'd muddled berries, kneaded pastry dough, settled a lemon curd. He'd wrapped the flowers in wax paper, tied together with an ivory bow you'd stolen from your mother's collection – one she'd worn the night of her suitors' ball so many years ago.

"You haven't got all day, my love."

Your voice echoed down the hall, and he looked up to see you carefully clipping in your earrings. Your hair had been tied back and you weren't close to being ready, but he felt his heart all too warm as you smiled and waved him forward with both hands. He turned back to the heavy oak door, his hand grabbing the iron knocker and tapping it to the door three times. 

"Your Majesty? It's Jongseong." He speaks clearly, but feels his stomach flip as he hears the click of her shoes on the marble tile. He looks back up to see you've gone, closing his eyes as he takes another deep breath. He hears the door lock click open, before a shred of the morning light peeks through.

Your mother looks down at him, her eyes wide as she pulls the door open further.

"Yes?" Her voice is soft, and he opens his eyes to see her dressed in a bright, golden yellow dress. His eyes widen, hand tightening around the bouquet. Her eyes fill with worry, "Are you alright? Is that…for me?" "I…yes. Yes, it is. From…the Princess and I." He holds it out to her, her hand hesitating to take it as her eyes rake over it. "The Princess?" She whispers, before thumbing at the petals of the lilies. She takes it gently, her eyes filling with something of suspicion as she examines them. "Is she…planning something? She's a daring little thing, you know." "Not to my knowledge, Your Majesty." He lies through his teeth, his eyes catching the morning light reflecting off the glittering dress. "If I may…you look lovely." The Queen tenses, her hand moving to the bodice of her dress. She shifts quietly, before looking back at him.

"It's the least I could do for her. She complains that I never wear colors anymore. I figured…it's not too flashy, is it? She always liked this one best." The Queen turns to the grand mirror against the wall, and he cleared his throat.

"It's not about what I think, is it?" He smiles softly, earning a laugh from the Queen. It's rich, but airy and playful.

"I suppose today is all about her. I'm sure she'll love it, she has to." She soothes herself, before catching his eyes in the reflection of the mirror. "Jongseong?" "Yes, Your Majesty?" He straightens, and she turns on her heel, placing the hefty bouquet on her pillows. The bell sleeves of her dress come forward as she folds her manicured hands in front of her, her head tilted slightly under her sparkling bejeweled crown.

"You'll keep her safe, won't you? If you marry?" 

He feels his chest warm and swell with pride, his cheeks flushing as he bows at the waist. "It would be my honor, Your Majesty."

"And you'll love her, until the end of her days? 'Til death do you part?" Her voice grows stern, her brows furrowed at the center as he lifts his head. Her eyes are steely, only hardening more as he nodded.

"I'd give my life." He admits softly, her eyes softening. The Queen nods, and his eyes widen as she, too, bows at the waist with her eyes closed.

"Then I give you my blessing to take her hand in marriage." She whispers, before straightening and folding her hands behind her back. "Through sickness and health, for richer or poorer." "To love and cherish." He murmurs, folding his hands behind his back as he meets her eyes. "I give you my word, Your Majesty." She only nods softly, before reaching around her neck and unclasping her necklace. A thick, gold band is hanging next to the locket, and he recognizes it as the ring the King used to wear when he would visit. Without letting go of her locket, she carefully pulls at her left ring finger.  He can't help but feel his eyes widen as she holds the hefty gold bands out to him. She gives him a pointed look, flicking her wrist for him to take the jewelry. He does so carefully, before she smiles.

"I've had them blessed by the town priest, so don't worry. Now…see to it that everything is in place in the gardens, will you? It's going to be a very busy day."

He nods, "Of course, Your Majesty. Thank you…for everything."

"It's my honor, Jongseong. Please, go." He reaches for the door without another word, closing it gently behind him before he makes his way down the hall, his hands cool against flaming hot cheeks.

Jay is strolling through the garden as the trickle of guests begin arriving, greeting them gently as the royal orchestra plays soft music at the edge of the rose garden. You'd be crowned Queen in the marigold garden, the courtyard decorated to your liking – cream and ivory ribbon tied in all sorts of bows, glittering vases filled with refreshing spring water on the long table covered in fruit and meat and soft, spongy cakes.

Your mother's throne sits at the end of the court yard, the Decelis staff and coronation crown sat on a purple velvet pillow. They sparkle in the sunlight, with the people of the kingdom fawning over it from a distance – a royal guard standing on high alert next to the throne.

"Oh, this is beautiful."

He hears a familiar voice at the entrance of the lily garden, his eyes widening as he sees his parents slip in. He rushes over, a smile on his face as his mother waves him over.

"You're here! Did the Queen send for you?" He embraces them warmly, but hears your voice before they can respond.

"I sent for them, Jongseong. Mrs. Park, Mr. Park. It's an honor to see you again. I'm sorry I couldn't make it back last weekend, I had a terrible case of the lollygag." The three of them look up to see you smiling brightly – your dress long and sparkling in the morning sun, of glittering alabaster tulle and a billowing skirt in the soft breeze. Your arms are covered in sparkling sleeves, belled at the wrists and your shoulders peeking from the lowered cuffs. Your hair is pulled back, not a single strand out of place under your twinkling tiara. Your ears don simple gold hoops, your necklace the crest of the kingdom on an ovaled pendant.

"Oh, my stars." Mrs. Park's hand covers her mouth, "Look at you, Princess."

"Oh, you flatter me. Please, come in. Make yourselves comfortable, there's a table reserved for you at the front." You give them a quick curtsy, giving Mrs. Park a quick hug and Mr. Park a soft handshake. "I'll see you all during the feast, yes?" "Of course." Mr. Park nods, before Jay watches them slip away. You glance at him, your smile softening as you inch near – not close enough to catch attention, but seemingly just a princess speaking to her guard about something worrisome.

"I love you." You whisper, only to earn a scoffed laugh.

"You're going to be the death of me, look at you." He whispers back, and you hide your laugh with a bite of your lip. "I love you, my heart." "I'll see you after, yes? Sit with your parents." You pat his arm, and he nods, before disguising a tiara adjustment as an excuse to touch you.

"I have to talk to you after, okay? We can meet in the library." He whispers, and your eyes fill with worry. "Is everything alright?" "Of course, my heart. Why would I worry you on such an important day?" His smile is warm, and you give him a suspicious one with a pat to his chest. "Well…I'll see you. Go, sit while I mingle. I need you up there when I get crowned." You wiggle your brows, and he lets his eyes flicker to your lips. You stick your tongue out at him, "Not here." "I know, I know. But…you know, right?" He pretends to adjust the tiara again, watching the way you fight yourself from leaning into the touch. "You have to know." "I do. I love you. Now, go, beloved." You point your gaze, and he retreats his hands to his back, giving you a curt nod.

"As you wish, Your Highness." He grins as you scowl, laughing to himself as he turns away and walks towards his parents. They're seated quietly, with two glasses of water poured in front of them and a plate of sliced fruit. They smile at each other as they pick at the berries chosen from their shop, and he slips into the chair next to them.

"Does the Queen know?" His mother whispers, and he clears his throat quietly. "Yes." He tries not to let the giddiness climb up his throat, and she smiles softly. "Are you happy?" His father questions, and he nods discreetly.

"It's the softest thing I've ever felt." He looks up before picking at the plate of fruit, piercing a blackberry with a toothpick as he sees you take a flute of sparkling cider off a passing waiter's tray. You hand it to the younger woman in front of you, before tucking her hair behind her ear. You give her a soft nod, before turning away and leaving her in awe.

Much like you've always left him.

"Welcome, welcome! Ladies and gentleman, it is such an honor to have you all here for this incredibly important day in our kingdom's history. Today, we witness the spring equinox be christened with the crowning of a new Queen, of a new ruler." 

Your mother is standing bright and tall at the end of the marigold garden, with everyone in utter astonishment at the return of her colorful wardrobe. She's practically glimmering in everyone's eyes – and she holds her composure at everyone's loving eyes as she continues to speak.

"Through the years of my time as Queen, I've seen many things. Even as just a part of this world, I've seen so much. I've seen death, I've seen birth. I've seen renewal and growth, I've seen the sick be healed and the healed lose their minds in utter despair at the idea of loss. There are some special gratitudes I'd like to put forth, particularly to the Park family." She smiles warmly at their table, and they smile quietly. 

You're standing with Jay next to the throne, your hands folded behind your back when you sneak at a glance at him. Your eyes catch his, and he raises a brow as he looks between his parents. "The Park family has not only brought forth an incredibly bounty – the juice of their fruit so sweet on our tongues, the magic of Mrs. Park's medicinal genius curing our sickness…but the blanket of love they have covered my family in. For decades, I've entrusted my life in their hands, my daughter's…my heart, the King." The crowd of townspeople hum in mourning, and your mother rolls her shoulders gently. Her hands cover her chest, fingers curled around each other as she breathes in.

"With death, comes life. Though the loss of the King has been long in the past now, I still feel it. I feel the pain, deep in my heart. As though a piece of my soul has gone with him, as though I'm no longer complete." Her voice remains strong and steady, but her eyes water slightly as she rolls her shoulders once more.

"I remember when I first introduced Y/N as the Princess of Decelis. Everyone, as far as the eye could see, became incredibly enamored with her. And I could feel it, I could feel the adoration of everyone who came to see her. It was one of the proudest moments of my life, and…through her, every time I see her…" She turns to look at you, standing next to her throne with your head held high.

"It's like the King never left. She is so full of light, love and life. Life, what we are all surviving when we should be living. What more could I ever ask of her? When I know she'll be a wonderful ruler, a fair and just Queen. What more, I ask, could I ever want? When I know she will be happy, with the love that she gives and the light that she shines upon us all?"

Jay glances at you through the corner of his eye, your eyes watering as you step forward. You don't see the way his fingers clench at his side, wanting to comfort you.

"The Princess has some thoughts she'd like to share before we continue. Please, a standing ovation."

The Queen steps back, her smile soft as you take her place. Everyone in front of you has the same bright smile, but the only ones that matter are behind you.

"It is truly an honor to be in front of you all today to accept the next step in my journey. The Queen and I have gone through many things together, and though I've seen only what half has she, I…know the love. The light that shines on this kingdom, not brought forth by me but by her. So much kindness, and generosity, even through her own tribulations. Wouldn't you agree?" Your smile garners the cheers of the townspeople gathered throughout the gardens, and you clap along them softly. Your face grows slightly solemn as you clear your throat. "Three years ago this winter, our kingdom was ambushed by Fort Allingham and Castle Desrosiers. A plot of land just south of our kingdom was unclaimed, and it is said that greed is the greatest root of all evil. Land, gold, riches in oil can all be taken; when a life is taken to stake their claim, when life a many is taken…it cannot be in vain. The King…he died with honor. His sacrifice, and his memory will not be thrown away or forgotten. With this, I ask for a moment of silence for the royal orchestra to play something I've asked to honor him today, as well as the indescribable love he had for my mother."

You watch as the people of your kingdom turn to the orchestra in the rose garden, your mother's brow slightly furrowed as she does the same.

Her eyes widen as the opening notes of Salut D'Amour float through the garden.

Soft murmurs fill the garden – because everyone who knows the story of your mother and father knows that it was the first and only song they danced to during the suitors' ball where they met. Everyone who went to the royal wedding and sat in that sacred ballroom, knows that Salut D'Amour played as their first dance together.

Everyone who was at the feast to honor your father, knows that Salut D'Amour played during the last dance of the night.

Salut D'Amour – Greeting of Love.

The Queen hums along quietly, her eyes watering as she sways from side to side. The townspeople do the same, and you feel the heat of Jay's eyes on you as everyone else is turned away. You meet them, a soft smile on your lips as you tilt your head.

The song ends, and the garden is erupted in cheers as your mother steps to you, resting her forehead to yours.

"Thank you, darling." She steps aside, and you garner their attention once more.

"My father was a wonderful man, father and king. I hope to only live up to my mother's legacy, and his. Thank you for being with me on this very special day." You take a quick bow as they clap gently, before taking a step back next to the thrown. Your mother smiles, stepping forward alongside her royal guard that holds the pillow. She grabs the staff in her right hand, before you turn to face her. Jay places a thick cushion on the ground for you to kneel onto, gingerly taking your hand to help you down. He lets his touch linger, before another guard hands him a matching pillow for your tiara.

"Today, we witness a wonderful transition for the Decelis Kingdom." She touches the end of the staff to your left shoulder, "Princess Y/N will honor the crest of the kingdom, the glory, the honesty and the truth…" She touches it to your right shoulder, "She will make her decisions of sane heart and mind, and bring forth only fruit to the kingdom. She will be just, and fair…" She touches the staff to the top of your head, "And she will bestow mercy upon us all. Do you choose to venerate these honors as I have read them to you?"

"I do." You hold your hands out for the staff, and the Queen gingerly places it in your hands. You lean your head forward, your mother carefully lifting your tiara and placing it on the pillow in Jay's hands. He hands it off to another royal guard, who steps back with it and stands rigidly. She turns slightly, taking the coronation crown in her hands and Jay holds his hand for you to take as you stand. You transfer the staff into your right hand, bowing your head as your mother places the heavy crown atop your head.

"Crowned on this 80th calendar day, on the first equinox of the year; I present the honorable Queen of Decelis."

You turn to face the people of your kingdom, your cheeks hurting as the entire garden fills with screams and cheers, a few whistles sounding off from the somehow tipsy men in the corner. You give the Parks a warm smile as they stand and clap, before you speak again.

"Well, what are we waiting for? Let's celebrate!"

"You have no idea how many people asked when I'm getting married, and if I'd be having a suitors' ball. Apparently, it's unheard of for a prospective Queen to advance to the throne without being betrothed. How incredibly modern of me." You're slumped over the end of your bed, earning a soft laugh as he pulled at the strings of your dress. You sighed in relief at the loosening of the bodice around your torso, stretching slightly. He pulls the zipper down with ease, his knuckles digging lightly against your back as you groan. "And what did you tell them?" You huff, before rolling on your back. There's a guilty look in your eye, and he feels suspicion cross his features as he leans over you. He raises a brow as you look away from him.

"Y/N." "Don't say my name like that, then I can't ignore it."

You cover your face with your hands, but he pulls them away from you, pinning them above your head as he gives you an expectant look. You sigh, tonguing your cheek before rolling your eyes.

"I told them that I was already betrothed." You mumble, making him groan slightly. "I don't believe in jinxes! So we're fine! It's fine!" "Honey, you can't do that. People are going to stir up a flurry of rumors." He scolds, but you only jut your lip out in a pout.

"Don't chastise me right now, I saved you from having to ask me! And I've had a long day!" You try and reason, but he only shakes his head, leaning closer. He feels your breath hitch as his lips brush yours as he speaks.

"And what makes you think I don't want to ask you to marry me? Why do you get to make that decision for us?" You blink carefully, before sighing. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, before you shrug in defeat.

"I guess I jumped the gun." "Oh, but you've had such a long day." You scoff, "Don't patronize me." He smiles, pressing a kiss to your lips. You frown as he pulls away before you can kiss him back, but he lets go of your hands entirely and slides off the bed. You try not to look disappointed as you slip in front of your vanity, pulling pins out of your hair and rubbing your fingers against your scalp. Your eyes roll slightly, before you feel Jay's fingers begin to pluck the rest of the pins out.

"Your mother spoke to me this morning when I delivered her flowers. She's quite scary sometimes." He nods as you look at him through the mirror, your eyes wide as you attempt to turn to look at him. He smirks, holding your head in place with his hands as you scowl. "My mother is not scary." You grumble, tonguing your cheek before you feel his dull fingernails scrape lightly against your scalp. You lean into it, and he bites back a laugh as he massages the back of your head. He leans down slightly, pressing his lips to your temple before whispering.

"She gave me her blessing." He watches your eyes widen in the mirror, before you twist in your seat. "You asked her?" "She didn't give me a chance, she just asked me if I'd keep you safe." You turn fully as he crouches in front of you, carefully pulling your heels off. "And what did you say?" "That it would be my honor. She asked if I'd love you until the end of your days, 'til death do us part. I said I'd give my life. The way I see it, your mother practically married us already."

You snort, nudging his thigh with your foot. "You haven't even asked me yet."

He smiles, feeling his heart warm as you realize that that's precisely what he's about to do. "No, Jay, not right now! I look a mess, and I'm half dressed–" "And yet, you're still the love of my life. Funny how that works, isn't it?" He grins as you pout, your eyes filling with tears as he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the gold bands that belonged to your mother. "She gave me these."

Your pout only deepens as you cover your face with your hands, a soft sob falling from your lips as he coos.

"Oh, sweetheart. Come on, don't cry. I haven't even asked yet."

You uncover your face, a furrow in your brows as your voice sounds off, thick with tears. "It doesn't even matter if you have, I know you're going to and I'm going to say yes so just put the damn thing on me already!" "You really have had such a long day, I'd hate to make it longer." He can't help but smile wider, making you scoff.

"I'm in tears and you're smiling at me! You're cynical!" You wipe at your face with your hands as he bends one knee on the floor, only for your face to crumple the moment it hits the ground. "Jongseong!" He takes your hand gently, your lips pouty as he presses a kiss to your knuckles. "I love you, you know that?" He starts, "You are the softest, purest form of love I've ever been subjected to and I don't think I could ever fathom a life where I don't come home to you every single night. I love you when you're sick and throwing a fit because it's too hot, I love you when you hog the blankets in my room even though you're technically not even supposed to be in there." You scoff, but don't interrupt as he runs his thumb over your knuckles.

"I love you like every day will be my last, and I worship the ground you walk upon until I can no longer crawl behind you. If my dying day was spent by your side…I could never ask for more." 

He glances up at you, your eyes wide and wet and full of love.

"Marry me." He whispers, and you nod your head frantically. "Yes, I intend to. Hurry up!" You splay your fingers, making him snort as he shakes his head.

"You're so impatient." He rolls his eyes, but doesn't miss the tremble in his fingers as he carefully slides the ring on yours. Your hand grabs his, pulling him forward and pressing a warm kiss to his lips before grabbing his face and squeezing his cheeks between your hands. You pepper kisses all over it, with murmurs of I love you sprinkled in before you stop suddenly, your eyes wide as you pull back.

"You're going to be King." You blurt, and he shrugs but you shake your head, still holding onto his face as you ramble. "Jay, you're going to be King. There is so much my mom is going to have to teach you, and she–"

"Honey." "She's going to have to set up the wedding because I don't know how to do that, and what if she–" "Y/N." You stop, embarrassedly letting go of his face. "I'm sorry." He takes hold of your hands, standing from his spot in front of you and pulling you with him. He plants a kiss on your hairline, before tucking a loose curl behind your ear.

"Where you go, I go. Doesn't matter what I am, as long as I'm yours. We'll figure it out in due time." He presses a chaste kiss to your pouted lip, before cradling your face in his hands. "What do you say I help you decompress from your oh so long day?" You raise a brow, "Are you gonna–" "Do the tongue thing, yes." "Lock my door. We may be engaged, but I'm still a lady."

THE WEDDING WAS HELD THREE WEEKS LATER AND WAS A HUGE SUCCESS – WITH MANY TOWNSPEOPLE TALKING ABOUT HOW EASY IT WAS TO FIGURE OUT THAT IT WAS HIM YOU WERE ENGAGED TO.

How, you may be asking? Neither of you are as subtle as you think. Apparently, neither of you could stop sharing glances during the last feast of your coronation festivities, and a few of the straggling women spotted him press a kiss to your shoulder as he helped clean up the garden. Not to mention the fact that several huntsmen had also been in the forest every time you and him went to visit his parents. As it turns out, you don't usually end up making out against a tree during regular archery lessons, but hey – life is short. Foragers had also spotted the two of you about, and you're embarrassed to know that one of the fishermen in town had come across you and Jay canoodling while roasting a wild salmon over a campfire. Mr. Lee insisted it was fine, that it was cute – and also, none of his business.

The wedding had been grand – and quick. Jay was always right, you were incredibly impatient; but you saw no reason for something to take so long to plan when you had everything perfectly accessible. Your ceremony was only family and a few scattered friends – but the reception was a huge feast that gathered all the townspeople in your garden once more. Your first dance was to Salut D'Amour, and you got slightly tipsy off a few flutes of champagne. Your dress was something delicate, worked on from the morning after your coronation to the morning of your wedding – and every single sparkle of glitter was perfect in the beaming sunlight.  As for Jay? He was crowned King in the privacy of your mother's throne room, with his parents and you present. No one in town made a fuss about it, seemingly aware that he was a private person – after all, you managed to keep a relationship of three years secret…for the most part. He admitted he didn't really care for the title, only taking it because it meant a great deal of support for you as Queen. 

He moved his belongings into your bedroom, and you could tell the way things really hit him as he put away the last book in his collection onto your shelf. 

"...So this is us, huh?" He murmured, slipping under the covers as you snorted, resting your head on the heel of your palm as he turned on his side to face you. "We're married." "We are." You smile, "It's insane to me to know that me telling my father I thought you were cute has led us here."

"I love knowing that you fell first." "Oh, shut up. You fell harder." "I'm not refuting that, I'm just saying…you like me." "I love you, idiot." You roll your eyes as he scoots closer, and you swing your leg over his hip. "Just wait until everyone starts asking about heirs. I swear, it will feel like the most awkward thing ever." "We just got married, they can wait a year or two." He snorts, and you raise a brow.

"A year or two? More like three or four." You scoff, and he smiles. "Don't smile at me like that, it's like you're plotting something." "Three or four years?" He moves to hover over you slightly, making you groan as he presses a chaste kiss to your lips. "Jay." "Mmh?" "You are horrible, terrible, no good for my health." You huff embarrassedly as he trails down your jaw, his hand pushing the hem of your nightgown up. "Awful, even. Bad." "Mhm, mhm." His fingers curl around the waistband of your underwear, "Have you tried detrimental to? Maybe ghastly?" "You're parlous for my health, my beloved husband." You roll your eyes as he smiles, before feeling the fabric of your underwear being pulled down your legs. "Jay." "Consider this a practice round." He presses a kiss to your lips, "Just wanna make you feel good, okay?"

And of course, it's okay. It's always okay – it's you and him, forever.

That's why you're never against him, either. You'd never felt so safe in the arms of someone who didn't owe you anything – because he didn't. He didn't owe you the kindness of his heart, the warmth of his love or the solidness of his honesty. He didn't owe you friendship, because when this started – it was just a job. To protect you from harm, to watch over you, to help you hop along.

When he first came into your life after your father's death, he helped you see there was a way to have your cake and eat it too, to win the battle and the war.

There didn't have to be more than that to your relationship – more than the subtle reminders of unbreakable love, of yearning desire, of undying patience.

There didn't have to be anything more to you as a person – nothing but who you were already, sprinkled in with what it was like to be loved by Jay. It was warm, it was patient and kind…and it was everything to you. Jay was everything to you, and you felt ease knowing it could now forever rest at the forefront of your mind – because he is proof that you can win the battle, and conquer the world.

"Honey?" "Yes, my heart?" "I love you." "I love you, angel."

BABEYUN © 2025. no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

[lvl1l1]

Telling LaDS men you’re so hungry you could eat their…

pairings: Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb x Reader(separate)

content: crack, they’re starting to think you’re losing it, mentions of caleb’s death in zayne’s, this is stupid im sorry

a/n: i love this tiktok trend, doing it to children was funny but it’s even better on grown men

Xavier - his coworker!

You and Xavier were spending a lazy afternoon in, sitting on the couch, letting a movie play as background noise.

Your head was resting against his chest, as he drew patterns on your back.

The two main characters in the film were having dinner together and you pointed at the screen,

“I think we should eat something soon. I’m so hungry, I could eat, like, Tara.”

A moment of silence passed between you two, his movements on your back halted,

“Tara?”

You didn’t respond, eyes still glued to the screen.

“Isn’t she your friend?“

“Yeah.”

You let the silence linger again, waiting to add,

“I could, like, eat her up.”

You felt Xavier’s eyes on you but you kept your face neutral, trying to keep him off your track.

“Okay…”

You two went back to being quiet and he hesitantly resumed drawing the patterns on your back.

He cleared his throat after a while,

“I could make you something, if you’d like.”

Fear overtook you, quickly scrambling to safe yourself,

“It’s okay! We can just get takeout.”

He nodded, hands now busying themselves by playing with your hair and you thought you should mess with him some more,

“We could ask Tara to bring us something.”

He paused again, his eyes meeting yours, he was trying to figure out what this was about,

“Did you two get in a fight or-“

You started laughing, giving up the charade,

“Nah, I was just messing with you.”

You felt him let out a sigh of relieve,

“I was starting to get worried.”

You looked at him, blinking,

“About what?”

He shrugged,

“I mean, it’s weird to mention another person when you’re talking about being hungry, right? If it were wanderers, I’d understand a bit better but…”

This time, it was your turn to pause,

“What do you mean you could understand better if it were wanderers?”

He didn’t answer, now his eyes were glued to the screen,

“Xavier, what?”

Fortunately, you missed the smile tugging at his lips.

About time he gave you a taste of your own medicine.

Zayne - his (presumed) dead childhood friend!

You and Zayne had gone out for a sweet treat, you did your best to eat as quickly as possible, your boyfriend picked up on that but brushed it off on you being hungry.

As he was still busy with his ice cream, you started staring at him, unblinking.

He glanced at you, starting to feel concerned,

“Babe, I’m still so hungry, my god, I could literally eat Caleb right now.”

At the start of your sentence, Zayne stretched his ice cream cone out to you, wanting to offer you to finish his, but as you finished what you were saying, he quickly retracted his hand.

He stared at you as if you had grown a second head.

He didn’t say anything and neither did you, just staring at each other.

“What-“

Zayne started but before he could say anything else you burst out laughing,

Seeing as you still weren’t saying anything, just laughing maniacally, he grew more concerned.

“Hah… you should’ve seen your face! Priceless.”

He quietly spoke your name, gaze softening and you thought he was catching on,

“We can talk about it, if you want. I understand that you miss him.”

Your eyes quickly widened, trying to salvage the situation,

“Oh, nono! he’s fine! I was just messing with you. I should tell him about this, though.”

Zayne’s brows furrowed, feeling bad for you. He gave you the rest of his ice cream, after all, pushing a strand of your hair out of your face, before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“We can go visit him later, if you’d like.”

You nodded, the fact that Zayne had no idea Caleb had risen from the dead still not clicking for you,

“Oh yeah! You haven’t seen him in so long, I’m sure you two have a lot to say to each other.”

He hummed affirmatively, you two were just speaking past each other.

“A trip to Skyhaven would be nice, anyway.”

Finally, he looked at you with confusion again.

“Skyhaven? Why would we go to Skyhaven?”

It was your turn to look at him, just as confused.

When it finally hit, your eyes widened, mouth falling agape.

Well, good luck breaking the news to him!

Rafayel - his aunt!

Rafayel had asked you to model for him, you two had been sitting in his studio all morning.

He was sketching away, as you started to grow more bored.

He’d mumble somethings under his breath, never loud enough for you to actually make out what he was saying.

You couldn’t pass up on this perfect opportunity to mess with him,

“Man, I’m so hungry, I could eat Talia…”

The satisfying noises of his pencil against the paper stopped, as his head shot up, looking scandalised,

“My aunt?!”

You looked at him, as innocently as you could muster, not answering him.

“What do you mean?”

You held his gaze, answering non-chalantly,

“That’s how hungry I am.”

His mouth opened and closed, looking at you warily.

He slowly lowered his head again, eyes back on his block, before he shook his head, exclaiming the same thing in the same flabbergasted tone as he did the first time,

“MY AUNT?!”

You started cackling, throwing your head back. The traumatised look he shot you not moving you at all.

“Is that- why were you- WHAT?”

His confusion wasn’t wearing off, neither was his astonishment.

He finally put his art supplies down, getting up and walking towards you.

Rafayel placed both his hands on either sides of your head,

“We’re not visiting her for a while now.”

You gasped, throwing your arms around his neck,

“I was just joking around!”

He shook his head,

“Whether that was supposed to be threatening or your way of saying you think she’s pretty, doesn’t matter. Let’s get you something to eat now.”

You pouted at him,

“C’mon, Raf! Take a joke.”

He pushed you down, before crushing you with his weight,

“Nuh-Uh. You’re weird.”

The only way to fix this now, is sending him the videos that had prompted you to do mess with him like this and promising him that the only person you’d ever think of while hungry would be him.

Why would you even think he’d let this slide?

Sylus - one of his henchmen!

Sylus was sitting at his desk, reading.

You were sitting on the couch, bored on your phone.

You wanted attention and you had just found your ticket to getting some.

You put your phone down, sighing loudly.

That barely elicited a reaction from him, however you did notice the way he raised his eyebrow.

“I’m so hungry, I could eat one of the twins. Preferably Luke.”

At that, he slowly turned around, staring at you.

He squinted his eyes, searching your face for an indicator of what the hell you meant.

His expression didn’t change as he turned his eyes back to the pages before him,

“Right.”

You pouted, having hoped for a bigger reaction,

“No, right. That sounds perfectly sane.”

At that, your lips finally curled upwards into a smile,

“Maybe you should spend less time with the twins, actually.”

You finally let out a laugh at that and you didn’t miss the smirk tugging on his lips, either.

“And what on earth makes you think Luke would be the better tasting one?”

You huffed at his words, shaking your head,

“Who says I was basing this off of who I think would taste better?”

Sylus nodded, pushing his glasses up,

“Right, right, apologies.”

“Ugh, it’s so hard to mess with you!”

His cocky laugh made you smile, when you thought of something that might actually catch him off guard,

“Just for the record, if it came down to it, I wouldn’t be above eating Mephisto.”

His head still hung low but you saw his red eyes flicker up to you.

He pursed his lips, closing his book,

“Why would it ever come down to that?”

You shrugged, basking in finally getting his attention.

He tutted,

“Also, bold of you to assume he’d go out without a fight.”

You sprung up, putting your hands on your hips,

“Whose side are you on, exactly?!”

He stood up, slowly walking towards you,

“I’m not saying you’d lose. Just, let’s make sure that day never comes.”

Oh, he thinks he’s sooo funny.

Caleb - his college roommate!

You and Caleb were lying in bed, cozying up.

Covered by the blankets, Caleb’s arms were wrapped around you.

He was about ready to doze off, when you started mentioning food.

“Well, what would you like, pips?”

His voice was hoarse and you noticed how his eyes kept fluttering shut, trying his best to keep them open.

“I don’t know. I’m so hungry, I could eat, like…”

He hummed, still being attentive to you, even though he was on the brink of falling asleep.

“Gideon, maybe.”

His head snapped up at that, his eyes open and alert, any sign of sleep gone.

“What?”

He looked at you incredulously, wondering where that thought had even come from.

“Is that, what, an abbreviation for something?”

You shook your head, blinking up at him,

“I’m so hungry I could eat Gideon.”

He leaned back slightly, looking at your face, a confused smile on his lips.

“That’s kinda weird.”

You cocked your head to the side, the grin on your face didn’t help with his confusion.

“Gideon.”

Caleb rubbed one hand over his face, massaging under his eyes, knowing you were messing with him.

“Gideon. As in, my roommate from college, Gideon? What does this even mean.”

You giggled, pointing and laughing at your boyfriend.

“Seriously, Caleb, you’re so fun to mess with!”

He sighed, resting his chin on your head, squishing your cheeks with one hand,

“All right, whatever you say. Do you want something to eat now or not? And Gideon isn’t an option!”

You calmed down, leaning into his touch,

“You’re tired, go to sleep.”

He tsk’d, not letting go off you,

“How am I supposed to do that, when you just mentioned another man’s name while in our bed?”

“You’re making it sound wrong!”

He started rubbing your shoulders, slowly inching down,

“Don’t do that again.”

Maybe Caleb wasn’t so easy to mess with after all.

[dexxtrosee]

Safekeeping

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!reader

Summary: A baby got to the ER thirty minutes ago and hasn't stopped crying since. It's starting to get on everyone's nerves. He is, unfortunately, the one in charge, so it's his problem to deal with.

A/N: Set a few months after the last episode of The Pitt's S1. Mind you, this was supposed to be me testing the waters with the fandom and instead I got dunked, I just can't get this man out of my head. Oh well. Part one, I guess?

There´s a baby crying two rooms away from the one he’s at. 

The baby hasn’t stopped crying in thirty minutes, a world of difference from the case Robby is currently using as a teaching lesson for Santos and Whitaker. He doesn’t need to be a genius in emotional expression to notice she’s bored to death, while Whitaker seems relieved to be away from an immediate life threatening situation for once. He won’t admit it, not even to Dana, but he is using it as both a punishment for her and a break for him. He barely got between her and an abusive mother just a few hours ago before they drew blood. He managed to save Santos from being escorted out in cuffs along with the mother by sheer force of willpower and some favors owed by the cops.

And he won’t say it to her either, but if he were thirty years younger and a tad more stupid, that would have been him. She doesn’t need to know that, though.

“Are you a smoker, miss Rossi?”

The lady, a seventy year old woman who insists on them calling her miss, because she’s “divorced, dammit”, shakes her head and turns to look at her granddaughter. Robby can practically hear her thoughts (Can you believe this boy?) and has to bite back a chuckle. 

“Do you, by any chance, often cook on firewood?”

Miss Rossi shakes her head again, this time with an added eye roll. The baby hasn’t stopped crying. 

Whitaker is starting to play with his hands, glancing nervously at the granddaughter and at Santos. The boredom seems to have eased a bit, now replaced by amusement from seeing the poor boy suffer. Robby doesn’t interfere. 

“Have you done strenuous activity recently?”

At this, the teenage girl sitting by her side perks up, glancing at her grandmother with pursed lips. Robby smiles when Whitaker catches it and latches onto it like a starved animal. 

“Maybe cleaning around the house? Too long walks? Heavy lifting?”

Miss Rossi finally seems to think about it. Santos starts fidgeting where she’s standing, checking her watch. He suppresses a sigh and writes a mental note about mentioning it to her. The baby hasn’t stopped crying. 

“Well, I went with the kids to the park this morning. Had to chase them around when they grabbed the youngest and put her inside the basket of one of the bikes! Can you believe it? Those fuckers.”

They all let out some chuckles and sighs of relief. 

“Are you from Allegheny, miss Rossi?”

She nods, smiling for the first time since they both got here. “Born and raised, boy.”

Robby nods at him, giving him a thumbs up. Santos tries to hide her own smile. 

“Alright, seems you can handle this one.” Robby glares briefly at Santos, and she nods with so much annoyance he shakes his head. “I’ll go check on other cases, call me if anything happens.”

He doesn’t wait to see the answers, just steps out and walks straight to the room with the crying baby. 

Before he enters, he notices Dana standing inside and talking softly to, he assumes, the mother. She has her back to him, shoulders shaking and head hung low. Samira and McKay are bent over a cradle. A hole inside his stomach appears when he notices how anxious they both seem to be. 

“Good morning, I’m doctor Robinavitch. What seems to be the problem here?”

Dana turns, frowning and looking at him like he’s the worst thing to happen to her today. He reels back slightly, tries to peek behind her back. She shakes her head, motions him to fuck off. 

McKay doesn’t move. Samira stands up straight like he just pulled her back string, nervous. “All good, sir. We can handle this one, no worries.”

Robby frowns, bites back the need to tell them all off. “Well, that poor thing hasn’t stopped crying in more than half an hour. Are you sure?”

McKay waves at him from her bent position, shaking her head furiously without actually turning to look at him. 

Without saying anything, he turns to Dana again. She sighs, lets go of the mother’s hands and pushes him out of the room with no explanation. Before she closes back the curtain, he tries and fails to catch a glance at the mother.

“What the fuck is going on?”

He loves Dana, he truly does. Still, sometimes he wishes he could work with someone less hardheaded. He has enough of it in himself.

“She doesn’t want any men near her baby.”

Robby tilts his head, frowns deeper. “Should I call the cops?”

Something inside him burns and itches when Dana shakes her head. “They’re already aware of anything worth reporting.”

Robby nods, clenches his hands. He doesn’t know what to do with himself when the baby lets out a louder cry. “What the hell is wrong then? They haven’t figured it out yet? Should I bring Collins here?”

She’s busy dealing with a broken leg from a teenage boy that got too excited with his skateboard, but the cries are starting to get on everyone’s nerves, he can see it. 

“Maybe you should, yeah.”

“Fuck.”

He turns away, walks to Langdon and grabs him away from the nurse bay. He doesn’t protest, hasn’t since he came back last month. It still weirds Robby out. 

“I need you to finish Collins’ case, she has to help out with a different one.”

“I can do it,” The need for approval drips from his words. It still twists Robby’s chest. He shakes his head, doesn’t explain, pushes him inside and motions Collins out with just a smile to the parents.

“Need you to help in Room Two, I’m sorry.”

She gets it immediately, smiles softly and nods. She’s trying again, Robby knows. Still, he’s tried his best to keep her away from any babies. 

When they go back, Dana steps out and grabs Robby. He lets her lead him to the corner between rooms, crossing his arms. “I’m not going anywhere near the baby unless it’s completely necessary, I know. What now?”

“She wants to talk to you.”

The mother, he guesses. He nods, interlaces his fingers and then unthreads them when he notices how tense he feels from it. 

“Just… be gentle, Robby. She looks six seconds away from throwing up out of stress.”

There are so many things he could say to that. Instead, he just nods. Dana goes inside, doesn’t come out again.

When the mom steps out, the first thing that crosses his mind is “wow, holy shit”.

Then he starts berating himself because, holy fuck, what the hell was that?

You take a few steps closer to him, playing with your fingers, and cleaning a few stray tears away from your face. His hands twitch by his sides.

“Hi.”

Dear God, take him now. Warmth spreads all over his chest when your voice reaches his ears. 

“Hello,” he starts. He has to clear his throat before continuing. “Dana mentioned you wanted to talk to me, I’m doctor Robinavitch. Or Doctor Robby, if you prefer.”

You nod, trying and failing to smile at him. “Nice to meet you. Are you… like, the boss around here?”

He nods, unsure of how you may react. He doesn’t notice any disgust or annoyance, but there’s no positive reaction either. He relaxes his shoulders and makes sure to leave his hands visible. 

“Indeed I am. What can I do for you?”

He has to hold his breath when you raise your head to look at him straight to his eyes. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-

“Can you make sure no male nurses or doctors come near her?”

Irrationally, he wants to sit you down and make you spit out any and all information about your baby. Why you seem so scared one second and ready for combat the next, why your eyes are so pretty, why you don’t let him near the babygirl.

Instead, he just nods, asks softly “Is there anything or anyone we should be worried about?” 

You shake your head, give him a satisfied smile that seems to pull the ground from under him. “No, not anymore.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He feels lightheaded, unsure of where he stands. You tilt your head slightly, then jump when Collins comes out. He realizes now that the crying stopped. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but can we have a word?”

Your face falls. It makes him irrationally mad, wants to twist the world around until you’re smiling again. He doesn’t move.

“What’s wrong? Is it serious?”

Collins puts her hand on your hand in an effort to comfort you, shaking her head. He glares at her hand like it personally offended him. “Nothing serious, it seems like she just had an allergic reaction to formula. Could you tell me which one she's taking?”

It’s almost like he vanishes into thin air as soon as there’s something related to the baby anywhere near you. You turn around, back to him while you pull up a picture in your phone and show it to Heather. She nods and smiles, letting you know it’s nothing too bad. He notices your entire body relaxing, and the tips of his ears turn red. 

“So what should I do at home now?”

The anxiety you exude makes him tense, almost angry. He’s bothered by not being able to get an actual look at the situation, relegated to talking to you only and away from what seems to be the center of your universe. He takes a deep breath to try and push out the uncomfortable feeling of uselessness.

“We would like to keep her here, at least for today just to keep an eye on how she reacts with different formulas, and maybe give her some fluids in case she’s dehydrated.” Heather’s voice is tender, gentle in a way he’s not sure he could manage now, not after so many years of hoping it would help and seeing it turn people into aggressive maniacs. 

But you just nod, pocketing your phone before turning back to look at him again and knocking the air out of his lungs. 

He's sure he's earned his year in Hell when faint excitement blooms as he realizes you'll be around for a few hours. He doesn't understand what's happening, why he's acting like a teenage boy with a crush or a fresh student handling his first case with an attractive person. Fuck. Fuck.

“Can you make sure the people from other shifts respect what I ask?”

He’s already mentally preparing his speech for Jack. “Of course. And I’ll see if we can keep you here along with your baby, just to be safe.” 

You beam at him, and once again, he feels like the Earth tilts under him. “Thank you, doctor Robby.”

He notices Dana staring at him from inside the room, grinning.

Oh, he’s absolutely fucked.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

AO3

[stillswoon]

see you again | nanami kento

tw: breakup, angst!

“i don’t think we would be a good fit.” those words landed heavy, sinking straight to your stomach. it took everything in you not to drop your drink, but somehow, the burn on your lap wouldn’t matter anymore.

lately, nanami had been distant, cold, making excuses to spend less time with you, claiming he was busy. but you’d spot him out at a ramen shop, a cafe, even the arcade with his friends. yet somehow, he couldn’t find time for you?

you swallowed hard, setting the warm cup down, trying to keep your face neutral, but it betrayed you. “okay…” you murmured, your voice shaking. “why?”

he stared at his cup, his calm composure unwavering, but you couldn’t read him. “we come from different worlds. i don’t want to put your life at risk,” he muttered.

a silence stretched between you till you broke it.

“that’s not really fair of you, you know.” your voice trembled, barely audible, like it was made of fragile glass. it was so soft that it pulled his eyes up to meet yours, a frown marking his face.

“i know… i’m sorry.” his fist clenched tight in his lap, digging into his palms.

“no, you’re not.” you scoffed, eyes stinging. “and the promises you made.. the ones where we’d graduate together, move away, live a long life?” tears slipped down your cheek. “you made empty promises this whole time—”

“—i’ll come find you in the future. just not now, not for either of us.” he cut you off, his voice low, almost apologetic. it was clear he expected this to go differently, maybe even worse. he wanted you to yell at him, to make this easier somehow. but you were cold and that hurt even more somehow.

“save those stupid promises for someone else.” you muttered, pulling a few bills from your wallet and leaving them on the table. grabbing your now-cold drink, you turned your back. “goodbye, nanami.” and just like that, you were gone, like you’d never been there.

five years later, nanami spotted you again, this time, in the rain. you were impossible to miss, an aura around you that made you stand out in the crowd.

he hesitated, watching you as you smiled, radiating something he hadn’t seen in so long.

before he could move, a man approached you, and the smile you gave him, a smile so filled with love and joy.. was the same one nanami once shared with you.

“cho… you’ll get sick,” you said, tucking him under your umbrella. he smiled back, pecking your temple before handing you your favorite warm drink. nanami froze. that was the drink he used to get you.

you murmured a thank you, and he nodded, glancing at your cold hands. then, without thinking, it slipped from him, natural and effortless:

“didn’t want my wife to catch a cold.”

oh.

the word hit nanami like a punch to the gut. his heart squeezed painfully, and his grip on his umbrella tightened. he couldn’t look away.

he was stunned. you were married?

“…you get cold too easily,” choso said, gently patting your shoulder, his ears turning red as you smiled softly at him, the same smile that made nanami’s heart stop. your soft, familiar laugh followed. one nanami would never forget.

he stepped back, adjusting his glasses, unable to take it in. regret hit him hard, the weight of what he had lost, of the mistakes he had made.

and in that moment, he realized…

he wished he’d never let you go.

this is so shit but it needed to get out of my drafts </3

[sparklingchim]

reckless | jjk

pairing: idol!jungkook x producer!reader

word count: 3.7k

tropes: idol!jungkook, producer!reader, established relationship, childhood best friends

rating: pg

warnings: smooches!!, jungkook’s being very touchy <3, smoking, lots of pda, one (1) butt squeeze, lots of teasing n flirting (they're in love ur honour), mentions of jk being on a diet, mentions of oc being bullied in the past, just soft lovesick jk <3

summary: a casual date, the skirt’s a little too short, the night a little too quiet, and jungkook's hands on you like he's never going to let go.

a/n: writing this was so therapeutic im this 🤏 close to breaking no contact ❤️ (also dare i say this is the maybe in another universe couple <3)

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

When you round the corner of the building, it’s not hard to find Jungkook.

He’s leaned against his Harley, dark clothes hanging easy on him, making him blend into the night. He has a faint frown on his face as he scans the empty street, toying with his lip ring like he’s lost in thought.

Once he spots you, though, everything softens. His eyes go all boba-round and warm, crinkling at the corners as a smile stretches across his face. That stupid pretty one that makes your chest feel full. He straightens up a little.

“Sorry for making you wait,” you say when you reach him, rising on your toes to wrap your arms around his neck. You hug him tightly. You melt into him without thinking. His hands naturally land on the small of your back, holding you close in his embrace.

“It’s okay, baby.” Jungkook leans back just enough to press a little kiss to your lips.

One of his hands dip even lower, brushing over the curve of your butt and the light fabric of your skirt. It doesn’t take long before he grazes bare skin, catching just the edge where the hem ends and you begin.

“How did it go?” he asks.

“Oh, it was so fun!” you beam, hands coming together in an excited little clap in front of your chest. You bounce slightly.

It had been a long day filming at one of the major companies in Seoul, part of that new show about the behind-the-scenes process of producing k-pop songs. The set was huge – too many lights, too many people, and so many cameras that you couldn’t even look around without feeling watched.

Everything felt loud and fast and intimidating, like you were going to mess up just by standing there.

“I was still really nervous in the beginning because there were a lot of people, but I did what you told me over the phone this morning and reminded myself that just being there already meant I belonged. That in a little while this would be just another thing that I’ve overcome.”

Dare you mention that just this morning, you felt like throwing up at the thought of today’s schedule – and yet, somehow, it turned into something you ended up loving. Getting to work on something you’re genuinely passionate about, surrounded by new people who love it just as much as you, felt amazing, inspiring.

“I told you it wouldn’t be as bad. You wanted to call in sick,” Jungkook reminds you, teasing you with an arched brow.

“I felt so anxious this morning!”

“You underestimate what you’re capable of.”

“Anyways.” Your shoulders slump slightly. “I’m exhausted now.”

“We can just go to my place if you want.” He gently tucks your hair behind your ear, cupping your cheek.

“No. I wanna go to the Han River with you,” you say, lips tugging into a pout.

Jungkook grabs the collar of his hoodie and pulls it over his head. A glimpse of his toned abdomen flashes before his black tee falls back into place. He swings the hoodie around your waist, draping it carefully before tying it snug at the front.

“Can’t drive my bike in a short skirt like this,” he explains in a mumble, smoothing the hoodie down over your butt.

“You helped me pick out this outfit this morning.”

If you’d been left alone in your anxious spiral this morning, you probably would’ve just thrown on whatever comfy thing was closest. But after Jungkook talked you down over the phone, his voice all soft and steady, you felt a little more okay. Okay enough to want to feel pretty, at least. So you stood in front of your overflowing closet, doors hanging open, letting him help you pick something out over facetime.

“Yeah well. You look pretty. I wasn’t thinking about logistics.”

You roll your eyes, but your face warms anyway. “You’re the logistics.”

“Sue me for getting distracted.” He pecks your temple, grinning as he pulls back.

Then he crouches next to the Harley, lifting the seat to reveal a small storage compartment. With a bit of manoeuvring, he pulls out a black helmet, matching his own.

He turns back to you and holds it out like it’s something delicate. “C’mere,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back gently before slipping the helmet over your head and securing the strap under your chin.

“Too tight?” he murmurs, adjusting the strap with the pads of his fingers.

You shake your head.

He grabs his own helmet from the handlebar, slipping it on with practiced ease. The engine rumbles to life with a twist of his wrist, loud and steady. He swings one leg over the bike and settles in before turning to glance at you over his shoulder. He holds his hand out to you.

“Hop on, baby.”

You take his hand, grabbing his shoulder with your other one for leverage as you climb on behind him. Your hands move to circle his middle once you’re properly sitting.

“You good?” He cranes his neck back to you, looking you over.

“Yes,” you reply, hugging his back. “Drive safely, please.”

The engine hums beneath you, the vibration slipping through your legs and settling in your chest as Jungkook coaxes the Harley onto the road.

The wind rushes past in silky ribbons, threading through your hair and curling under your skirt, making you curl closer into his back. His hoodie sways around your legs, and his scent, clean laundry and the last bit of cologne clinging to his skin, fills your lungs. You rest your cheek against the strong curve of his back.

Seoul twinkles around you in bits and pieces, like someone sprinkled glitter across the skyline. Streetlights blink down like stars with somewhere to be.

At a red light, Jungkook reaches for your hand without even looking, like it’s second nature. His fingers find yours and give them a slow, reassuring squeeze that makes your chest flutter. Then his hand drifts upward, trailing a lazy path along your arm before slipping behind him. His touch lands on your thigh, gently brushing his thumb over your skin. It’s just a small stroke, but enough to send a little spark dancing up your spine.

Eventually, the buildings thin out, replaced by the open stretch of the Han River, glistening under the city’s glow. Jungkook rolls into a quiet patch near the railing and cuts the engine.

“My mum would kill me if she knew I was riding a bike with you,” you say.

Jungkook huffs a laugh as he slips off his helmet. With a little shake of his head his hair falls back into place. “My mum would kill me for letting you ride it with me.” He turns slightly to look at you, flashing his soft dimple as he reaches to unclip your helmet.

“And yet,” you retort as he helps lift it off your head, “here we are.”

“Reckless,” he grins, brushing your hair back into place. “But cute.”

~

After a quiet walk along the river, you settle onto a bench facing the water.

“I even got a bit of the lyrics done for the song we finished producing,” you say, tucking your hands into your sleeves

Jungkook hums, slinging his arm over the back of the bench and letting it rest behind your shoulders, pulling you closer. “You need to let me listen to it.”

“I’m not giving you the song.”

“Ah, it’s always worth a try.”

“I’ll start working with you when you guys are over this...era of music you’re in right now.”

“Era of music?” Jungkook scoffs. “You find new words how to describe the fact that you don’t like the new music every time.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you whine, falling into his teasing. “It’s not that I don’t like the new music. It’s just not my type of production,” you quickly defend, truthful.

“At least let me listen to it.”

“When I’m finished you can.”

He lets out a small groan. “I’m terrible at being patient.”

“Oh, I know. Don’t have to remind me.” He’s an impatient boyfriend disguised as your number one fan (which, let’s be honest, he is). Always acting like he’s not trying that hard – when really, he’s the most obvious about it.

You roll your eyes every time he launches into a totally casual, totally unplanned, “hey, wanna show me a little something?” but you love it, every time. You love the way he sneaks into your world like that. Softly, stubbornly.

The sneaky bribes, the casual shoulder nudges, the way he tries to coax you into playing something, anything, even if it’s unfinished. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s just a late night, the two of you curled up on the couch, guitar perched on your lap, him humming half-written lyrics with his knees touching yours and a smile tucked into his voice. Songs that only live between you two.

“I’ll show it later to you,” you finally say. There’s not much of a fight when it comes to Jungkook. “Missed you.” You rest your head on his shoulder, hugging his arm.

“We should do something before my schedule gets crazy again.” Jungkook pats down his front pockets. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Like a small vacation?”

“I’d love that.”

You eye him as he slips a cigarette between his lips, cupping the flame with one hand as he lights it. The cigarette glows at the tip, smoke curling past his cheekbones and drifting in the opposite direction as he tilts his head to avoid blowing it your way. You still wrinkle your nose and lean your head away, your clutch around his arm loosening.

“You’re buying me ice cream for smoking next to me,” you mutter, half playful, half serious.

He exhales to the side again, then flicks the ash off the end with a small grin. “I was already gonna.”

You give him a look. “Not the point.”

“I know.” He tilts his head toward you, eyes tracing your face like he’s trying to read something only he can see.

You sigh, the slightest hint of annoyance seeping through, but your fingers find his again anyway, slipping between them. He’s warm, even with the breeze coming off the water. The smoke lingers in the air between you, but his scent cuts through it – familiar, stupidly comforting.

“I say we go on a weekend trip to Jeju,” Jungkook says, his gaze fixed ahead.

Your head pops up. “That seafood restaurant,” you gasp, eyes widening.

He watches you, smiling at your excitement.

“We have to go,” you say, tugging his arm. “I still think about that abalone porridge from that tiny place by the harbour, you remember? With the old lady who called us lovebirds.”

“How could I not?” Jungkook laughs. “She told me to marry you or someone else would.”

You laugh too. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Jungkook snorts, flicking the half-smoked cigarette away and stubbing it out under his shoe. He turns back to you, and you feel his finger brush over your ring finger – it's a subtle, fleeting touch, but you wouldn’t dare miss it.

“I wouldn’t ever let that happen.” He leans in, catching you in a warm kiss.

“I love you,” you murmur against his lips, then pull back slightly. “But don’t kiss me after you’ve just smoked.”

Jungkook sighs like you’ve wounded him. Dramatically. Then he leans back in, peppering kisses along your cheek, down the slope of your jaw, and onto your neck, ignoring your protests with every one.

“Jungkook,” you warn through laughter, swatting at him half-heartedly. “We’re not at home.”

“But I still love you the same.” It’s a gentle murmur against your neck, nuzzling the skin there before leaving one last kiss just below your jaw.

“Jungkook.”

He finally pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, and his teasing fades into something more softer, more quieter.

“I love the way you say my name.”

His mouth curves into the faintest smile, just slightly lifting the corner of his lips. But his eyes hold the sincerity behind his words, the soft glow of them making you feel like you’re the prettiest girl he has ever seen.

Every time Jungkook says this, you’re reminded of when you still wore uniforms and shared secrets in the quiet spaces between classes. When he said it for the first time, you thought he was poking fun at you like the others for pronouncing words differently because you grew up abroad, in the US.

He told you it sounded softer, rounder, like it meant something more when it came from you. He said it made him feel like someone safe. Someone yours.

He doesn’t say it often, but every time he does, you’re reminded of the past. And a soft, nostalgic feeling settles in your chest at the memory of fifteen-year-old Jungkook and you falling in love for the first time. It’s a bittersweet ache because when you think of that time, all you see is blue, but Jungkook was the one thing that still felt warm. Like hope tucked into a person.

And now, years later, even with everything you’ve both grown through and grown out of, that version of him still lives in moments like this. In quiet confessions and shared glances.

Heat nestles in your cheeks. You look away – straight at the river with the twinkling lights reflecting off of it. They remind you of his eyes.

“What?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, like he can’t quite place where your sudden shyness is coming from, but he’s definitely enjoying it.

“I dunno,” you mumble under your breath, hiding your face on his chest while keeping your eyes trained on the water. “I just get overwhelmed sometimes.”

“By what?”

“By how much I love you.”

“Wanna know something?”

“Hm?”

“I do too.”

You smile into his shirt, warmth blooming in your chest.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “You really know how to kill a man,” he murmurs, voice low and a little awed.

You look up at him at that.

“I love you more,” he says eventually, like it’s the simplest truth. “Like... stupid amounts. Heart-aching amounts.”

You giggle, nose scrunching. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You started it.” He peers down at you, eyes soft. “Now let me be in love with you in peace.”

“I’ll let you love me in peace after we get snacks.”

“Will I ever witness a day where you don’t want something sweet?”

“Nuh-uh.” You shake your head with exaggerated seriousness. “The day can’t successfully end until you’ve had a sweet treat.”

“I actually think you’re singlehandedly keeping the candy industry alive.”

“I should be thanked, honestly.”

You rise to your feet, brushing invisible dust off your skirt as you stand in front of him. Jungkook doesn’t move right away. His eyes trail down to your legs, then to the hem of your skirt, fingers reaching out to tug it just a little lower with that automatic protectiveness he tries (and fails) to hide.

“You’re not cold, baby?” he asks, nodding toward his hoodie tossed over the bench behind him.

“No, I’m okay.”

Still sitting, he tugs you gently by the hips until you’re standing between his knees. His hands find your waist like magnets, thumbs stroking slow circles against the sliver of skin where your top has ridden up.

“I like this spot,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your stomach, right above your belly button. You flinch a little, giggling, fingers slipping into his thick hair.

“You’re such a menace,” you say, voice light, but you don’t pull away.

“And you’re so pretty,” he says, looking up at you from where he’s still crouched against your tummy. His eyes are warm, sparkling. “Like... dangerously pretty. You know that?”

You bite your lip. “Stop.”

“I’m serious.” He rests his chin just above your waistband, arms looping around the back of your thighs like he’s not letting go anytime soon. “Sometimes I think you’re not even real.”

You roll your eyes, trying to hold back your smile. “That’s what people say right before they do something stupid.”

He grins up at you, squeezes your thigh just enough to make you squeak. “Then I must be about to do something really stupid.”

“I feel like that’s something for home. Not public.”

“You think so?” He tilts his head slightly.

“Jungkook.” It’s meant to be a chiding. But instead, it escapes softer than you intended, more like a puff of air. Like we shouldn’t but I wanna know anyway. Like stop talking... but actually, no – keep going please.

Instead of backing off like any reasonable person would, he smirks, then has the audacity to give your butt the lightest squeeze, fingers quick and shameless.

You squeal, jumping back. “Jungkook!”

Flashing you a smile that’s somehow both innocent and guilty, he casually grabs his hoodie from the bench and stands up.

You stare at him, half scandalized, half trying not to smile. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Come on,” he says, slinging the hoodie over one shoulder glancing over at you with that smug softness that drives you crazy. “You wanted snacks, no?” He grabs your hand.

You narrow your eyes, but your feet already fall into step beside his.

~

It’s not a long walk until you reach the next convenient store.

“It looks kinda busy in there,” you tell Jungkook, peering through the glass. “I’ll just run in real quick. You can wait out here.”

Jungkook squints into the store, brows furrowed. “Who’s in there? I don’t want you going in alone if there’s some creeps.”

You roll your eyes and nudge him with your elbow. “It’s just a group of girls. Relax,” you say. “What do you want?”

He pulls his black card from his pocket. “Nothing for me. Just treat yourself, baby.”

You snatch the card from his hand. “Don’t mind if I do.”

~

You exit the store with a slightly overstuffed plastic bag tugging at your wrist. Being a girl who loves snacks, is hopelessly indecisive – and has her boyfriend’s black card – is a dangerous combo.

Jungkook tilts his head, trying to sneak a look inside the bag. “What’d you get?”

���Too much to name,” you say breezily, fishing out the ice cream resting right on top. “Got this for us, though.” It’s the ice cream that comes with two sticks so you can snap it in half and share. “I always think of you when I see this,” you admit, passing him one half after cracking it down in the middle.

“Ah, I didn’t want to eat any sweets today.”

“Too late,” you tease, nudging it closer to his mouth. “You already kissed me, so that’s off the table.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “That counts?”

“It absolutely does.” You raise your brows. “Now eat, please.”

He leans forward and takes a small bite straight from your hand. “Happy now?”

“Very much so.” You swipe the pad of your finger over a smudge of ice cream at the corner of his mouth, then lick it off with a grin.

He huffs a quiet laugh, head tilting as he watches you with that impossibly fond look. “You’re trouble.”

“Says you!”

With a sigh, he takes it from you. “You’re only getting away with this because you’re cute.”

“I know.” You smile around the ice cream in your mouth. “I can’t have a boyfriend who says no to a sweet treat.”

You fall into step beside him, walking slowly as you both nibble at the halves in your hands.

“I’m dieting.”

“For what?”

He doesn’t answer, just shrugs, proving your point.

That’s when your mind slips, just a little, to all the ways you used to be like this. All the self-destructive habits he had to gently pry from your grip. Jungkook has saved you many times. And you want to be there for him just as much he was there for you when no one chose you. When he was the only one who saw you – really saw you – and still chose to stay.

You reach for his hand, linking your fingers through his.

“I feel like sometimes you live your life like it’s harder than it has to be. Like you’re holding yourself back, setting rules that you don’t have to follow.”

Jungkook lets out a quiet breath. “I know,” he mutters, squeezing your hand. “You’re the first person who made me think maybe I deserve ease too. You make it feel okay to slow down.”

“Am I?” you ask sceptically. You hope you do, but are you actually?

He tips his ice cream in your direction.

You laugh. “Baby steps.”

You glance up at him. He’s licking his ice cream, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth like he doesn’t even realize it’s there. It makes your chest ache a little. In that sweet way.

“Jungkook?”

His head turns slightly, face lit soft by the golden glow of a nearby streetlamp. His eyes flick to you, a soft, curious glint catching in them as your gaze meets his. You lean your head against his arm.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for sticking with me through every version of myself.”

It’s a thought that catches you off guard – maybe not entirely, you’re not sure – but suddenly it’s there, clear and undeniable. A reminder that, through every change, every version of yourself, he’s never left. Whether you’ve been at your best or your worst, he’s always stayed. And sometimes, it’s hard to wrap your mind around the fact that someone can love you through all of that.

“There’s never been a version I didn’t love,” he says quietly, like it’s not something he even has to think about.

Your heart stumbles a little, eyes stinging in that warm, fuzzy way that only he can cause.

“You make it really easy, you know,” he adds, brushing his thumb gently across the back of your hand. “Loving you. I don’t even think about it. I just do.”

You blink up at him, lips twitching into the kind of smile that only he gets to see. “I still don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

He tugs you closer to him, your sides brushing with each step.

“You existed.”

[satrs]

Hear me out.

I headcanon that each of the LADs guys have genuinely fucked MC stupid before and they didn't mean to when they did. It's just that MC happened to accidentally buy a pheromone perfume and well, let's just say walking wasn't an option afterwards when they smelt it. I also think it was Zayne who lost the most control when this happened. They call it "The Incident"

YESYESYYES!!!! I'M SAT AND LISTENING!!!!!

ZAYNE smells you and immediately short-circuits. One second you're laughing, the next your legs are around his waist and he's fucking you against the wall like he’s never seen a bed before.

“Why do you smell so good? New perfume? F-fuckkk! Why—why do I need you like this—fuck—baby—", and the only answer you can manage is a broken sob of his name.

Time passes beyond your knowledge and so he had you twice on the floor, once on the kitchen counter, and once in the hallway on the way to the bed. You didn’t even get to catch a break before he begins to desperatly rut into you again.

Afterwards, Zayne just sits beside you, staring at your thoroughly ruined body, embarrasment evident on his rosey cheeks “I kind of... blacked out? I don't know. A-are you okay? Need me to ice your legs? Darling???” He hasn't lived it down since. Anytime anyone even mentions the word "Incident", he grows hard almost instantly :(((

SYLUS is —confused????

You visit him at home but something is... off. Different. It's not bad, of course! just... different.

And the moment he leans in to kiss your neck he gets it. And it's done.

Just like that he has you bend over god knows what table, guns clicking and rattling at the edge of it as he drives his dick so deep in you, it knocks the air out of your lungs.

“You don’t even know what you’ve done to me— f-fuck! Can’t stop— can't stop, sweetie—don’t ask me to.”

He's absolutely feral. Beyond helping. He just can't stop pounding into you, nor can he stop sinking his teeth into your neck or shamelessly moaning into your ear.

Afterwards he kept pressing kisses to your spine, whispering apologies and praise between slow strokes that still made your legs tremble because that behaviour is so unlike him!!!!

CALEB oh man... he smells something— you— after you come into the room from a shower and immediately pins to the bed, kissing you like a man starved. But what really catches you of guard are his sounds. He turns into a feral animal, growling into your mouth as he pounds you into a nasty mating press.

“Ya' smell so good— heavenly, fuckkkk, baby. Have ta'— have ta' make s-sure you—” he whimpers your name like a prayer with every deep, desperate thrust, arms trembling from how hard he's holding back—but not quite succeeding.

"Have to w-what?"

Ohhhh that sweet, honeyed tone in your voice, almost of not just as sugary as your smell really puts an end to him. His pace speeds up and you swear you heared a loud crack! somewhere along the way but you're to fucked-out to care how your bed is now kissing the floor on one side.

"Have ta' make sure you take it. All of it baby— fuckkk! Gonna give you allll my babies."

Goshhhh he really really has to breed you! But it's not his fault! It's yourssss, he swears he didn't mean to pump you full! :((

XAVIER doesn't even try to hold back. All it took was for you to walk past him and he just so happend to get a whiff of you and he straight-up threw you over his shoulder, headding towards the first surface he could reach— the dining table. You barely manage a breath before your stomach hits the dark wood, his face burried in your neck as he desperatly ruts into your ass, “The fuck did you put on? Pheromone perfume or what?"

He just says it on a whim, but once you squeeze your thighs together, eyes scrunched up in embarrassment, he realizes his suspicions were right.

And he's amused, really. “Did this on purpose, hmm?" His hands trail down and before you know it your panties dangle at your ankle as he hooks one arm under your knee, proping it up onto the table.

Just like that he rams into you, a relieved sigh leaving him as his tongue darts out to lick a longggg stripe up your neck, nuckling at your earlobe before he sinks his teeth in teasingly.

And not just thattttt, afte he came inside you nth times, making you cream around him over and over again, he falls to his kness to lap his loads of cum out of you :((((

RAFAYEL really tries to resist. He sits across from you, trying to focus himself on this damned newspaper his fingers almost dig holes in by now, twitching every time you move. Eventually he just shoots up and walks sprints over to you, head already dipping down to catch a big whiff of you in the crock of your neck. “Can't fuckin' take it no more. Been smelling you the whole day, what did ya-" he slides down, already hooking your panties to the side to be met with your maddening scent, "-do?"

Slow fingers caress your body, holding you down as he fucking ravishes you like you're his last meal. “God— taste so sweet, sweeter than ever, cutie.”

He makes a mess out of you, his tongue finding home inside your pussy as she cutely cries out each time he forces an orgasm out of her. He also talks to your cutie cunt!!!

He for sureeeee paints you afterward, capturing allll of your sweat-glisterning skin, your fluttering folds and that fucked-out face of yours. And of course he locks the painting in a vault somewhere in that big ass house of his, occasionally (meaning every damn day) daring a peak when he's extra missing you :((

©︎𝙎𝘼𝙏𝙍𝙎 2025. 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

[luveline]

hi jade I would love to see spencer post mexico with a BAU intern who’s nervous about her first few weeks, maybe he makes it his mission to see her settle in? 

ty for requesting! fem, 1.2k

“I still can’t believe I missed out on working with Aaron Hotchner.” 

Spencer nods as he stirs a spoon around his fiftieth cup of tea this week. “It’s genuinely a shame. And he worked here for more than half of the BAU’s lifespan, so if you look at it through a–”

“Mathematical standpoint?” you ask. 

“Exactly. It’s a statistical improbability to work at the BAU without him. Even when he wasn’t unit chief, he was still a profiler.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek, glaring down at a tray of coffee and tea, your note resting beside it. 

“If Aaron were here,” Spencer says, taking his spoon to the sink for a quick rinsing, “he’d tell you that you don’t have to make the coffee for everyone. You don’t have to ask who wants a cup every time you make one. That’s… not very American.” 

“Who cares about being American? I’m trying to be polite.” 

“You’re being taken advantage of.” 

“Thank you for helping.” 

Spencer has taken the tea side of things. “You’re welcome.” And he knows a part of him has changed now after the last few shitty months, a confidence at having seen the worst scenario of your life playing out while you’re completely powerless to stop it, but Spencer has friends who love him, and he’s not really as powerless as he thinks. So when he looks at you and he thinks about how worried you are every day that you aren’t doing enough to belong here, he knows he can change that. “Maybe tomorrow, you can make coffee for you and nobody else.” 

“They like me.” 

“Well, yeah, but everyone will like you tomorrow when they have to make their own coffee.” 

You slow your stirring. Under your lashes, your eyes carry a dark sort of glow, mid-lit kitchen and— Spencer doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks you might have the loveliest eyes in Virginia. “Is it really stupid of me?” you ask quietly. 

Spencer shakes his head. 

Your shoulders relax. You’re wearing this cutesy long sleeve shirt, cream with black piping along the neckline cross-crossing below your chest with a little black bow nestled at the valley, accentuating the line of your shoulders, and the lengths of your arms. Spencer tries not to stare, but you catch his looking and peer down. “What?” you ask. 

“Nothing.”

“Do I have coffee on me?” 

“No.” 

“Spencer, were you…” 

“Don’t even joke about that,” he says, glad to hear you laughing, then, to know that you know he’s not a perv. “I was just thinking that I like your blouse.” 

“Blouse. You must be older than you look, Dr. Reid.” 

“How old do I look?” 

You huff a laugh under your breath and pick up your tray of coffee. “I’m gonna start passing these out. You don’t have to do the tea, I’ll come back.” 

There’s far less tea than coffee. “No, I can do it.” 

You nod with determination and turn away. ”Thank you!” you call as you go. 

Spencer takes the tea out. The second to last is for Emily, who’s digging at her forehead with a fisted hand when he gets through the door of her office. “Hey, Em,” he says quietly. 

“Spence.” 

“Brought your tea.”

“Jesus, thank you.” 

He lingers by her desk, glancing over her things. She kept some of Hotch’s stuff before he left. Spencer knows she can’t part with the photo of the group of them at their favourite bar a few months after JJ had Henry, even if she made a bunch of jokes after Hotch left it behind. Good boss, terrible guy. How could he just leave this here? 

Spencer sees it as a passing of the baton. You’re in charge. “You okay?” 

“Headache.” 

“PMS?” 

“Sure, but you shouldn’t ask me that, Spencer,” she says, laughing and taking her mug of tea eagerly. 

“You’re always tired at the start.” 

“Can you stop? You’re being creepy.” 

“Did you want a hug?” 

Emily sips her tea. “Mm, ask me later. So, who made this?” 

“Me. Why?” 

“The new girl steeps it for too long.” 

“Come on, don’t call her that.” 

Emily’s brows rise. “I don’t. To her face, I don’t. She is the new girl, though.” 

“I think she’s more than aware of it.” 

“Oh, you have a big crush on her, huh?” Emily leans back in her chair, her dark hair curled lightly against her shoulders. “She’s pretty.” 

“If it were that easy, I’d have a crush on you.” 

“You don’t?” 

Spencer rolls his eyes lovingly. On the landing, he looks out over the office and follows you moving from desk to desk. You’re quick, and you sit at your own desk to dive back into ViCAP chores glaringly without your own cup of tea or coffee. 

Emily’s right. He does have a crush on you. But it’s not something any of his friends need to know yet. He knocks Luke’s desk lightly as he passes and grabs his tea where it’s still steaming on his own. As he comes up behind you, he notices your fingers clenching and unclenching on your thigh, the tight knot of your neck. God, he’s not good at this, but he’s gonna try. 

“Hey, angel?” he asks quietly. 

You don’t realise he’s talking to him for a few seconds, then your head tips back, and you’re all softness in the April gloom when you smile shyly. “Yeah?” 

“Tea.”

Your lips part. “Oh. Oh, thank you. I forgot my coffee.” 

“Tea has an amino acid called L-theanine. It’s rare in that it can actually cause relaxation in the body. In comparison, coffee–”

“Sucks?” 

He grins. “Sucks. S’that why you forgot yours?” 

“I forgot mine ‘cos Anderson looked like he was gonna collapse, he’s so tired. Is that my future?” 

“Maybe. But it’s worth it. If you can’t do it that’s fine, obviously, the turnover rate isn’t exactly low, Emily told you that herself. But it’s worth it, I promise.” 

You hold his gaze. “I know.” 

Spencer clasps your shoulder, tentative and deliberate at once. He feels the bone when he squeezes, but he doesn’t do it too hard. 

“Sorry about all the fuss.” 

He strokes your arm with his thumb. “It’s okay,” he says, hand falling down the curve of your shoulder to warm your upper arm, “I don’t mind it.” He takes his touch away, not necessarily because he wants to. It’s too early to know what you’re feeling; he hasn’t learned your tells or whiles yet, but he hopes he will. 

Your face drifts toward your shoulder, as though following his touch unconsciously. Spencer’s heart races like a blinker circuit at the thought. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “I appreciate it, Spencer. All your help. I really do.” 

“You’re more than welcome.” 

As he stands up, he rubs your shoulder again, a half a seconds touch he thinks Hotch would be proud of, if he were still there to see it. 

(And you —ViCAP is kicking your ass and the smell of coffee makes your head hurt, but your hot new coworker makes each day easier, ‘cos he touches like he talks. Soft, and gentle, and eager to please.)

[landologged]

Out Lapped | Part One

pairing: lando x reader

genre: toxicity, shit aint sweet sorry, like 85% porn and arguing????, its hot tho, angst? i guess, monaco beinf monaco, possessive and hot lando, readers a dumb hoe (but i get it)

description: You sure as hell didn’t expect to find yourself at Lando’s door after promising your therapist you wouldn’t see him again. But your thighs remember things your brain pretends to forget, and Monaco is a dangerous place to have free time and a hell of a lot of unresolved trauma.

So, here you are, stuck in a loop you swore you’d escaped: he wins races, goes home to her, and calls you at 2AM like you’re the reward. You know it’s toxic. You know he’s lying. But every time you try to walk away, he says your name like it still means something. And every time he touches you—you forget how to leave all over again.

WC: 19k

notes: want to preface this is extremely toxic, i dont hate magui but needed her for the plot sorry, this is not a healthy relationship its just toxic n sexy im sorry i have issues, enjoy tho xx | had to repost bc tumblr put a warning on it

You tell yourself it’s just a building. Just concrete and glass and overpriced furniture, just one of dozens of sleek high-rises dotting the cliff-edge of Monaco’s coastline like little temples to wealth. But that’s a lie you started telling before the plane even landed, and now—standing outside of his door, heat curling around your ankles and your jaw locked so tight you can feel the tension in your teeth—it’s all unraveling way too fucking fast. This isn’t just a building. This is a goddamn shrine. To every version of you that lost and begged and bled behind those walls. And the worst part is you let all of it happen. Over and over and over, like some stupid animal who keeps going back to the cage because it’s the only place she remembers how to breathe.

You stand there too long. Not knocking. Not leaving. Just standing like a goddamn idiot. Sweating in your blouse,  clutching your phone like it might ring if you squeeze hard enough, though no one’s called you in hours. You’d deleted his number. Blocked it. Then unblocked it. Then memorized it, like that made you the one in control. The gate code, too. You remembered that one without trying. 

Inside, you imagine he’s probably shirtless. Or worse—fresh out of the shower, towel slung low, smirking at his own reflection in the mirror like he’s still a teenage boy. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s got someone over. That girl he was seen with last week, or the one from before. Some Portuguese model with a body like a Victoria Secret angel and a face the camera loves. Long legs, soft mouth, always sun-kissed and unbothered. She’s been rumored with him for months—not that you’ve been reading, obviously. Not that you have the search saved. Not that you zoomed in on the photos where he’s walking three steps ahead and still somehow looks like he belongs to her.

She has no idea what he sounds like when he’s angry. No idea how fast his mood can turn—how one second he’s teasing, laughing, and the next his voice goes low and hard and mean. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be devoured by him, not kissed but taken, not fucked but owned. She’s never had to piece herself together in his bathroom afterward, thighs shaking, mascara wrecked, trying not to cry just because he simply didn’t stay.

There’s no breeze in the hallway, just stillness. Expensive stillness. Climate-controlled. Smells like fresh-cut flowers and clean linen and the faintest undercurrent of chlorine—like the building itself is trying to convince you nothing messy ever happens here. No broken glasses or slammed doors or whispered confessions between kisses that feel like the end of the world. 

The walls are paneled in soft blond wood, warm under the overheads, you shift your weight, and the tap of your heel against polished wood echoes too loud. Sharp. Embarrassing.

A laugh bubbles up uninvited. Quiet, bitter, barely audible, but still real. What the fuck are you doing here? You told your therapist—once—that you were past this. That you’d written it off for what it was: a phase, a crash, an experiment in self-destruction that just happened to have a face. His face. His voice. His hands. You’d said it with conviction. You’d almost believed yourself.

But that was when you hadn’t counted in the photo.

It wasn’t even new. Just some grainy tabloid resurrection of last summer—him holding your wrist outside the back of a club, the tension in your posture so clear it almost hurt to look at. And his face—god that fucking face. Golden tan, summer-slick skin that caught the flash of the camera like it knew exactly where to land. That haircut—fresh, sharp, fade carved clean down the sides, but the top left long, soft, curled just enough to look effortless. Like he’d rolled out of bed into a suit and made it look intentional. 

White shirt open at the throat, no tie. Slim-fit navy blazer that hugged his frame like he’d been sewn into the thing. And that expression—cool, calm, always calculated. He looked straight into the lens, jaw set, eyes unreadable, like he knew they were watching and didn’t give a single fuck about it. Like he knew you wouldn’t leave. Because you hadn’t. Not really. Not for long, and sure as hell, never for good.

You don’t knock. You can’t. Your hand hovers near the wood, fingers curled like a fist you don’t have the strength to make. You stare at the door like it might open on its own. Like maybe he’ll feel you on the other side and save you the choice.

So when the door finally opens—slow, quiet, just a few inches at first—it doesn’t feel like an invitation. It feels like a trap you’re already halfway inside.

Warm light spills out into the hallway, catching the edge of that honeyed wood paneling behind you, and suddenly you’re in it again. His world. The clean, curated silence of it. Not cold—just impersonal. Too white. Too perfect. A mirror near the entry catches the edge of his shoulder, and for one disorienting second, you see both versions of him at once.

He’s barefoot, of course. Hair damp and pushed back like he’s just gotten out of the shower or maybe just doesn’t give a shit anymore.  Black long-sleeve shirt, sleeves shoved up to his elbows like he’s mid-recovery from something. The fabric’s soft, lived-in, probably smells like skin and detergent. There’s a ring on his finger now—something thin and silver, catching the light as he leans one shoulder against the frame. Something that definitely wasn’t there before.

And just under his collarbone, a flash of color. Sunburn maybe. Lipstick, if you let yourself believe in worst-case scenarios. You don’t want to know. You do want to know. It burns both ways.

Behind him, the apartment stretches long and quiet. Pale floors. White cabinets. Stainless steel fridge that reflects the open-concept kitchen like a showroom. Heineken keg on the counter. DJ deck in the corner. Stacks of papers on the island that say he’s busy. Clean sink that says he’s not that busy. Trophies in the other room. Art that’s mostly just versions of himself—cars, helmets, movement frozen mid-victory.

“Well, well,” he says, mouth curling slow. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You raise an eyebrow, defaulting to sarcasm like muscle memory. “You think too much of yourself.”

He leans against the frame, lets his eyes drag over you like it’s nothing. Like it's a habit. “And yet, here you are.”

You hate how calm he sounds. How unsurprised. Like he knew. Like he felt you coming before you even booked the flight. You step forward without meaning to, past the threshold, into the coolness of the apartment that smells like bergamot and money and something darker underneath. Something familiar. Like heat after sex. Like you.

“Are you gonna say why you’re here,” he says as he closes the door behind you, voice low, smooth, almost bored, “or just continue to stand there?”

You shrug. You’re already halfway to the couch. “Didn’t think I needed a reason.”

“You always had one,” he says, following at a lazy pace. “Even when you lied about it.”

You don’t sit. You don’t take your shoes off. You just stand there in the middle of all that soft lighting and polished calm like you’re something feral that wandered in off the street. Your arms cross without thought, instinctive, defensive—like maybe if you press hard enough, you can hold yourself in. He notices. He always notices. That was the problem, wasn’t it? How seen he made you feel. Not loved. Not even wanted. Just known. 

“You look tired,” he says. Not kindly.

You stare at him. Let your eyes drag over every inch of him. The tan. The jaw. The lazy posture. The fucking confidence. You try not to let it show—how familiar it all is. How foreign it feels now. Like you’ve studied it in photos more recently than in person.  “You look the same.”

He grins. “You mean perfect?”

There it is. The smirk. The bait. The comfort in knowing exactly which part of himself still gets to you. He tosses it out like a joke, but his eyes don’t leave yours. He’s watching your mouth. Your shoulders. Your tells.

And fuck—you wish it didn’t still work. And so you do what you always do, you deflect. You roll your eyes, but the sting hits anyway. He’s always been beautiful in that arrogant, accidental way—like he never had to work for it. You always had to work for everything. But he just was. That was half the danger, all of the problem. 

“You must’ve seen the article,” you say, even though you’re not here to talk about the article. Even though this whole thing has nothing to do with whatever the press dug up and everything to do with how quiet your apartment’s been. How empty your chest’s felt. How loud he still is, in every fucking corner of your mind.

“I did,” he says, shrugging. “You looked good. Even when you’re pissed off.”

You laugh once, sharp. “You looked like a fucking asshole.”

“Branding,” he replies, with that infuriating grin, the one that used to mean you’re not really mad at me and you’re not really leaving. The one you used to fall for. The one you feel yourself slipping toward again, like gravity. Like his goddamn dog. 

You inhale through your nose, slow. Careful. Like control is something you can hold in your lungs.

“Don’t get excited,” you tell him.

He steps closer. One, then two. Not touching you. Just standing there, inches away, his presence thick as smoke. “You came back,” he murmurs. “That’s all I need.”

And your heart breaks a little, just enough to make room for something worse. Because this is the part you forgot—how he looks at you. Like nothing else exists. Like you’re a secret he’s been keeping warm in his mouth this whole time. There’s something about his eyes up close. Something impossible. They make you forget all the bad endings and bruised mornings. They make you think you might want it again. That maybe the problem was never him. Maybe it was you. Maybe you were too scared to be kept.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, voice raw around the edges. But it’s not a real protest.

He moves like he hears it for what it is. Like he knows the thread is already pulled, and you’re unraveling in his hands. He steps closer. Close enough that his breath ghosts against your cheek. Close enough that you can feel the burn of him without needing to touch. But then he does touch—just one hand, slow and certain, curling around your hip like he’s staking a claim he never stopped believing in.

“You always say that right before you kiss me,” he says, low, like a dare he already knows you’ll take.

Your breath catches. Just a subtle hitch in your chest that betrays you more than any yes ever could. Your mouth parts like instinct, like muscle memory, like maybe it remembers how good it felt to fall apart under his mouth. His hand moves, slow. Deliberate. Thumb grazing over the front of your shirt, dragging downward. Just enough to make your skin burn under the fabric. It’s not a grope. It’s worse than a grope. It’s casual. Familiar. Possessive in the quiet way that says I’ve had you like this before, and I will again.

His touch isn’t asking. It’s remembering. You swallow. Your heart's trying to crawl up your throat. You should move. Should say something colder, sharper, final. Instead, you just breathe out—

“Don’t.”

Barely audible. Not even a command. Just a plea. God, you’re an idiot.

He tilts his head, like he wants to get a better angle on your mouth. His nose almost brushes yours. The space between you contracts until it’s only breath and tension and history.

“Don’t what?” he asks, and his voice has that low, slanted softness—curious, cruel. Like he knows exactly what you meant but wants to hear you struggle to say it. The kind of voice that used to unravel you in dark corners, in backseats, in beds that didn’t belong to either of you.

He leans in. Just a little. Enough that you feel the heat of his breath against your mouth—warm, embarrassingly warm, laced with mint and something sweeter underneath. Familiar. Him. That exact blend you used to chase in the dark like a hit you didn’t want to quit. It makes your knees weaken. Your jaw tighten. Your pride splinter.

Your eyes flick to his lips. Mistake. They’re right there. Parted. Wet. Waiting. And the space between you shrinks until it feels like a trick.

“Don’t make this something it’s not,” you manage, barely above a whisper, every word scraped from the raw edge of restraint.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just leans in further, and fuck—his mouth grazes yours. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a ghost of one. A threat.

His voice is so rough now—like it’s been worn down by every time he’s said your name in the dark. “You mean something it is.”

You shiver, and you hate that he feels it. You want to hold out. You want to keep control. You want to say something biting, something final, something that makes him feel the way you’ve felt since he let you go. But then he exhales—slow, hot, right against your tongue. And just like that, you’ve lost.

You kiss him, hard. Desperate. Like a dam breaking. Your hands are in his hair, dragging him in, and his body collides with yours like he’s been holding back since the moment you walked in. It’s all heat, no space. His mouth opens against yours and the taste of him hits like hunger—like rage, like missing something for too long. You chase it. You give him your teeth, your tongue, your breath. He takes all of it like it’s owed.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, your ass, sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing the skin he used to fall asleep on like he’s checking to make sure it’s still his. You make a sound in your throat, somewhere between shock and surrender, and he groans into it—deep, guttural—like he’s been waiting months to hear it again.

He pushes you back until your spine kisses the wall, the impact muffled by the heat rolling off him. And you—God—you don’t even think. Your legs part without hesitation, hips tilting, instinctive. You wrap them around him like that’s where they’ve always belonged, thighs locking tight as his hands slide lower. And then you feel it—how hard he already is against you, thick through his pants, straining with a pressure that feels dangerous. You gasp. His hips grind forward, slow and deliberate, dragging that heat against the softest part of you. All muscle. All him.

He’s solid everywhere, unyielding, his abs pressed tight against your stomach, his chest hot through the thin fabric of your shirt. You can barely breathe. He’s all around you, above you, inside you already without even being there yet.

“You miss me?” he growls into your mouth.

You don’t answer. Your answer’s in the way you arch into him, nails raking down his back, pulling his shirt up and over his head like you need to feel every inch. It hits the floor. He’s warm and solid and panting.

“You fucking miss me,” he says again, dragging his mouth down your throat, sucking hard enough to mark.

You nod. A tiny motion. Barely there. Then—brrzt. brrzt.

His phone. 

You freeze. Just for a second, enough for the thoughts to collect. Lando, however, keeps going. Grinding against you harder. Hand shoved between your thighs, fingers pressing through denim like he wants to rip it off with his teeth.

brrzt. brrzt.

“Your phone,” you pant.

“Fuck it,” he mutters. “Ignore it.”

It buzzes again. Long this time. He doesn’t even look. Just lifts you higher, his mouth dragging over your jaw, your cheek, back to your lips. “Come back to bed,” he whispers against you. “Let me show you how much you fucking missed me.”

Your heart stutters. The phone won’t stop. You twist your face away, breathing hard. “Answer it.”

He growls low in his throat. Frustrated. Presses his forehead to yours. “It’s nothing.”

brrzt. brrzt.

You push against his chest. Gently. Not to stop. Just enough to see his face. “Lando. Just—answer it.”

Silence stretches. He stares at you. Jaw tense. Then—without a word—he reaches into his pocket and pulls the phone out. Glances at the screen. Jaw flexes again. You see it before he hides it.

Magui? The model. He doesn’t answer right away. Just holds the phone like it’s radioactive. Then, slowly, he presses accept. Puts it on speaker and doesn’t look at you.

“Lando? Where are you?” her voice asks, soft, breathy, sweet like something that doesn’t know how sharp the blade is. “You said you’d come back.”

Your stomach drops. Something ugly twists in your chest. He looks at you. Finally. Lips parted. Chest heaving. Guilt doesn’t even register on his face.

And you—you just stand there, legs still wrapped around his hips, his hand still under your shirt, his mouth still wet from your kiss.

Listening. Like a fucking idiot. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until it starts to burn. His name is still hanging in the air between you, but you’re not looking at him anymore—you’re staring at the phone, your body gone still in his hands, your heart pounding like it’s trying to scream over her voice.

You said you’d come back. He doesn’t say anything. Not to her. Not to you. And then she says it. Soft. So soft you almost miss it.

I love you.

Your brain doesn’t register it right away. It glitches. Like static. Like maybe it wasn’t real. Like maybe your ears are just cruel. You blink, but your face doesn’t move. Your jaw’s locked so tight it feels like your teeth might break.

And he—he just ends the call. Like that. Like nothing. No goodbye. No excuse. No tone shift, no sigh. Just a tap of his thumb and the silence is back, louder than before.

Your mouth opens. But nothing comes out. You look at him, really look, and you don’t know what the fuck you’re expecting. Remorse? A joke, maybe? Something to soften the way that name is still ricocheting around your skull like a pinball.

But he just breathes—deep, shuddering, like he’s swallowing down the instinct to pull you back in. Like it physically costs him to let go. His chest rises too fast, too hard, like he’s been running, like holding you against him took something out of him. His breath hits your cheek in short bursts, humid and sharp, laced with the taste of everything you almost let happen. It’s the kind of breathing that isn’t just from need—it’s from restraint. Barely-there control. Like his whole body is buzzing with the effort not to drag you right back against the wall and finish what you started.

You slide off of him. Feet hitting the floor like reality. You fix your shirt automatically, hands shaking, lips buzzing from where his mouth had been, skin hot and damp and stupid.

“Are you serious?” Your voice comes out raw.

He watches you, eyes dark, unreadable.

“She—she loves you,” you spit, breath catching as you take a shaky step back, heart still racing, hands still curled into fists. “She said that and you just—what the fuck was that?”

He exhales sharp through his nose, then drags a hand through his hair—fast, rough, like he’s trying to get a grip on something he can’t hold. His curls fall right back into place, but his jaw’s tight, his eyes flicking toward the floor like maybe he’s trying not to look at you. “She doesn’t mean it.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

He exhales, sharp through his nose. “She doesn’t know me like you do.”

“That’s the problem,” you snap. “She doesn’t know what you are.”

“And you do,” he says, voice quiet. Still dangerous. “So why are you here?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again, and this time it’s just a laugh. Ugly. Bitter. “Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what? Don’t realize what this is? That I’m your dirty little relapse while your soft little girlfriend plays house and says I love you into your voicemail?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he barks. Too fast. Too defensive.

You stare him down, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t say that a second ago.”

He comes toward you and you stumble back.

“No,” you say. “Fuck no. You don’t get to touch me right now.”

He freezes. Stops dead, just a foot from you, close enough to feel the heat of him, too far to do anything about it. His chest rises and falls like he’s running—he’s not. He’s just feeling too much, too fast, too late.

“Look at me,” he says.

You don’t. You stare at the floor like it might save you. Like if you don’t meet his eyes, you won’t fall back into the same goddamn loop that’s already eaten you alive twice over.

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You flinch, but you don’t move away. Of course you don’t. Because part of you is still standing in the wreckage hoping he’ll lie to you sweet enough to make it okay. His touch is soft now. Thumb tracing your cheek, then dragging down your throat, slow and reverent, like he’s memorizing you again.

“She doesn’t know what I sound like when I’m inside you,” he murmurs.

Your knees almost give out.

“She doesn’t know how you taste when you come.”

Your stomach flips, hard. Heat coiling down your spine, settling between your legs.

“She doesn’t know how wet you get for me, even when you hate me.”

Your thighs clench—reflex, muscle memory, betrayal. His grin brushes your cheek without even forming. He doesn’t need to see it. He feels it. He steps closer. Just one inch. But it’s all it takes. His mouth brushes your ear, hot breath curling into your neck.

“But you do,” he whispers. “Don’t you?”

You close your eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe. Just to pretend.

His hand slides under your shirt again. Palm flat over your stomach, fingers splayed, dragging up—slow, heavy, deliberate. Every inch he takes feels like a claim. Like he’s reminding your skin who it belongs to. He reaches your ribs. Stops there. Presses in. Just enough to make you feel the weight of it. The heat. The power.

You should pull away. You want to pull away. But your body’s already arching into it. Already melting.

“You’re not some side piece,” he says, low and rough, his mouth dragging along your jaw. “You’re not a fucking mistake. You’re the one I can’t seem to get over.”

You shake your head. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

His mouth finds yours again. Softer this time. Slower. Like he’s trying to rewrite the last five minutes with his tongue. Like if he kisses you deep enough, long enough, you’ll forget her name. Forget what she said. Forget what you heard.

You moan into it. God help you.

He lifts you again. You let him. Your legs wrap around his hips like they never left. He presses you back into the wall and grinds against you, and you’re gasping again, already soaked through your jeans, shame melting into heat like sugar over flame.

“You still want me,” he says. “Even after all this.”

You nod before you can lie. Before you can save face. Because the truth is—it’s not that you want him. It’s that you need him. Like air, you want him more than anything else.  And when his hand slips down, tugging open your fly, fingers sliding beneath the fabric like a claim, you whimper.

Because this isn’t healing. This is a fucking possession, and worst of all you’re still letting him in.

His fingers are in your jeans, dragging them down with that reckless one-handed pull like he can’t wait anymore. As if he’s been fucking starved. The denim catches at your knees, then your ankles, and you almost trip trying to step out of them, but he catches you—of course he catches you—because the fall is always part of the game with him.

“You still get wet for me so fast,” he murmurs, thumb pressing into your underwear, slow circles right over where he knows you’re already soaking. “Just like that. Just like you used to. I didn’t even have to try.”

Your breath hitches. Shame and arousal flood through you in equal measure, but it’s not enough to stop you. He watches you fall apart with that cocky, ruined grin—like he’s proud of what he does to you, but not even remotely surprised.

“Bet you touch yourself thinking about this,” he adds. “About my mouth. About my cock.”

Your mouth opens to protest, but he slips a finger beneath the fabric and slides through you—wet, thick, slow—and your entire brain short-circuits. Your knees buckle and he fucking laughs, low and mean and gorgeous.

“You’re so full of shit,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You don’t mean any of this.”

His mouth finds yours again, teeth scraping your lip. “Maybe,” he says against your tongue. “But it’s working, isn’t it?”

You shove his chest, but it’s not a real push. It’s nothing. You’re already grinding against his hand, thighs trembling, cunt clenching around his fingers as he adds another. The stretch burns in the best way. Your head falls back against the wall.

“Lando—”

“I missed this pussy,” he cuts in, voice rough now, his own breathing ragged. “Fuck. I thought about it every time she opened her mouth. Had to stop myself from saying your name when I came.”

That hits like a slap. Your jaw drops, your stomach lurches, but the worst part—the most humiliating part—is how much wetter you get hearing it. You hate him. Hate yourself more. He drops to his knees before you can think. Yanks your underwear down and apart like he owns it, spreads you open with both hands and groans when he sees how wrecked you are.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” he mutters. “You’re dripping. Look at that. She’s got no fucking clue.”

Then his mouth’s on you. You cry out, hands flying to his hair, trying to push him away and pull him in all at once. His tongue is relentless—circling, flicking, sucking your clit with practiced, hungry precision—and your thighs are already shaking. His fingers pump into you hard, steady, curling just right. It’s disgusting how fast you’re close. How desperate you are. How your hips are fucking chasing his mouth like he’s the only thing you’ve ever needed.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks, voice muffled against you. “Show me how bad you still want it?”

You nod frantically, too far gone to pretend. He chuckles darkly. “Then fucking do it. Let her hear you next time she calls.”

And then he sucks, hard, and everything inside you snaps. Your legs shake, your vision whites out, your body jerks against him with a guttural, broken moan that you couldn’t stop if you tried. You’re still shaking when he stands. Licks his lips, smug. Unbuttons his jeans like it’s nothing.

“Still think I don’t mean it?” he asks, pulling his cock out, hard and leaking, dragging it against your thigh. 

You should run. But instead you grab his face and kiss him again—deep, messy, tasting yourself on his tongue—because if you’re gonna go down, you’re gonna burn on the way.

“Shut up,” you whisper against his mouth.

He grins like he’s already won. Next thing you know your panties are hanging from one ankle, forgotten. He’s panting into your mouth, hand gripping the back of your neck like he wants to fuck you with your face pressed against the wall and your spine bent backwards. His cock is hard against your thigh, leaking, twitching, so ready, and your nails are in his skin, already dragging, already marking.

Then he pulls back.

“Hold on,” he mutters, breathless, and turns away.

You blink. Chest heaving. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer. Walks toward the bedroom. Opens a drawer. You don’t move, frozen in that second of hot disbelief, like maybe you didn’t just see what you saw.

Then he comes back. With a condom. And your blood boil over, you were going to fucking murder him. You stare at the plastic like it had personally slapped you. 

“Seriously?” you spit in utter disbelief. 

He shrugs, casual, tone light like it won’t explode the whole fucking moment. “What? Just being careful.”

“Careful?”

He shrugs again, tearing the foil open with his teeth, cock still hard in his hand. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”

The silence that follows doesn’t hang—it slams down between you. Sucks the oxygen out of the air. You just stare. Your mouth doesn’t work. Your chest doesn’t move. Rage rises slow in your throat, heavy and hot, turning your blood molten. It crawls up the back of your neck, behind your eyes, makes your vision pulse at the edges.

You take a step. Then another. Close enough to see your own slick glinting on his skin. And then your hand flies. The slap cracks across his face—flesh to bone, skin to heat—and his head snaps with the force of it. The sound ricochets off the walls, brutal and final.

He doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t flinch.

He just laughs. Low. Dark. That sharp, broken sound that says fuck yes. Mean. Worse, turned on.

“Oh, that’s what does it for you?” he breathes, eyes flicking back to you, wild now. “Getting offended that I don’t assume you’ve been sitting at home like a fucking nun?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“So are you,” he snaps back, grabbing your face with one hand, gripping your jaw. “But you’re the one who keeps coming back. Not her. You, princess.”

You’re both panting. Still half-dressed. Still drunk on whatever shit-show occurs whenever you two are in the same room. 

“You think I’m letting you fuck me with a condom now?” you hiss. “After all this? Go fuck yourself.”

“You’d rather I come in you just to prove a fucking point?” he growls.

“Yeah,” you snap. “I fucking would.”

He doesn’t put it on. He just lets it fall. Condom hits the floor with a whisper and then he’s on you—slamming you back against the wall with the weight of his whole body, his mouth crushing yours, tongue and teeth and spit, hands everywhere, gripping your thighs, your ass, your jaw like he can’t decide what part of you he wants first.

He’s cursing into your throat, your name half-spoken—spit out—like a threat, like worship, like an apology he doesn’t fucking mean.

And then—

He shoves into you.

Raw. Bare. Deep.

You gasp—no, scream—your legs snapping tight around his waist, head thudding back against the wall as your body stretches around him with that slick, aching slide that feels like pain, like home, like fuck, finally.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t check if you’re okay. Doesn’t have to. Your nails are already dragging down his back, hips tilting into his like your body’s starving. He grabs your ass and drives into you again, again, harder—grinding deep like he’s trying to split you open and crawl inside.

You bite his shoulder. He groans loud, then fucks you harder.

“This what you wanted?” he snarls. “This what you fucking needed?”

“Yes,” you moan, breath caught, body stretched and shaking. “Yes, yes—fuck, yes.”

He pulls out mid-thrust and drags you down the hall, arms still locked under your thighs. You’re dizzy, dripping down his stomach, mind gone. Then he kicks the balcony door open.

You jolt. “Are you serious—”

It’s too late. The breeze hits your sweat-slick skin. Warm air, salty from the sea, cool on your flushed face. He presses you to the glass, your chest against it, city lights glittering like stars below, and pushes back inside you in one brutal stroke.

You scream. Palm slaps the window. He fucks you like he wants Monaco to watch.

“You don’t care if anyone sees, do you?” he hisses, snapping his hips. “Fucking exhibitionist slut.”

You’re moaning into the glass, fogging it up with your breath, clawing at the railing.

“Say it,” he growls into your ear. “Say you like getting fucked in front of the world.”

You can’t even form words.

“You’re mine,” he snarls. “Say it.”

His hands grip your hips like handles, like he’s steering the whole scene, and your face is pressed to the cool glass, moaning open-mouthed against your own reflection. You can barely see the city anymore—just streaks of light and shadow and your own shame, smeared across the surface in fogged breath and desperation. Your knees are going numb. Your thighs burn. You can’t stop clenching around him.

He’s fucking brutal now. Deep. Deliberate. Each thrust hitting with the full weight of him—hips slamming into your ass, chest flush to your back, breath hot and ragged in your ear.

You shudder. Grip the railing, knuckles white, thighs shaking. And all it takes is one more thrust—one more brutal drag of his cock inside your soaked, ruined cunt—and your body fucking shatters. You come with a sob that scrapes your throat raw, clenching down on him, pulsing so hard it feels like you’re trying to pull him deeper.

“Fucking—fuck—I’m gonna cum in you,” he grits, voice torn, no space for permission, no pause for protest.

You don’t say no. You can’t.

He slams forward one last time and stays there—buried to the base, cock twitching inside you, and then he lets go.

You feel it hit. Feel him spill, thick and hot, spilling into you without hesitation, no condom, no fucking thought. Just heat. Just need. Just him.

His entire body shudders against yours, mouth open against your shoulder, groaning low and wrecked, every pulse a brand.

It’s silent for a moment after. Just heavy breathing and the muffled throb of music echoing up from the street below. You can feel him softening inside you. Feel him pulling out, slow. Lazy. Like he’s done. Your legs shake. You press your forehead to the glass, body humming, raw and wrecked.

And when you turn—he’s already walking away. Without a single word, he begins adjusting his waistband. Grabbing a towel. Scrubbing his face like he just finished a workout. Not even a glance back in your direction.

You blink. Still half-naked. Still leaking.

Still there.

“Lando,” you say. Quiet. Maybe it’s not even his name—it’s a plea. A question.  He doesn’t respond. Just walks into the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Drinks straight from a bottle of water like your body wasn’t just wrapped around him minutes ago.

That’s when it hits. The shift. The drop. On queue. You wrap your arms around your chest. The breeze brushes your thighs, sticky and exposed, and you feel it—his cum sliding out of you, running down your inner leg in a humiliating heat.

You feel empty. Not the kind that hums. Not the kind that settles sweet and fucked-out in your bones.

No. This is raw. Open. Like something vital’s been scooped out and left behind. You’re still dripping from him. Still shaking, breath catching in your throat like a secret you didn’t mean to tell. Your legs are barely holding. Your heart’s trying to pretend it’s fine.

He leans against the counter. Phone in hand. Scrolling. Laughing under his breath at something you’re not a part of.

Like he didn’t just fuck your soul out against the glass. Like you didn’t say yes to all of it.

And now—he’s done. And you’re just there. Still wanting. Waiting. 

You don’t know how long you stand there, barefoot and half-naked, the breeze licking at the mess between your thighs, spine still curved from where he bent you against the glass. The city glows on without you. Somewhere below, people are drinking champagne and laughing under golden light. The world keeps turning. You peel yourself off the railing. Limbs heavy. Walk stiffly back inside, legs aching from the way he held you open like a vice. You grab your jeans from the floor and pull them up without really thinking, fabric clinging to sweat and everything he left inside you. You’re dizzy. It doesn’t feel real. Or maybe it feels too real. Like the high’s just starting to rot from the inside out.

He’s still in the kitchen. Shirtless, scrolling. Water bottle on the counter, beads of condensation sliding down the side. He hasn’t looked at you once.

You watch him for a second, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold your insides in. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just scrolls.

You clear your throat.

“I… guess that’s it, then?”

His eyes flick up. Casual. No longer interested.

“Thought that’s what you came for,” he says. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just flat, just honest.

Dismissive. Like the fuck was the favor. Like this was a transactional itch, not a relapse that shattered something in you.

You blink. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He goes back to his phone.

You step forward. One bare foot against the marble tile, cold and slick beneath your toes. “So what now?”

“Now nothing.”

He says it like it’s funny. Like you’re the one being too dramatic. Like you didn’t just let him inside you. Like you’re not still stretched around the memory of him.

Your stomach tightens.

Of course. Of course. Because his is how it’s always been, isn’t it? Because he fucks you, and then he pulls away. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. Every time. He rolls off. Goes quiet. Distracted. Picks up his phone like your body didn’t just bend around him like it remembered how. Like you didn’t give him everything—again. And on the rare nights he let you stay, he wouldn’t touch you after. Wouldn’t hold you. Wouldn’t even turn toward you in the bed. Like warmth was permission. Like kindness meant commitment. God forbid he see you after.

And still, you stayed. Every fucking time. Still hoping that one day he’d kiss you on the forehead instead of just your mouth. That he’d trace your back after instead of zipping his pants. That he’d make breakfast. That he’d ask you how you felt.

But he never did. He never wanted that part. And still—you came.

“I came here because of that photo,” you say, quietly. “Because I thought—fuck—I don’t know, I thought maybe we should talk. About what we were. About what we never really finished.”

That gets a reaction, but not the one you want. He exhales sharply, smirks at the counter. Shakes his head.

“You’re kidding, right?”

Your jaw tenses. “No. I’m not.”

He sets the phone down, finally looks at you, and the look is pure Lando—half exasperated, half smug, like he’s above it all. Like he’s already out of reach again.

“What did you think this was?” he says. “Closure? A love story?”

Your throat closes up. You swallow hard. “I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t think. Okay? I just missed you.”

The words feel pathetic in the air. He tilts his head. “Yeah, and now you don’t have to.”

And that’s it. That’s fucking it. No tenderness. No gratitude. No I-missed-you-too or it’s-complicated or even a lie to soften the blow.

Just that. He picks his phone up again. You start to say something—maybe don’t make me feel used, maybe tell me this wasn’t nothing, maybe just lie to me—but you stop.

Before you can even finish inhaling, he’s pressing the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he says, soft.

So. Fucking. Soft.

Your heart caves. It doesn’t break. It caves. Like something imploding from the inside out. It’s not the volume of his voice—it’s the tone. The shift. Like he’s wiping you off his skin and putting on someone else’s smile.

He turns his back to you, leans against the counter. “Yeah… I know. I’m sorry, baby.”

You just stand there. Your arms still crossed, but now it’s because if you don’t hold yourself together, you’ll fucking fall apart. You feel the cum drying between your legs. You feel it leaking into your jeans. You feel like a mistake wearing your own skin.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Just had to handle something real quick.”

Your breath stutters. You’re not a person. You’re not even a memory. You’re a thing he had to handle.

He glances over his shoulder. Sees you still standing there. He turns back, still murmuring sweet nothings into the phone, and you’re left standing in the middle of the room with your mouth full of dust and your thighs still slick with the lie you let back in.

You stare at the back of him, phone cradled to his ear, voice soft in that way you haven’t heard in months—not since he used to call you at 1AM, whispering like a promise. He’s murmuring something now. You catch pieces. Missed you too. No, just tired. I’ll come by tomorrow. Yeah, I will.

The words don’t even hurt as much as the tone. That casual affection. The tenderness you’ll never get again.

Your body aches. Not from pleasure, not anymore. From the aftermath. From the sharp reminder of how quickly he empties you out and walks away. You’re still sticky with him. Inside and out. You don’t say anything. No dramatic line. No last jab. That would give him too much. Let him think you still want a reaction. That you’re still clinging.

Instead, you start collecting your things. Quietly. Your shirt’s wrinkled where he tugged it. Your panties are still damp, shoved in your back pocket with shaking fingers. Your shoes by the door—you slip them on without a sound. Your bag. Your phone. What little dignity you can scrounge from the marble floor.

You glance back once, not because you want to, but because your body betrays you even now.

He doesn’t look. Still on the phone. Still laughing quietly. Still calling someone baby like it means something. Your throat burns. You swallow it down. You told yourself this wouldn’t happen again. You told yourself it was just to talk. Just to finish what never got finished. Just to say goodbye properly.

But you knew. You knew the second you saw him. This was never going to end clean. Not with him. Not with you.

You open the door. His voice fades behind you as it clicks shut. You hold your bag close to your chest as you walk down the hall, staring straight ahead, blinking fast and hard.

Because if you cry now, you’ll never stop. And he doesn’t deserve to know that he still has that power. He already knows.

You don’t even remember walking back. You must’ve called a car. Or maybe you walked half the way and then gave up. Maybe you blacked out the drive, staring out the window with your lips still swollen and your thighs still sticky with him, flinching every time a memory passed too close. Maybe you held your phone in your hand the whole time and didn’t unlock it once. You can’t remember. You don’t want to.

You’ve never felt less like a person and more like a ghost dragging her ruined body across white marble and velvet hallway carpet. Everything at the hotel is too pristince. Too quiet. No one at the front desk looks at you, but you feel like they know. You feel like you’re wearing it—like guilt is a stain bleeding through your clothes, like they can smell him on you.

You ride the elevator in silence. Your reflection stares back from the brass paneling. Eyes rimmed red. Lip a little bitten. Hair half-wrecked from where he’d fisted it. You don’t fix it. What’s the point? There’s no one left to impress. You get into the room and it feels smaller than it did this morning. Like the walls have leaned in, closing around you. You don’t turn the lights on. You just stand there for a second, letting the dark settle. Your bag slides off your shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud. Your phone clinks against the dresser when you set it down too hard. And you’re still holding your shoes.

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare into nothing. The shame doesn’t come all at once. It creeps in. Starts as a whisper behind your ribs, an ache behind your eyes, the slow, growing awareness of what you just did. And who you did it with.

Lando.

Your heart clenches at the sound of his name in your own head. Not because it’s romantic. Because it’s sick. Because you want him still. Want more. Want his mouth, his hands, his fucking voice even now—like he didn’t just toss you aside like old gum. Like he didn’t walk away mid-mess and call her. Like he didn’t say nothing when you stood there, humiliated and half-clothed.

You drag yourself to the bathroom and flick the light on. It’s too bright. Makes everything worse. The mirror is a crime scene. Your makeup is half-gone. Mascara smudged. Lipstick faded and smeared. You can still see the mark on your collarbone where he bit you. You run cold water. Cup it in your hands. Splash your face. It does nothing. You strip slowly. Shirt. Jeans. Bra. That ruined pair of panties you shoved into your back pocket like a secret. You drop them all onto the cold tile, one by one, and stand there naked, not touching the towels. Not stepping into the shower. Just standing. Letting the air hit your skin.

You feel used. Your thighs are sticky. The inside of your cunt aches, sore in that way that used to make you feel desired, but now just makes you feel stupid. You stare at the spot on your hip where he used to kiss you, back when it meant something. Back when it felt like worship instead of a routine.

Your exes never fucked you like this. Not even the worst ones. Not even the ones who said all the right things with their mouths and none of it with their eyes. They fucked you politely. Or carelessly. Or selfishly. But never like this. Never like they needed you to feel it days later. Never like they hated you and loved you and wanted to punish you for both.

Lando does.

Lando always did.

You sink to the floor. Slowly. Your bare ass hits the tile and you curl your knees to your chest like you can somehow close yourself off from the parts of you that are still open. Your hair falls in your face. You don’t move it. You just breathe.

You told yourself this wouldn’t happen again. You said it out loud. Like a spell. Like if you repeated it enough, it would become a truth. I won’t let him do this to me again. I won’t let myself want him. I won’t go back.

But here you are. Back. Fucked. Full. Empty.

And still—wanting.

You reach for your phone. Not to call him. Just to look. Some part of you is already anticipating it. Hoping for the text. The breadcrumb. Some half-assed “You okay?” that’ll make you hate yourself more because you’ll respond to it. You always do.

You unlock the screen. Nothing. You check the signal. Perfect bars. You wait. Another minute. Five. Still nothing.

You open his contact anyway. Just stare at it. That stupid name. The photo you should’ve deleted months ago—him grinning at some party, hand in your hair, that cocky fucking smile. You remember the moment. You remember thinking this might actually work.

You close the app. Open your messages. Type something.

“You didn’t have to call her while I was still in the room.”

Delete.

“I know what this was, but you could’ve at least—”

Delete.

You lock the screen. Drop the phone next to you on the floor.

You sit there, knees tight to your chest, bare skin on cold tile, heartbeat echoing in your ears like a countdown to nothing.

You won’t cry. But the part of you that still aches for him—still wants him—knows the truth. This isn’t over. It never is. And when he calls again, you’ll answer. Because you always do.

The morning’s too bright. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Just literally—too fucking bright. The Mediterranean sun punches you in the face the moment you step out of the hotel, and you’re instantly sweating through your shirt. You should’ve worn black. You should’ve stayed in bed. You should’ve never come to this country in the first place.

The streets are already buzzing. Tourists, locals, teams in branded polos. You can hear the distant whine of an engine on a test run somewhere, that sharp scream of speed slicing through the heavy, salt-thick air like a knife. The city’s waking up, but not slowly—Monaco never does anything slowly. She wakes up hungry, already half-drunk, already waiting for someone to crash.

You hope it’s him. You hope he hits the wall. You hope he qualifies dead fucking last. P20. God, give him P fucking 20. It’s petty. It’s cruel. But it’s all you have left. You wrap your arms around your stomach like it’ll hold in the sour twist of jealousy and hurt and sex you still haven’t scrubbed off. He’s probably already awake. Already laughing. Already sending her good morning texts while stretching in those silk sheets you bled yourself into last night.

You duck into a small shop near the marina—overpriced bottled water, sunscreen, last-minute branded merch. A cap with his fucking number is front and center on the rack. You want to set it on fire. You want to smash the display. You want to grab it and scream at the teenage girl fawning over it, he’s not a hero, he’s a fucking coward.

You buy gum and painkillers and overpriced sunglasses you don’t need.

At the register, the clerk asks, “You here for the race?”

You smile too hard. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Your body’s sore in that deep, intimate way. Not just your thighs, not just your hips—but your core, your chest, your fucking heart. Your insides feel rearranged and not in the poetic way. Your stomach is tight. Your mouth is dry. You didn’t even eat dinner last night. Just swallowed him. Let him fill every empty space. Let him win. You keep walking. Past yachts bobbing in the harbor, past velvet ropes and security guards and women with lips like weapons. Everyone’s beautiful here. Everyone looks like they belong. 

Your phone stays cold in your pocket. No text. No call. No you okay? You imagine her posting something. A soft-boiled egg on a white plate. His wrist in the corner of the frame. His smile. Her caption: my love.

You hope the car catches fire. You hope he gets lapped. You hope he feels a tenth of what you’re swallowing with every step. 

You sit at a café just off the main street. Order espresso. Black. No sugar. Your phone’s on the table. Face up. Still nothing. You chew your gum until your jaw hurts. You glance around. Every man in the city looks like a ghost version of him. Curls and sunglasses and soft voices ordering oat milk lattes. Every laugh sounds like the one he gave her. Your legs are crossed tight. Like if you keep them that way, it’ll keep the shame in. You still feel it. Every time you shift in your seat, you feel the dull ache of him. The stretch. The emptiness. Like he’s still inside you, just in the form of silence.

It’s not that you wanted love. You just wanted to not be discarded. Not like that. Not so fast. Not so quiet.You check your phone again.

Nothing.

You sip your coffee and watch a woman walk by in a Ferrari shirt, her toddler in tow. The kid’s got a tiny McLaren cap on. Your stomach flips. You wanted to be seen. Instead, you were handled.

Just another fucking pit stop. You close your eyes. Inhale. Count backwards from ten.

But the only thing that fills your mind is his voice from last night, low and smug in your ear.

You almost don’t go.

The cab ride feels long. The restaurant feels too much. Too much candlelight, too much glass, too much silver on the table, like it’s all trying to distract you from the fact that you’re still aching in all the places he touched. Your body’s clean, but it doesn’t feel that way. The shower didn’t help. The makeup didn’t help. The dress—tight black silk, slit to your thigh, halter low enough to tempt—feels more like armor than anything else. You wore it to forget, not to remember.

The guy across from you—what’s his name again? You haven’t said it out loud since you saved it in your phone—he’s sweet. Easy laugh. Well-dressed in a way that’s intentional but not obnoxious. Confident, but not a narcissist. The kind of man who should be able to make you forget. You’re nodding along to something he’s saying about race weekend logistics, sipping cold white wine and tasting nothing.

You laugh when he laughs. You answer questions. You twirl your fork in risotto you’re not hungry for. And you look fucking good. You know you do. Hair pinned. Collarbone sharp. Lip gloss like lacquer. There’s a version of you here that could do this. Who should be doing this. Being adored. Taken out. Picked up and shown off. A version of you who isn’t still bleeding for someone who left her dripping on a balcony.

But you’re not her. Not tonight. Not when your heart’s still a clenched fist in your chest. Your phone lights up once.

You glance down.

Lando.

No message preview. Just the name. Just the knot that forms instantly in your throat—tight, familiar, awful.

You don’t react. Not outwardly. You don’t flinch. Don’t gasp. You lift your glass like nothing’s wrong, like your whole body isn’t already curling inward from the contact.

The guy across from you is still talking. Still smiling. Still thinking you’re here.

“—so I told him, mate, you can’t just buy the yacht, you actually have to learn how to drive it,” he’s saying, laughing at his own story, voice too loud, too clean. “Rich kids, man. No sense of reality.”

You nod. Smile, maybe. You’re not sure what your face is doing. Everything sounds underwater.

Your phone lights up again.

Lando.

You shift in your seat. Cross your legs tighter beneath the table.

“Anyway, so we ended up in Saint-Tropez for the weekend—crazy, right?—and I swear to god the guy tried to dock it by just, like, aiming.”

You pick up your drink just to keep your hands busy. The rim touches your lip but you don’t sip. The screen lights again.

Lando.

And again.

Lando.

“Have you ever sailed? I feel like you’d be good at it. You’ve got that… I don’t know, that calm presence. Like you’d be the only one not panicking.”

Your fingers twitch on the stem of your glass. Calm. He has no fucking idea of the whirl-wind occuring in your head this very moment.  Your phone buzzes again and this time you don’t even look. Because you don’t need to.

Lando.

Lando.

Lando.

Your hand tightens around the stem of your glass. Your lips part like you might say something. Like maybe you’ll stand up and run before this moment becomes what you know it’s about to be.

You look over your shoulder.

Not because you want to.

Because you have to.

That awful sixth sense prickling at your neck, crawling down your spine. Your body stiffens before your eyes find him. Because somewhere inside you, you already know.

And then—

There he is.

Far end of the restaurant. Slipping in through the private entrance like the front door was beneath him. Like he hasn’t made a mess of your insides. Like he didn’t fuck you breathless against his balcony railing not even twenty-four hours ago.

Tan coat. Dark trousers. Curls pushed back like he ran a hand through them on the drive over. Jaw tight, smile easy. There’s a laugh in his throat—God, that laugh—like he didn’t tear yours out with his fucking teeth. She’s with him. Magui. In the flesh. Long legs. Loose hair. White silk dress, delicate little thing hanging off her body like an afterthought. She’s laughing at something he said, hand on his arm, and your gut plummets.

He doesn’t see you yet. Or maybe he does, and he’s just pretending. Your face burns. You want to disappear. Melt into the leather of your chair, vanish into the floor. The guy across from you says something about dessert. You smile. You think you do. Maybe you grimace. He excuses himself to the bathroom, promising to be quick.

You’re already grabbing your phone the second he stands. And now you look, you read, properly. 

Lando [9:37 PM]

nice dress

Lando [9:39 PM]

trying to impress him or just make me crazy?

Lando [9:40 PM]

it’s working

Lando [9:41 PM]

you think I won’t walk over there?

Lando [9:41 PM]

you think I won’t remind you what you begged for last night?

Lando [9:42 PM]

you can’t fuck him. you won’t. i can see it on your face.

Your heart pounds so loud you can feel it in your throat. Your hands are trembling against the phone. Your thumb hovers and then you type it.

go fuck yourself

You don’t even get the full breath out before another text lights up.

Lando [9:43 PM]

already did. thinking of you the whole time

Your stomach turns. You look back across the restaurant—and now he’s looking at you. Head tilted. Smile carved into his mouth like a dare. His hand rests on Magui’s lower back as he murmurs something in her ear.

She doesn’t notice you. But he does. His eyes are locked on you like a blade. You want to stand. You want to scream. You want to slap him across the face in front of everyone, tear the candle off your table and set that fucking smile on fire.

Instead—you grab your wine and down it.

Pick up your phone and you type.

what do you want from me, Lando?

Because you know exactly what he’s going to say. And you know you’ll give it to him anyway.

You don’t send another text. You don’t need to. Because you already feel it—his eyes. Continuing to burrow into you across the room. You don’t have to look again to know he’s watching your every move, jaw tight, tongue pressed hard behind his teeth. She’s still talking to him. Smiling. Leaning close like she’s won something.

But you know better. You’ve played this game before.  He’s not listening to her. He’s watching you.

Before you know it, the bathroom door swings open and your date returns, all warm smiles and lightly cologned confidence, none the wiser. He slides into the booth beside you now instead of across. And you—oh, baby—you let him. You lean in. Just enough. Just close enough that your perfume slips into his nose and your thigh brushes his. Your knee rests against his under the table and you don’t pull away. You’re smiling now—really smiling, lip caught between your teeth, eyes bright with something vicious.

“Miss me?” you murmur, voice syrupy.

He laughs. “Was only gone a minute.”

You rest your hand on his forearm. Light at first. Then you drag your fingertips down to his wrist, slow and soft like you’re mapping out where you’ll bite later. He pauses, eyes dipping down to your hand, then back up to your mouth.

“You’re… different all of a sudden,” he says, smiling. “Something change?”

You shrug, eyes hooded. “Just realized I like this table better from this side.”

You know what you’re doing. You tilt your head, your mouth just a little too close to his neck, and you laugh at whatever he says next—something harmless. A joke. A compliment. It doesn’t matter. You laugh like Lando isn’t sitting ten tables away, burning. You laugh like you’re not already thinking about unzipping this poor man’s pants just to get revenge on the one who broke you.

You rest your chin on your hand and trace circles on the inside of his knee. You cross your legs in his direction and let your dress slip higher. You sip your wine with your lips parted, slow, tongue flicking the rim.

And then—your phone buzzes again. You check it casually, still smiling.

Lando [9:51 PM]

what the fuck do you think you’re doing

Oh, there it is. The leash pulls tight. Instead of answering, you reach for your date’s collar and straighten it instead, gentle, intimate. He’s blinking at you now, almost stunned, not quite believing his luck.

You feel Lando watching. You can taste it. Your hand drifts down to your date’s thigh. Not obvious. But not subtle either.

“You wanna come back to mine?” you ask, quiet, like a secret.

His breath catches.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

You feel the heat in your cheeks. Not embarrassment—arousal. And rage. And something darker. You want Lando to lose his fucking mind. You want him to picture it—the way you’ll moan for someone else, even if you’re faking it the whole time. You want him sick with it. You want him to feel what he did to you.

Yo grab your bag and stand, letting your hand trail down your date’s chest as you say, “Come on, then.”

You don’t look back. But you don’t have to. You can feel Lando watching you walk away like he’s about to snap a wine glass in his fist. And for the first time all fucking day, you feel a little bit like you won. The cool air hits you the second you step outside, crisp with salt and a faint hint of fuel—Monaco always smells like money and speed. You’re holding his hand. This new guy. The sweet one. He’s talking about the afterparty, asking if you want champagne or tequila when you get there. You nod. Smile. Pretend.

But it’s all wrong. Every step you take feels heavier. Your stomach twists once. Then again. Sharp, then dull, then sharp again. It’s not the wine. It’s not the food. It’s the lie you’re living inside, stretched too tight around your ribs.

By the time you reach the curb, your throat is dry. He’s hailing a car, jacket off, offering it to your shoulders like a gentleman, still thinking this night is going somewhere good. He’s got no idea you’re two seconds away from falling apart.

You stop and pull your hand back.

“I can’t,” you say, voice too small.

He looks over. “What?”

You shake your head. Your smile’s already cracking. “I’m sorry. I just—I can’t.”

He takes a step closer, brows pulling together. “You okay? Is there something wrong?”

You press a hand to your stomach. It does hurt now. Real pain. Not from food. From grief. From self-disgust. From the way your body still remembers another mouth, another weight, another name.

“I thought I could,” you say, voice barely above a breath. “I thought I was over it. But I’m not.”

He just watches you. Confused, maybe. Definitely kind, and kind in a way that only makes it worse. You hate that he’s decent. Hate the way he listens without interruption, the way he offers space for your sadness without trying to fix it. He’s doing everything right and it still feels wrong. Because no matter how gently he holds you, how safe his hands are, your mind always drifts elsewhere. Always pulls back to something sharp. Something dangerous. Something that doesn’t even belong to you anymore.

To Lando. To the way his name still lives under your tongue like it has a right to be there. To the taste of him, the weight of his stare from across a room, the way his laugh ruins you even now. To the memory of his hands on your body while someone else wears his heart in public. It’s shameful, the way you crave what hurt you. The way your skin still prickles for him while someone good stands in front of you trying to love you without a fight. And still—he’s the ghost you reach for in the dark. Even now. Even here.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, stepping back. “You don’t deserve this.”

And before he can speak, you turn. He calls your name once. But he doesn’t follow.

You walk. Fast at first, then slower, then fast again. The city glows around you—buzzing, alive, gearing up for a weekend of victory and champagne, of golden boy headlines and photos that will never include you. The heels you wore start to hurt. You carry them, bare feet on warm pavement, heart thudding in your ears like a warning bell.

You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You don’t throw your phone or punch a wall or sink to the floor in some kind of cinematic collapse. That would require an emotion that hasn’t already been wrung out of you. What you do is walk. Barefoot. Purse in one hand, heels in the other, dress still clinging to your skin like it knows it’s part of the performance you didn’t get to finish. You walk like you’re being timed, like if you slow down even a little you’ll notice what your body’s doing—shaking, buzzing, trying not to feel anything too loudly in case someone hears it. In case he does.

You walk back to the hotel. Back to the quiet. Back to the too-cold lobby where the concierge doesn’t even glance up. Back to the elevator that moves too slow, back to the room that feels too clean. Back to the bed where you let him inside you, to the window you pressed your palms against, to the glass that still holds the outline of your spine. You walk back to where last night still breathes in the sheets, where the air remembers what your mouth sounded like when he pulled you open.

You unlock the door with shaking hands. Not trembling—shaking. That kind of shake that lives in the marrow, in the hollows between bones, the kind that doesn’t show up until the moment things go quiet. You twist the handle and step inside like the room might have changed, like maybe it’s not the same space where you peeled yourself out of his grip hours earlier, where your knees hit the carpet and you thought maybe, for a second, that he might look at you and see something. The door closes behind you with that soft hotel click, and it sounds too final. It sounds like the kind of soft that doesn’t care how heavy the silence is on the other side of it. You don’t turn the lights on. You don’t move beyond the threshold. The air feels stale even though the window’s cracked. The sheets on the bed are still half-pulled back from when you rushed to get dressed, from when your fingers fumbled over your bra strap like it mattered, like decency was something you still had access to.

And that’s when it hits you—that feeling. That pulse. That presence.

Not the man you left at the restaurant, not the one who leaned into another woman’s ear while staring straight through you across the room. Not the one who smiled like he hadn’t had his face between your thighs the night before. Not the one who let you walk out without chasing. That version of him is for the public, for the cameras, for the kind of girls who don’t know better.

The one you feel now is the one who told you, under his breath, that no one would ever fuck you the way he does. The one who kissed your throat like it was an apology, like it was a promise. The one who held your hips in both hands like he needed to brace himself against the want. The one who said I love you with a groan and meant it in the filthiest, most broken way. The one who left you full and aching and ruined and somehow still wanting more.

He isn’t here. He isn’t anywhere. But his name is still wet in your mouth, and his breath is still in your lungs, and your underwear is still sticking to you from where he finished without asking, and every part of your body still feels like it belongs to him. And maybe that’s worse. Maybe this—this absence, this phantom weight—is heavier than the act itself.

Because this is what he does. He invades. He stays. He lingers. And when he goes, he never really leaves.

The phone rings just past two a.m.

You stare at it, thumb hovering over the screen, not moving. You don’t answer right away—not because you’re trying to punish him, but because it’s a moment, and it’s yours. The quiet just before. The breath held. The anticipation curled at the bottom of your stomach like something alive. You hate how much you want this. Hate how your body remembers his name before your mouth does. Hate how none of it has dulled, not even now.

It rings again, softer somehow, though you know that’s impossible. It’s just the hour. The way silence thickens around sound this late, the way everything feels heavier when you’re alone. The way he feels heavier when you’re alone.

You press accept on the third buzz.

You stare at the ceiling while the line connects, the glow of the screen fading into the dark again as your hand drops back to the mattress. Your fingers brush the edge of the pillow but you don’t turn over. You don’t shift. You stay exactly as you were—still, flat, undone. He doesn’t say your name. He never does right away. That’s part of the performance. That moment he lets the silence settle just long enough to remind you that he holds the leash, that if you want anything—words, answers, closure—you’ll have to crawl for it.

He sighs, soft, like he’s tired, like it’s been a long day, like this is normal. “Hey.”

Just that. Just hey.

And it’s nothing. It’s nothing and it’s everything, because your chest tightens immediately, stomach flipping like you were still twenty minutes from him and not lying here in the wreckage of what he left behind. His voice sounds rough, maybe from the champagne, maybe from her, maybe from the way he always sounds when he’s just had something and still wants more. You want to hate it. You want to pretend it makes your skin crawl. But all it really does is make you ache.

“You alone?”

The question lands too gently, like he’s not really asking. Like he knows.

“Yeah.” Your voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else. Brittle. Caught in your throat.

A pause. You can hear him breathing. That quiet, familiar rhythm that used to mean something. That used to make you feel safe before it made you feel like a fucking joke.

He clears his throat, and the smirk is audible even over the line. “So? How was he?”

You flinch. You don’t know why—you should have expected it. It’s exactly the kind of thing he says when he’s trying not to ask the real question. When he’s trying to keep the power even while he’s already lost it.

You pause. Too long. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” His voice drops, dark amusement curling at the edges. “You let him fuck you, then?”

Your jaw clenches. You know what he’s doing. You know exactly where this is going. You roll onto your side, tuck the phone closer to your ear, press your thighs together without thinking.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. You swallow. Hard. “No.”

He laughs. Just once. Dry. “Didn’t think so.”

The silence stretches again, and it’s worse this time, heavier, like it’s his. Like he brought it with him and left it in your lap and now you’re the one holding it. You shift onto your side without meaning to, knees curling into your chest, hand still clutching the phone like it might anchor you to the bed.

“Hmm,” he hums, dragging the sound out like he’s picturing it. “Thought so. You always tighten up when you lie.”

You don’t respond.

“You were thinking about me the whole time, weren’t you?” His voice is softer now. Dangerous in a different way. Not sharp. Sweet. “Sitting there all pretty, playing the part, but your pussy was still sore from me.”

You swallow hard, lips parted, phone hot against your cheek. It feels heavier than it should—like it’s holding his whole mouth on the other end. Like if you press it tighter, you might feel the weight of his breath against your skin, humid and amused.

“Lando…” You don’t mean it to come out like that—weak, soft-edged, needy—but it does. It always does when he says your name first, or doesn’t say it at all. When he lets the silence settle until you have no choice but to fill it.

“I bet you didn’t even want him to touch you,” he murmurs. Not a tease. Not even mean. Just certain. Like he’s telling you something you haven’t admitted to yourself yet. “You sat through dinner, acting like a good little date, and all you could think about was my hand on your throat. My mouth on your cunt. The way you begged for it on that balcony.”

Your breath catches. The kind of catch that expands across your chest and makes your lungs feel too full too fast. You shift—barely—but the movement gives you away. Your hips tilt into nothing, like muscle memory took over. Your chest rises too quickly. You’re trying to hold it back, but your body’s already mid-confession. You make a sound, low in your throat, too soft to call language. Half protest, half surrender.

And he hears all of it.

“You touching yourself right now?”

You don’t say anything and he takes your silence as a yes.

“Do it.” He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t coax. He never has to. His instructions always sound like they’ve already happened, like you’re just catching up to the inevitable.

“Slide your hand down. Just one finger.”

You move slowly, not because you’re trying to be seductive, but because there’s shame in the familiarity. The way your body responds without hesitation. The way the sheets shift as your hand disappears beneath them. The way your fingertips graze your stomach and you pause—not out of modesty, but reverence. Like you already know what you’re going to find. You press your thighs together, the way you used to when you were trying not to let him see how bad it got, how fast. You hesitate. You want to blame him. But you’re already wet. Already ruined. Your panties cling, soaked and still warm, like your body’s been waiting for this call all night.

“Lando,” you whisper, but it’s not a plea to stop. It’s a surrender.

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, and it lands deep in your ear, rough and syrup-slick at the edges. His voice has thickened—fuller, slower, like the sound of someone wrapping their palm around a want they’re trying not to show. “That’s right. Show me you still fucking need me.”

You hate how good it feels. Not the words. The tone. The certainty. He never doubts it. Never doubts you. Your need. Your body. He speaks to it like it’s his, and the worst part is—it still listens. God help you—you do.

Your fingers hover beneath the sheet, suspended above your stomach like they’re waiting for permission. Caught there in limbo. Not quite obedience, not quite defiance. The space between his command and your compliance is thin, delicate, the place you always seem to fall into first.

His voice lingers, curls around you like a second skin. Honey-laced gravel. That sound you’ve heard pressed to your shoulder, your mouth, the inside of your thighs. It tugs. Not gently. Not violently. Just effectively. It would be so easy. To give in. To surrender under the guise of pleasure. To let your body chase his voice and pretend—for five minutes—that this is love. That he means any of it. That wanting you is the same as keeping you. That this ache, this pull, is more than just habit wrapped in heat.

But something clenches in your chest. Sharp. A tightness just behind your sternum, hot and specific. A different kind of knowing.

You pull your hand back. “No,” you say, quiet, but not soft. A whisper, yes—but one you mean.

The line stills. His breath shifts—no longer seductive, just audible. A pause, an exhale, the kind that happens when someone wasn’t expecting a refusal.

“No?” he repeats, slower now. 

You swallow. Your throat tightens. “Not like this. I’m not—” You sit up in bed. The sheets slip down your chest like they know they’ve been dismissed. Cool air replaces the warmth of your body, and it feels like stepping outside of something. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to say that shit to me after what happened.”

You wait. Expect the smirk in his voice. The pivot. The sarcasm. The cruel, clever deflection that always comes when you try to reach for something with weight.

A beat passes. Then another. You brace yourself for the mockery, the deflection, the teeth. But instead, he sighs. Honest. A sound you’ve only heard a handful of times before. The sound he makes when his armor slips, when he thinks no one’s watching.

“I know,” he says snd it sounds like truth.

You blink.

“I just— fuck,” he mutters, voice dropping low again, but not to seduce this time. Just honest. Raw. “I keep trying to not think about you. I go to sleep next to her, and it’s you I’m dreaming about. I kiss her and it doesn’t taste like anything.”

Your breath catches.

“I thought maybe if I pissed you off enough, you’d stop being in my head. But then I saw you tonight.” He laughs under his breath. “You looked so fucking good. I hated it.”

You’re quiet. Staring at the far wall of your hotel room like it might give you answers.

“I don’t want to keep doing this,” you whisper.

He doesn’t protest. Doesn’t try to sell it as love or misunderstanding or timing or fate. He just waits, still on the line, still breathing, letting the weight of your words—and his silence—do what it always does. Fill the room with him.

“I want to stop,” you say again, but it sounds different this time. Smaller. Your voice loses its bite somewhere on the way out, like your throat already knew it was a lie.

“So stop,” he murmurs. “Block my number. Forget my name.”

You don’t answer.

“Exactly,” he says, softer now, and the smile bends downward in his tone, into something resigned, something rotted. “You won’t. You fucking can’t.”

You close your eyes, let your head fall back against the pillow. The ceiling’s too white, too still. Your chest feels hollow, carved out with something blunt, something dull and wide. Like he reached in with both hands and took, not just the good parts, but the name you say when you’re alone, the thoughts you think when you’re cold, the you that existed before him.

“I miss you,” you admit, and it guts you to say it.

He breathes in like you just unzipped his skin. Like you reached down the line and dragged his ribs apart with your teeth. “Say it again.”

You shake your head, lips parting, but no sound comes.

“Please,” he says, quieter now, the way he gets when he really means something. Like you’ve just put your hand on the door, and he’s begging without pride. “Just once.”

The silence feels like it stretches forever, like the night itself is holding its breath just to hear what you’ll say next. Your fingers tremble where they rest on your chest, tracing the curve of your collarbone like distraction could be enough. It isn’t. You should hang up. You should. But your throat is tight and your stomach’s hollow and your whole body feels like it’s still locked in the shape of his. You wish it didn’t matter anymore. You wish his voice didn’t still pull at the part of you that needs to be seen. You close your eyes and inhale through your nose, a sad attempt at trying to ground yourself in this moment. “I miss you,” you whisper, again. And it cracks something in your own voice—thin and breaking, like you hate yourself for meaning it.

You hear him groan. Deep. Loud. From the chest. The kind of sound that doesn’t start in the throat—it starts lower. Beneath the ribs. That heavy, involuntary kind of noise that escapes before it can be shaped into something cooler, something controlled. It scrapes up through him like the words pulled something raw out of him and left it there, exposed.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

You picture him—eyes closed, jaw tight, knuckles white around the phone. Picture him tilting his head back, one hand dragging over his face like he’s trying to shake it off, like the sound embarrassed even him. Like your voice still reaches places he keeps locked and your thighs clench instinctively, traitorously from the thought of it. Something inside you twists, low and hot and helpless.

“You can’t say that to me and expect me to stay quiet,” he mutters, voice ragged now. You can hear the shift in him, the sudden tension coiling under his words like a wire pulled too tight.

You bite your lip, but you don’t interrupt.

“I’ve been thinking about it since you walked away tonight,” he says, lower, slower, each syllable like a bruise dragged across your skin. “How your hips moved in that dress. How empty your hand looked without mine in it.”

Your fingers slide beneath the sheet again, slow this time, like surrender—like there’s no point pretending you won’t. Not when he’s already in your ear, in your body, in the rhythm of your breath. You barely brush your own skin, but it’s enough to light up everything he left raw. You don’t stop. You can’t. Something in you has already given way.

He exhales, sharp and sudden, like he felt it—like he knew the moment your hand moved. “Are you touching yourself now?”

Your breath catches in your throat, tight and unsteady, and you hate the pause that follows. Hate how long it takes you not to answer, but not to lie either. The silence is its own admission.

“Yeah…” he says, voice dipping. “You are.”

You swallow hard. Hard enough that it hurts.

“I can picture it,” he murmurs. “Your legs spread just a little, that pretty little cunt already soaked for me. You’re rubbing slow, aren’t you? Just like I taught you.”

Your hand obeys without permission, palm pressing down over the thin cotton of your underwear. You gasp—quiet, quick.

“God, I miss the way you taste,” he groans. “I’d fucking die right now to have you sitting on my face, one hand in my hair, grinding like you always do when you’re too far gone to be shy.”

Your hips jerk.

“I’d tongue-fuck you ‘til your legs shake,” he growls. “Wouldn’t even stop when you begged me to.”

You moan, involuntary, soft and choked.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear you, baby.”

You slide your hand lower. Inside. Fingers sliding through slick heat. Shame and need pulsing together under your skin. You want to stop. You don’t. Because his voice is the only thing that feels real right now.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick now, every word catching on the edge of a groan. “Nice and slow. Fuck yourself for me.”

Your fingers move without thought, caught between his breath in your ear and the ache blooming low in your stomach. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet of your room—shameless, slick, and sinful. And he knows. You haven’t said a word in minutes, but he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“I bet your thighs are shaking,” he says. “Bet your fingers are slipping because you’re so fucking soaked. You always were, weren’t you? Always such a desperate little thing for me.”

You bite your bottom lip, hard, your free hand grabbing the sheets beside you, twisting them as your hips start to move.

“Are you gonna come for me?” he asks, voice low and reverent now, like it’s prayer instead of poison. “Yeah? You’re close, aren’t you? I can hear it. I can fucking feel it.”

You moan. Soft. Broken.

“God, I miss how you sound,” he groans, the sound raw in your ear like he’s fisting the phone. “I used to make you scream, didn’t I? When I had you bent over the edge of the bed, dripping, wrecked, begging me not to stop.”

Your back arches off the sheets.

The room is too still—dim and expensive and wrong, like every object inside it is holding its breath with you. Fingers move frantically between your thighs, slippery with sweat and want, chasing that high you swore you wouldn’t let him give you again. The bedsheets twist beneath you, cool against your calves, sticky at your back. You’ve kicked them off entirely now, one leg stretched toward the edge of the mattress like you’re bracing for impact. You are.

Outside, the faint drone of the sea whispers through a cracked window. Somewhere in the distance, a car rips down the avenue too fast, tires humming against wet asphalt. Monaco never really sleeps—just hums at a lower frequency, like even the city is in on it. Like the architecture itself is bent toward indulgence and regret. And then his voice drops again—low, measured, threading into the stillness like silk soaked in kerosene. Almost tender.

“You wanna know something?” His voice drops even lower, into something almost tender.

You make a noise. Can’t speak. Don’t trust yourself to. Your eyes are closed but you can feel him—his voice in your ear, his name still carved into the rhythm of your breath. He doesn’t wait.

The words drop like fire in your chest. They land hard. Searing. Like you swallowed something molten and now your lungs are screaming, your spine melting into the mattress. Your thighs jerk. Your fingers falter. The ceiling above you stays dark, indifferent.

“I fucking love you,” he says again, this time harsher. Desperate. “I hate how much I do. But I do.”

It’s not soft. It’s not romantic. It’s a wound splitting open in real time. A confession flung into the dark because he can’t hold it anymore. And you—you shake. You can’t breathe. You can’t stop. Your fingers stop and then start again, harder, faster, like maybe if you come it’ll drown it out. Like you can flood it out of your bloodstream, sweat it out of your skin. But it doesn’t work. It’s still there. In every heartbeat. In every gasp.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

“You’re mine,” he breathes. “Even when you’re not. Even when you walk away. I still feel you. Every fucking day. No one else even comes close.”

And your orgasm hits like a crash.

It’s violent. A wave slamming your body against itself. Your legs tense. Your stomach seizes. Your breath breaks into pieces. A sound claws its way out of your throat, and your hand flies up—reflex—trying to cover your mouth, trying to keep it in. You can’t. It’s too late. He hears it. Of course he does. He always does.

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Fucking knew you’d give it to me.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. The words won’t come. They’ve drowned under the weight of him—of this. The way his voice still owns the oxygen in the room. The way your body still says yes when everything else is screaming no.

The line is quiet.

You can still hear him breathing, but it’s distant now. Removed. Not soft or hungry anymore—just there. Like a metronome ticking at the end of a hallway. Background noise in a house that doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

You curl onto your side, away from the phone. Away from him. The sheets are cold on this side—untouched, undisturbed. Your arm tucks under your head, and your legs curl toward your chest on instinct, like your body’s trying to hold itself smaller. Contain the ache. The trembling hasn’t stopped yet, a slow pulse beneath your skin like something sacred was scraped out with a dull edge.

He should say something.

You should say something. But neither of you do.

The heat is already fading from your skin. It evaporates too fast, like it was never yours to keep. The chill that replaces it seeps under your ribs—quiet and surgical. It settles in your throat like a question you don’t want to ask. You blink at the wall. At the dark. At the soft glow of the city bleeding in from the window. The room’s filled with dim gold and ghostlight, shadows cast by luxury fixtures and memories you didn’t mean to resurrect.

Everything is still. And wrong, you fucking hate how familiar this feels. The after. Always the after. That hollow stretch of silence where he pulls away—not with excuses. Not even with guilt. Just absence. Just a breath you can’t sync with anymore. A distance so thick it presses against your chest like a hand. You’re alone in a room that smells like him. On sheets that remember your back arching. And now it’s quiet. And cold. And exactly like the last time.

When he finally speaks, it’s low. Measured. Like he’s collecting himself. Like the version of him that just broke you apart is already folding itself back into something clean, something that won’t ruin the rest of his night.

“You still there?”

When he finally speaks, it’s low. Measured. Like he’s collecting himself. Like the version of him that just broke you apart is already folding itself back into something clean, something that won’t ruin the rest of his night.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

You wait.

You try not to. You tell yourself not to. But you do. Of course you do. For softness. For proof. For anything that makes what he said—I love you—feel like a truth and not just a well-aimed knife disguised as comfort. You wait for the voice that said it to come back with warmth, with meaning, with something that makes the wreckage worthwhile. But all you get is silence.

And then—his voice again. Casual. Neutral. Airy, even. Like a light switch flipped somewhere between your thighs and his pride.

“You gonna be at qualifying?”

It hits like a slap. Not a sharp one. A dull one. Open-palmed and slow, the kind that comes after the fight’s already over. The kind that reminds you who’s still standing. You roll onto your back. Stare at the ceiling like it might peel away and let you float out of this. Your chest aches, hollow and wide. Your thighs are still slick and parted and ruined. Your mouth still tastes like his name. And he’s asking about fucking qualifying. Like this was a meeting. Like this wasn’t a bloodletting.

“No,” you say. Flat. Tired. Honest. Like your voice has finally given up trying to be anything else.

He doesn’t argue. Of course he doesn’t. That would require effort. Would require remembering that you just let him back inside a body that still flinches from the last time.

The pause stretches. Long. Unearned. The kind of pause that should hold regret. But doesn’t. You wonder if he’s already looking at her. If she’s asleep in his bed right now, one leg kicked out from under the covers, soft breathing and sheets still warm from her skin. If he’ll crawl back in like this was just a break. If he’ll kiss her shoulder and curl into her like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just call you from the next room and come in your ear while whispering your name like a prayer. If she’ll roll over and whisper I love you back.

“Okay,” he says, finally.

That’s it. No pause. No catch. No sorry. You don’t say goodbye, won’t allow yourself to give him the satisfaction. So instead, you just hang up. Slowly and quietly. Like if you move too fast, the grief might notice you. Like if you make a sound, whatever just died might come back and ask for more. And then you lie there. Alone. Cold. Numb in the exact places he made you feel again. The wet between your legs isn’t even arousal anymore—it’s humiliation, pooling like proof. The room feels too big. Your skin too tight. Your heart too loud for how little it’s getting back. You close your eyes. And you try—god, you try—not to remember how good it felt to believe him.

You told yourself you wouldn’t watch. Told yourself you’d go out during the race. Walk the port. Maybe take a train out of the city. Catch a ride into Italy, buy a coffee in some no-name border town where no one gives a fuck about Formula One. You told yourself if you left early enough, you wouldn’t hear the engines start.

But you did. You heard them. Sharp and brutal. Like the city itself was exhaling all at once. The engines howled to life like beasts shaking off sleep. And the streets—those narrow, glittering veins winding around the harbor like silk on bone—filled instantly. People spilled out of hotels, bars, yachts. Laughter carried down alleyways. Shoes clacked against marble and cobblestone. Horns. Screams. Sirens. The whole city vibrating in a single fevered pitch, like a heartbeat you couldn’t separate from your own.

And that was it. You felt it again.

That tug. That sick little string wound tight through your ribs. Strung there by him. Still holding. Still pulling. It didn’t matter how much distance you told yourself you needed—when the world turned toward him, you did too.So you ended up outside a bar near the track. Not the private ones. Not the ones with velvet ropes and industry passes and terrace views. Just one of the ones carved into the street-level buildings, open to the chaos, full of heat and sound. Flat screens bolted above the bar. Fans shoulder to shoulder. Bottles sweating in metal buckets. Flags tied like bandanas. Champagne already foaming across tabletops like victory was a guarantee.

You stood by the railing. Arms crossed. Sunglasses still on even though the sun was behind the buildings now. Shadows stretched across the street like tired ghosts. Your foot tapped against the base of a rusted stool, your hip leaned just barely into the edge of the counter like you weren’t really here. Like maybe you were just watching a version of yourself watch him.

The race blurred by.

It always does. Too fast, too clean, too cinematic. Like it’s not real. Like it’s something you could turn off if you found the right remote. He looked good—of course he did. He always does when there’s something on the line. Fast. Confident. Hungry. His car didn’t take corners. It swallowed them. He moved like he was dancing with the track. Like he could feel its heartbeat better than his own. You didn’t blink when he overtook on Lap 42. Didn’t flinch when the leaderboard adjusted like it had been waiting for him all along.

But when the checkered flag dropped? When the whole bar erupted—glasses raised, hands slapped to backs, phones held high and recording?

That’s whens something inside you cracked. It was clean and silent. Like glass under pressure. You watched the screen. Watched him throw his fists into the air inside the car, helmet still on, adrenaline turning his voice to something breathless and boyish through the radio.

“Fuck, man! We did it!”

And he sounded happy. Not like he’d sounded on the phone. Not like last night. Not like someone torn in two. He sounded whole. He sounded free. You stood still while the rest of the bar screamed and spilled and toasted and laughed. While confetti machines burst at the table beside you. While someone popped a bottle and poured foam into a stranger’s cup like they’d both waited their whole lives for this.

And you—still in your sunglasses, arms locked across your chest like armor—you felt like you were being erased. Not slowly. Not softly. Violently. Like the footage of him crossing that line was actively overwriting you. Like every frame of his win was bleaching your name from his mouth. Then you saw her.

Not up close. Not at the podium. Just a flicker. A flash of white on the screen behind him. Behind the fence. Her hair. Her silhouette. Her hand.

Raised in a wave. And the way he looked at her—god. You thought you’d collapse. 

You don’t know why you’re here. You already booked your ticket back to Italy. You packed your bag with one hand while brushing your teeth with the other, You checked out of the hotel like it was a fire you had to get away from. You had a plan. You were going to leave before the city woke up, before the papers hit the stands, before your own stomach could catch up to the shame curling in it.

But then you didn’t. You didn’t leave. You didn’t get in the car. You didn’t do the smart thing, or the sane thing, or even the thing you promised yourself you would. Instead, you walked. Shoes in your hand, face bare, heart kicking like it wanted out. You walked past the marina. Past the crowds still drunk off the race. Past the café where your phone first lit up with his name. You told yourself it was a loop. A muscle twitch. A final look.

You knew it was a lie and now you’re here. You ride the elevator in silence, arms crossed, your teeth sunk so deep into your lip you can taste blood. The hallway stretches out in front of you like something cinematic—floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, pale wood on the other, recessed lights humming low like they know what you’re doing. You don’t even knock. The apartment door is already cracked open.

Of course it is.

He’s inside. Shirtless. Sweaty. Champagne-drenched hair curling messily across his forehead. Still wearing his fireproofs, halfway unzipped. His chest rises with breath that’s only just started to slow. He smells like victory. Like sun-warmed metal and sweet rot and something you used to beg for. He looks good.

Of course he does. He turns when you step in. Smiles. The real kind. That one that used to mean I knew you'd come.

But it fades the second he sees your face.

“Hey,” he says, cautious now. “You okay?”

You shake your head once. Quick. Like it might stop the tears from crawling up your throat.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” you say. But that’s a lie.

He steps forward, slow, cautious, like approaching an animal he’s already wounded once and isn’t sure won’t bite again. His arms stay loose at his sides, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to reach for anymore—your waist, your wrist, your forgiveness.

“You—uh, did you see the race?” he asks, and it’s not small talk. Not really. It’s a test balloon. A toe in the water. Like maybe if you say yes without venom, maybe if your voice stays level, he can convince himself none of this is a disaster.

“Yeah,” you snap, the word scraping up your throat like it came with splinters. “You were amazing. Congratulations.”

His smile twitches back onto his face, but it doesn’t land properly. It hovers at the corners like a glitch in the system. Like he knows it’s too late to fix the part of him that doesn’t know how to be soft when it counts.

“Thanks,” he says, and it should mean something. Should carry weight. But it floats.

You step closer. Not because you want to be near him, not anymore. But because the distance feels dishonest. Like if you’re going to bleed in front of him, he should at least have to watch it happen up close. Your voice shakes when you speak, but you don’t try to hide it. You don’t care if he hears what it costs you. You want him to.

“Why wasn’t I ever good enough?”

He blinks. His head pulls back just slightly, like you slapped him. Like the words hit somewhere he wasn’t guarding. His brow creases—not out of confusion, but something worse. That dawning realization that this conversation isn’t going to end where he thought it might. That this isn’t another soft landing.

“What?” he says, but it’s not really a question. More like a deflection. A delay tactic. Something to stall the blow he knows is coming.

Your heart’s beating so hard it feels physical now—like it’s trying to break out of your chest and throw itself at his feet in one last act of desperate, humiliating honesty. Like it still wants him even as you drag yourself through the fucking wreckage of that want.

“Why have I never been enough for you to choose?” you ask, and your voice cracks on the word like it’s never been said out loud before. “Not fuck. Not sneak around with. Not call when you're lonely or bored or drunk at some goddamn afterparty. I mean choose. I mean claim. Why have I never been the one you tell people about?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes. His throat works around it. His eyes drop to the floor and back up again, and for a second—just a second—you think he might lie. Might try to salvage this with some half-truth about timing or image or circumstance.

“Why her?” you whisper, and this one hurts more than the rest—not because of what it means, but because of how quietly you ask it. Because it comes from the part of you that’s already accepted the answer. “Why does she get to be seen?”

He looks at you like you’ve just thrown a grenade at his feet, like he doesn’t know whether to jump on it or run. And maybe that’s always been him—too cowardly to save you, too selfish to leave you alone.

“I let you inside me,” you say, and now your voice is breaking for real, cracking down the middle like an old fault line that’s finally splitting open. “And you walked away. I let you hear me. I told you shit I’ve never said out loud before, not even to myself. I gave you everything. And I didn’t say I loved you, not because it wasn’t true, but because I knew it didn’t fucking matter. Because I knew, no matter how much I gave you—no matter how deep I let you in—I’d still just be the thing you come back to when you’re bored. Or lonely. Or drunk. Or broken. But never when it matters.”

He doesn’t speak. Not right away. Just stands there in the center of his spotless, silent apartment—an altar to success and self-control—still radiant with the remnants of the win. His chest rises in slow, shallow pulses, adrenaline still flickering beneath skin damp with sweat and victory. There’s a gleam across his collarbones, the faint shimmer of champagne that never got wiped off, dried sugar crusted along the edge of his jaw like celebration had kissed him and refused to let go. His hair’s a mess—curling, golden, clinging to his temples like he earned the chaos. And maybe he did. Maybe he earned every fucking second of it. But all you want is to ruin it. To drag your hand across his face and wipe the triumph off like it’s blood that doesn’t belong to him.

Because he looks too happy for someone who’s left you bleeding this many times. But when his eyes land on you—finally, fully—something shifts. He’s not smiling anymore. Not smirking. Not playing cool or disinterested or oblivious. He’s just looking. At you. Carefully, as if he’s cataloguing damage. Like he’s not sure if you’re about to cry or scream or throw a glass, and the fact that he doesn’t know is maybe the only honest thing he’s ever done in your presence.

You step further into the apartment. The floor is cool under your feet, too clean. Everything here is intentional—curated—like even his grief would be expensive. Your arms are still crossed tight over your chest, but it’s not a defense anymore. It’s just something to hold while the rest of you starts to come apart in slow motion. The tension in your shoulders doesn’t brace you—it betrays you. It trembles loose. Not strength. Not anymore. Just unraveling in real time.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, and your voice barely makes it past your teeth. It sounds like someone else said it first and handed it to you to carry. “I told myself I wouldn’t. I watched you win and I felt sick.”

He shifts his weight, opens his mouth, but you hold your hand up. You’re not finished. If you stop now, you’ll never say it.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t care. Tired of pretending that what we had was just sex. You know it wasn’t. You know. We talked. We laughed. You let me in. You made me feel like I wasn’t crazy for needing you. And then every time I get close to believing you—really believing you—you disappear. Or worse, you show up like nothing happened and expect me to melt for you. And I do. God, I always do.”

His gaze drops. His jaw clenches. But he still doesn’t speak. And that silence—it’s not passive. It’s precise. It’s brutal in its precision. Like he’s figured out by now that anything he says will only confirm how much worse he made it. So he doesn’t say a word. Just lets the weight of what you said sit there. Lets you carry it alone, like you always have. And that silence? It hits harder than anything he’s ever said. Than every lie. Than every I miss you that came too late.

You take another breath, but it doesn’t settle. It just wobbles on the way out, shakes loose in your throat like it’s trying not to turn into a sob.

“I just want to know…” you start, and your voice is thinner now, worn down to something soft and splintered. “Why I’ve never been enough. Not once. Not for a full day. Why I’m always good enough to fuck. To call. To cry to when you’re falling apart at three in the morning. But never good enough to stand next to in daylight.”

Your hands shake, but you keep going.

“Why it’s always her when I’m the one who knows how you take your coffee. When I’m the one who told you to breathe before qualifying, when you couldn’t stop pacing. When I’m the one who stayed.”

That’s the part that undoes you a little. That last word. Stayed. You weren’t supposed to say it—not out loud. It’s too naked. Too pathetic. But it tumbles out anyway, like the truth was tired of waiting for permission. And it lands. You see it shift something in him. His eyes flick toward the floor, then back up. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling briefly into fists, then flattening again. His shoulders rise with a breath too deep to be casual—like he’s dragging something up from the part of him that doesn’t usually speak.

“I never meant for it to get this far,” he says finally, voice raw around the edges, like he’s chewing on the words even as he gives them up. “I didn’t think I’d need you like that.”

You almost laugh, but it’s not funny. It’s sharp. Bitter. It curls in your mouth like acid.

“You needed me,” you echo. “But not enough.”

He steps toward you then. Slowly. Cautiously. Like he’s approaching a live wire. Like he thinks there’s still something left to salvage in the wreckage.

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

But you shake your head before he can finish the thought. “Yes, it is.”

And this time you don’t snap it. You don’t spit it out like a weapon. You just say it flatly. Like a fact that doesn’t care how he feels about it.

“You either love someone,” you say, “or you don’t.”

“I do love you,” he replies. Just like that. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true, and always been enough.

But it costs you everything to hear it. Every little ounce of composure you’ve been clinging to. Every version of yourself that held out hope. It’s not relief that hits you—it’s grief. Not longing. Not even disbelief. Just loss. Again. All over again. Because now that he’s said it, now that the words are out, you know for sure: his love was never the kind that saves you. Never the kind that holds you in the light. His love only ever lives in the dark.

You look at him, and something twists in your chest—not from happiness, but from mourning.

“Then why has it always felt like I had to beg for it?” you whisper. “Why has it never once felt like it came freely?”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t lie. Doesn’t soften. Just stands there, mouth parted like he wants to say something, anything, but he knows. He knows whatever he gives you now will only make it worse. So he says nothing. And the silence between you—thick, heavy, final—says everything.

You stare at him—not the Lando the world loves, not the polished boy in champagne and fireproofs and grins for the cameras, but the one in front of you now. Quiet. Flickering. Human in the worst way. The kind that disappoints just by standing still.

Your arms drop to your sides. Not in surrender. In exhaustion. Your limbs feel too heavy to hold upright, your ribs ache from holding in this pain for too long. You’re sagging under the weight of it.

“You love me,” you repeat, hollow now. Like the words are ash in your mouth. “But you’re still with her.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just lowers his eyes, clenches his jaw, like maybe he hates himself for it. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just tired of pretending it’s not true. And that’s the answer. That’s the only answer you’re going to get. There’s no grand speech. No twist in the narrative. Just the sharp silence of reality pressing down on you like gravity finally remembered your name.

And somewhere behind you, the elevator dings.

[arandomao3user]

Okay, so, to add after seeing the atrocious notes this post has:

FUCK YOU to every single parent saying they're a victim, every person saying parents are victims, every person saying they didn't sign up for this, actually stfu because I'm one usually to believe all opinions are valid only whatever sh—t that comes from that opened toilet seat of a mouth of yours is the equivalent to listening to Trump trying to sound knowledgeable about anything beyond golf and how far he can shove Elon Musks DICK up his rear.

Now.

I could try to baby you and sympathise with how tiring it must be, how worrying it must be, how exhausting it can be, how TERRIBLE IT IS FOR YOU that your kid didn't turn out sunshine lollipops and rainbows with no mental, physical, or neurological issues! I know it must be so hard for you in this day an age and society to be trans, queer, depressed, bed ridden, autistic, house bound, sick, paranoid, dissociating, ONLY YOU'RE NOT!

It's like if someone got their arm cut off in front of you and you start talking about how SICK IT MADE YOU FEEL, or if a trans woman was beaten in front of you and all you can think about is how uncomfortable it made YOU feel, only those can't even begin to describe what you're doing playing victim over something that you didn't choose, but you signed up for.

The second you have a kid YOU signed up for the possibility of them to be suicidal, mentally ill, trans, gay, autistic, disabled, YOU signed up for it all because it was a possibility from the moment you had sex and said "Oh yeah, I'm gonna have a baby!!!" And that was probably the only thought going through your mind if you never entertained a single possibility that said baby could be born with disabilities or gay or trans or with psychosis! For crying out loud when you have a baby you need to be prepared for the possibility they may have anger issues, may get into drugs someday, may make stupid mistakes, and you love them anyways and you don't make it about you!

YOU aren't gonna end up sick, in and out of hospitals, missing HOLIDAYS and activities because your body betrays you each and every day.

YOU aren't gonna be treated like trash by a system meant to destroy anyone not able bodied and straight and identifying with their gender at birth!

YOU ARE NOT THE VICTIM! YOU WILL NEVER BE THE VICTIM UNLESS YOU'RE SUFFERING FROM THE OPPRESSION SOCIETY AND CAPITALISM HAS INFLICTED ON EVERY QUEER, TRANS, DISABLED, MENTALLY ILL, AND REBELLIOUS INDIVIDUAL BORN INTO A WORLD THAT WAS NOT MADE FOR THEM!

I am a trans, AFAB, neurondivergent, bisexual, depressed, socially anxious, mixed POC, chronically ill + chronic pain combo meal so I feel I have a right to tell y'all to stfu about your "issues" that are literally just:

"Well, I didn't WANNA take care of the kid I made FOREVER! I thought it was just an eighteen year thing! 👉👈"

"Well, I didn't KNOW they'd wind up disabled 🙄"

"But I didn't WANT a trans/ queer kid >:/"

"Well it's hard on me that they're (insert " issue" they have with their kid)!"

Guess what?

Even if your kid is neurotypical, cis, straight, able bodied and all? You are responsible for that kid. Forever. "But—" NO! NO BUTS! YOU MADE IT! LOVE IT! YOU MADE AN ENTIRE LIFE OUT OF NOTHING! AN ENTIRE, LIVING THING!

You through a singular act created something entirely new, something beautiful, something fragile, you made that and you're telling me that you can just stop loving it? That you can add conditions to something, someone, simply because you didn't get to Build-A-Bear Workshop it???

The parents are not, nor will they ever be, the victim.

End of story.

If you had a child by choice, you:

signed up for an autistic child

signed up for a trans child

signed up for a lgbq+ child

signed up for a mentally ill child

signed up for a disabled child

signed up for a child with "conditions"

signed up for a rebellious child

signed up for a kid. in any way, shape, or form of being, it's your child, and you signed up for it.

And you are not:

the victim in any of these fucking situations for gods sake

[tokkiwrites]

ㅤ⠀ ˚̣̣ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣⠀⠀⠀⠀토키⠀⠀⎯⎯⠀⠀( ✿ . )⠀⠀⠀⠀† ꯭ ⎯⎯

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. You always thought things would change after high school. College was supposed to be your escape. But things don't change. You drop out and move back into your small home town, where you are still invisible, still too soft, still too dumb. Then people start dying. People who hurt you. People who laughed at you. People who touched you when they shouldn’t have. It feels like fate. Like someone’s watching out for you. And when you finally meet him it doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like being chosen.

˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ DARK JOEL MILLER FIC, killer! joel miller x fem! reader, afab reader, no outbreak au, mentions of murder, mentions of blood, violence, mention of bullying, slow descent into obsession, delusional reader, outcast reader, age gap (mentioned once), morally grey characters, made up characters and places, semi public sex, rough p in v (unprotected), creampie, knife play, marking/branding, cum eating, degradation, dumbification of reader, choking, slight size kink, slight breeding kink.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: hey...how yall doin...? im sooo sorry i disappeared on you guys :( uni has been kicking my ass but i promise i will be more active from now on!!! had a chance to write for some of the requests so those will be coming soon! here's a small spring gift for you all :p i hope you enjoy it! 🎀🌟🐇

You thought it would feel different, leaving.

You thought that when high school ended, you’d find something different waiting for you. You imagined a new beginning, a fresh start, maybe something exciting—something where you wouldn’t fade into the background. But the reality was far from that.

You were always too soft. Too nice. You never knew how to be anything else, even when everyone around you told you to toughen up, to stop being so stupid.

In high school, they made sure you knew how weak you were. How easy it was to push you aside. You were a target for the mean girls, the ones with sharp smiles and even sharper tongues. They loved to mock you, but you didn’t have the heart to fight back. Instead, you retreated into yourself, hoping that one day, they’d stop.

You thought maybe things would change when you went off to college. It wasn’t like you had high expectations—it was just supposed to be a chance for something different. You imagined that the people there wouldn’t see you the same way. But it wasn’t different. It was the same. It felt like rot.

College was just high school in a bigger building. Louder rooms. Longer halls. The same laughter behind your back.

Your professors barely knew your name. The other students walked past you like you were invisible. And no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you smiled or how polite you were, it was always the same. You thought that maybe it was just a phase. That things would get better after a few months. But after three years, it just felt like you were fading. You didn’t belong anywhere. You didn’t even recognize yourself anymore. You didn’t feel like you were living.

That’s when you decided to come home.

Your parents didn’t question you at first. They asked once, maybe twice, but after a few months, the questions stopped. They stopped expecting anything from you. And so did you.

Now you live in a small apartment above an old antique store in Northridge, a place where no one expects anything from you. It’s quiet except of the floors that creak beneath your feet, and the window by your bed is stuck halfway open, even when you beg it not to. You don’t even bother trying to fix it anymore. It’s just easier this way.

You work at Sloan’s Bakery, a quiet little shop that smells like cinnamon and fresh bread. It’s nothing glamorous, but it’s safe. You like the routine. You like the silence. Now, you don’t mind being unnoticed.

Today isn’t supposed to be different. You’re just doing your usual thing, putting the price tags on the pastries like you always do. The oven hums in the back, the cash register dings every so often as customers come and go. You feel like you’re in a bubble, watching the world outside through the small window at the counter. Nothing remarkable. Everything in its place.

And then, the bell above the door rings too loudly. You glance up, expecting some sleepy regular—maybe Mr. Hanley, or that tired-looking woman who orders oat milk but forgets every time that you don’t carry it.

But you were never the luckiest person.

It’s Macy King. Her heels click too sharply against the floor, and for a second, it feels like you're back in high-school. You haven’t seen her since then. You don’t know why, but the second you see her, you freeze. You’ve never forgotten her face.

“Oh my god,” she says, too loud, too fake. “It’s you.” She laughs. That same high-pitched laugh you remember from the cafeteria. It scrapes something raw inside you. You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’ve been caught in something. “I haven’t seen you in, like… forever.” She giggles like it’s funny, but you know it’s not. She’s looking at you with that same old smugness, that always made you feel small. It funny really, she's at the same level since high-school yet she still believes everyone is beneath her.

“Didn’t you go to college or something? I thought you’d be, like, doing something by now.” You can’t find your voice. You nod slowly, trying to force the words out, but your mouth feels dry. “IㅡYeah… for a while.”

She doesn’t ask why you’re back. She doesn’t care.

“So this is what you’re doing now?” Her eyes sweep across the bakery. She’s sizing you up, like she’s inspecting the life you’ve built. “Wow, that’s… cute. Really, though, I didn’t expect you to end up here.” She doesn’t say it mean. But that’s the trick with Macy. She never said it mean. Not directly. Just enough to make you feel like dirt on the floor.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You want to scream, but it’s like your throat’s closed up, and the words aren’t coming. She steps closer, running her fingers over the glass of the pastry case like she owns the place.

“Oh my god, do you still make those little cookies?” she asks, peering into the display case. “The ones with the filling in the middle? What are they called? The jelly blobs?”

“Thumbprints,” you say softly.

“Yeah, whatever. I’ll try one.” You give it to her, unsure of what to expect. She bites into it immediately, but her face twists in distaste.

“Ew,” she spits out, loud enough for the whole bakery to hear. “This is disgusting. Too sweet.”

You don’t move. You just watch as she drops the half-eaten cookie on the floor, the soft thud of it making your stomach turn. “Oh, wait. Let me try that one,” she says, pointing at a different pastry. You give it to her. She bites into it and immediately frowns, dropping it to the ground too.

“Ugh, all of these are gross,” she says, shaking her head like you’re the one at fault. She turns her back on you like she’s bored, her eyes scanning the other pastries, dismissing them with a flick of her wrist. “Do you ever get anything right?” she adds, but it’s not a question. It’s just another jab.

You bend down to clean up the mess she’s made, your hands shaking as you gather the pieces of pastry from the floor. The crumbs stick to your skin, like a reminder of how small and invisible you are.

She doesn’t say goodbye when she leaves. She just walks out, her footsteps echoing in the silence she leaves behind.

It’s hours later and it's finally time for you to close up. You don’t know why you turn the radio on, but you do. It’s the static hum of the local station, the voice on the other end dull and distant.

“…Body discovered behind the Valero gas station early this morning. Authorities have confirmed it’s a local man in his twenties…” Your heart skips a beat and you sit up straight, the words striking you harder than they should.

“…Multiple stab wounds to the chest. Police are investigating but no suspects have been identified. More details to come as the investigation unfolds.” You don’t know why it strikes you so hard, but you can’t shake it. The voice continues, but you’re already lost in your own thoughts.

Its not long until the whole town starts talking. Brandon Haynes. You remember him. He was just like everyone else. He touched you. Too much, too harsh. More than enough to make you feel small. To make you feel like nothing.

You don’t know why it’s so strange. Why it feels like you’re holding your breath. It doesn’t matter.

You don’t feel anything for him. But you feel something for the moment. For the chance that maybe something’s shifting. Something is moving. And in that quiet, empty way, you realize that maybe you’re not the only one who’s been pushed aside.

A few days later and it is close up time again. As always the radio voice drones on as you wipe the counters. “Macy King found dead this morningㅡ”

You don’t need to hear more. You already know.

Macy is dead too. How is this even possible? Was it all a dream, or was it the karma they couldn't escape from? You don’t feel sorry for her. You don’t feel sorry for Brandon either. But something’s stirring deep inside you. Something darker. Something that’s been waiting for a long time. It feels liberating. Maybe it makes you broken. But you don’t care.

Because some quiet part of you smiles.

You never said it out loud, but you hated them. For how they made you feel. For how they touched you, laughed at you, stepped on you. And now they’re gone. You tell yourself it’s not coincidence. How could it be? What if someone saw you? What if someone knows?

What if someone did it… for you?

The thought makes your breath catch. Makes your cheeks flush. It’s stupid. Delusional. But it feels like the first real thing you’ve had in months. Maybe longer.

Someone out there, somewhere in this cruel, gray little town, might’ve done what you’ve never had the courage to. And that makes you feel seen. Wanted. It doesn’t scare you. It makes your chest flutter.

So you hope, quietly, selfishly, shamefully, that whoever it is, does it again. For you.

Days later, the radio talks about Macy's death like it’s a warning. Like the whole town should be afraid. They now know the crimes were done by the same person. A man. But you’re not afraid. You’re captivated.

You walk home that day in a daze, the cold air biting at your cheeks, and for the first time in so long, you feel like someone is walking with you. Not beside you, but behind you. Somewhere. Watching. At least thats how it seems, or that's what you hope for.

And that thought that maybe someone sees you, maybe someone is thinking of you, it makes you ache. It makes your chest feel full. Like you matter. Like you’re real again.

So the next morning, you get up early. You shower longer than usual. You put on perfume, the one you wore back in college when you thought someone might notice you. You do your hair, just a little lipstick, and put on that soft sweater that hugs you just right. You don’t know why you’re doing it.

Except you do.

Because maybe he is out there. Maybe he's watching. Maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of him one day— maybe at work, across the street, reflected in the bakery window. Maybe he’ll come in and ask for a loaf of rye bread. And you’ll know. It’s stupid. But you don’t stop.

You start waking up earlier. Dressing softer. Smiling, just in case. The town is still cold and gray, but inside you, something is blooming.

A few weeks pass. You’ve stopped keeping track of the days. Everything just folds together now—sugar, flour, radio static, names whispered on the news.

The third victim throws you for a loop. Julian Moore.

He wasn’t like Macy or Brandon. He never laughed in your face, never whispered about your thighs or stole things from your locker. He wasn’t cruel.

But he stood by. That's your reasoning.

He was there, every time you were shoved into a locker or had your tray flipped in the cafeteria. He saw you crying in the girls’ bathroom after gym, after someone stole your clothes. He saw everything. And he never said a word. So when they find Julian’s body slumped behind the old church parking lot, throat cut clean through, something inside you hums. Not with guilt. Not even with relief.

But with a kind of satisfaction.

'You see me', you think. 'You’re doing this for me'. You’re too far gone now. You know it. But it’s like slipping into warm water. Soft and quiet and too easy to sink.

You don’t pray to God anymore. You pray to him.

Whoever he is.

Some nights, you whisper your thoughts aloud. Just in case he can hear you. You tell him about the people you hated, the ones that ruined you, the ones that still smile like they got away with it. You tell him about your dreams. About how sometimes you think you feel him just outside your apartment, under your window, in the creak of the floorboards that shouldn’t creak. You leave your curtain open a crack at night.

Just in case.

More days pass. The sky is bruised purple and gold, streetlights humming like quiet thoughts, the pavement still sticky with sun. You smell like sugar, yeast and a little vanilla, your apron folded neatly in your bag, your perfume still clinging to your collarbones. And you feel good.

It’s not something you admit often. But tonight, the wind is soft. Your chest feels light. And there’s that quiet, persistent buzz in your stomach that maybe—just maybe, he’s proud of you.

You walk slower than usual. You want to be seen. You smile at the window reflections. At your shoes. At nothing.

And then it shifts. At first it’s subtle. There's a sound that doesn’t belong. A presence you can’t place. But it thickens around you slowly, like fog, until you know you’re not alone. There’s someone behind you.

It's ot a feeling anymore. Not a maybe.

Someone is there. Slowly, your steps falter. You stop, you turn. And he’s there.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Older. He’s standing under the glow of a flickering lamppost like it’s a spotlight and he is the misunderstood actor, with shadows cutting across his face. His hair is dark and slightly curled, his jawline sharp, mouth neutral. He doesn’t move.

But he’s looking at you. Your heart slams up into your ribs. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just watches. You don’t know him. Or maybe you do. Maybe you’ve seen him before, in your dreams, in your prayers, behind your eyes when you’re alone in bed with nothing but wanting. Maybe he’s always been there.

The street is silent. The street lights glow faint behind you. Somewhere far off, a dog barks. And you— God, you don’t run.

You take a step forward. And he doesn’t move. Not until his hand shifts just a little and you see something glint. A blade. Maybe. Or maybe your mind wants it to be. You gasp, but it’s soft, almost reverent. You don’t feel fear. You feel certain.

You open your mouth, voice trembling but real. “I am not afraid o-of you…” He laughs. It’s a quiet sound. Deep and low and almost surprised. “Oh?”

But you mean it. You’re not afraid. You’ve wanted this—him, whatever this is, for so long, you’re not sure there’s any room left inside you for fear.

For months you’ve been dreaming of this. Not of murder or blood, but of him. Of being seen. Of being chosen.

And now he’s here. You don’t blink. Don’t breathe. “Stupid girl…” he mutters. His fingers brush the knife at his belt. And you? You smile.

He steps closer. You don’t move. Can’t. Your mouth is dry, breath catching somewhere between your chest and your throat, your heart trying to crawl up your neck. He’s beautiful. Not in any way you’ve ever known. He’s rough, a scar curling just near his temple, his face carved from something too human and too wild at once. His eyes are dark, unreadable. His mouth is stern, unmoved. You feel heat flush up your neck and to your cold cheeks. He’s right in front of you.

Close enough to see the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his eyes linger on your face for just a second longer than they should. “I—I know what you did,” you whisper, voice trembling, breathless.

He raises an eyebrow. You swallow hard. “Those people… Brandon. Macy. Julian. They hurt me. Back then. You—you knew, didn’t you? You did it for m-me…”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

And that silence, it pulls more out of you. “I mean, it makes sense. Doesn’t it?” You laugh, soft and shaky, hands trembling at your sides. “No one ever remembered me. No one ever noticed me. But you—you saw me. You must’ve. That’s why you…” You trail off. You can’t bring yourself to say killed. Not out loud.

His expression shifts. A little. One corner of his mouth twitches. And then he laughs. It’s sudden and deep and rough, like it bursts straight from his chest.

You flinch, but not away. Never away.

“You’re a real sweet thing, aren’t you?” he drawls low, the faintest southern rasp brushing the words. You don’t know what to say. You just stare up at him, cheeks burning, stomach a mess of tangled knots. Then he leans closer. Close enough that you can smell leather and smoke and something more darker. Close enough that his voice grazes your ear when he speaks again. “I might just keep you longer.”

The words burn. You feel them everywhere. Your legs tremble. You’re too warm. Too soft. You feel like you could fall straight into him and vanish.

And still, he doesn’t touch you. He just watches the way you unravel—eyes wide, lips parted, breath shallow, as if it’s his favorite pastime. As if he likes watching you break.

The space between you is so tight it feels like you have been touched. Brushed. You wonder what his hand would feel like on your throat. You shouldn't want that. “I…” you whisper, barely audible. “Can I know y-our name?" He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink but you see his jaw tighten. Just a little. Like maybe something in him twitches when he looks at you too long.

“Why me?” you ask, stupidly, helplessly, hopelessly. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. And he smiles. Barely. “You talk too much,” he mutters. He leans in again “I liked you better when you were just starin’.” You feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

“You ever wonder what it’d feel like,” he murmurs, his voice a low drag in your ear, “if I just took you right here?” Your breath stops.

Right here. This alley. The air thick and sticky with heat, the only light coming from the weak glow of the streetlamp at the corner, flickering like it’s about to die too. He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“No one can see you out here. No one can hear you.” His hand trails down slowly, fingers dragging across your arm, your waist, until it rests low on your hip.

“What if I held you up against this wall,” he continues, voice crueler, “fucked you until you beg for me to stop, and then put a knife in your gut?” You should run. You should scream. But your breath comes out shuddered, and your eyes go wide, not in fear, but something closer to desire.

You want it. You want him.

He sees it. He feels it. Your body leaning closer, your thighs shifting, the way your lips part and tremble. And he stills. For a second. A long one.

“…Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You like that?” You nod. He stares at you. Quiet. Like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re the dumbest girl he’s ever met or the most dangerous. Maybe both.

He shoves you back against the alley wall and kisses you like a punishment, like he hates that he wants you, like he wants to see how deep the rabbit hole goes.

You moan. Loud. Needy. And that’s all it takes. His hands are everywhere—on your hips, your ass, your throat. One knee forces your legs apart and he grinds against you through your clothes, a low, guttural sound in his throat when he feels how soaked you are already. “You’re fuckin’ filthy,” he growls. “Gettin’ wet from me talkin’ about killin’ you. You sick little thing.”

You nod again, whispering a barely-there, “please—” And then it happens. Just like you have dreaming of. His mouth was on your neck, his breath in your ear, his body pressing you into the wall like he’s carving your shape into it. He quickly takes off his pants, leaving you no time to react to the sheer size of him. He forces the head inside of you, leaving you mewling under his touch. “Look at you, lettin’ a killer fuck you in a goddamn alley like a whore.” In no time he was in your guts, each stroke sending you further into oblivion. Your fingernails dig into his skin and he growls, rough hands wrapping around your throat as he whispered dirty nothings into your hair. “This little cunt’s never been touched, has it? Feels too fuckin’ tight to beㅡ shit!" He uses you like he owns you, like you’re a soft and stupid doll made just for him. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop—feels so good…”

“I could kill you right now, and you’d still thank me for it, wouldn’t you?” he gloats, each snap of his hips hitting deeper into your cunt. Your tear stained cheeks press agains his hard chest, sobs muffled and eyes blurry from crying. Your head is spinning, brain melting into nothing but thoughts of him. “You’re gonna remember this every time you sit down, darlin’. Gonnaㅡ fuck, feel me for days.”

You hiccup, head bobbing up and down, as he hastily chases his high. He groans low into your neck, voice cracking like gravel, rough fingers digging into your hips as he jerks once, twice, then stills as he spills his cum inside of your ruined insides.

“Fuck… that’s it, girl. Take it. Take all of it, you stupid thing.” He stays inside, breathing heavy against your cheek, his hand slipping down to hold your belly like he’s wanting to feel how deep in he still is. “Maybe it’ll stick. God knows you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod, dazed, breathless. You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to. But you're full. Of him. Of this moment. Of something filthy and real and unforgettable. It’s dripping out of you already and you shudder as it drops onto your newly bought underwear.

Your thighs still trembling, your skin still burning where he touched you. “I hope it does…” you whisper, blinking up at him, lips swollen, brain a haze of sugar and sin. “I really hope it sticks…” And he just laughs, sharp and cruel. He is entertained. “You're so fuckin’ pathetic.” But he doesn’t pull out. Not yet. The words sting. But not in the way they should. Not in the way a normal girl would cry over.

There's that filthy slickness between your thighs, and his rough hand moves down, slow, before dragging fingers through the mess he's left inside of you. You gasp.

He brings his fingers back up, slick and warm, and pushes them against your lips. "Open," he commads. And you do. You part your lips like it’s holy, like it’s something good, something earned. You wrap your mouth around his fingers and taste salt, heat and him. He watches you, slow and dark, chest rising. “ God dammit...”

Your eyes flutter shut as you suck, as if this will anchor him to you. As if this will mean something. And when he finally pulls his fingers away, wiping them on your cheek with something like contempt, you're still there, ruined, breathless, glowing in it.

He pulls away from you slowly, lazily, like he’s in no rush to care. His belt’s already half-fastened, knuckles grazed from the rough press of brick and skin. You’re still trembling, ruined and bare and aching in places you never knew could ache.

He pulls out like it means nothing. Like you mean nothing. The air cools around you instantly, and so does he. Zipping his jeans, flexing his jaw, his gaze flickers down at you once more, lazy and cold.

Then he turns. One step. Another.

It shouldn’t hurt this bad. But it does. Your voice cracks before you even know what you’re saying. “Please don’t leave—please—I’ll be good, I swear!" You’re shaking. Still sore. Still wet. Still his, in some awful, ruined way.

“Don’t go fallin’ in love, dumb girl. I ain’t your savior. I’m the reason people like you go missin’.” His eyes are sharp, unreadable.You're on your knees, legs trembling, underwear pushed to the side and forgotten, dress wrinkled and twisted halfway around your thighs. Your elbows ache from where you caught yourself against the brick, and your lips are raw from biting down too hard. There’s a stream of his come between your legs and bruises blooming along your skin. The alley smells like him. You do too.

Your heartbeat is still stuttering, off-kilter, your body stuck somewhere between shame and a high you never want to come down from. You blink up at him through damp lashes. “That’s all you wanted, huh? Someone to fuck the stupid outta you. Thought you’d get a happily ever after?”

It feels like you're begging without even saying a word. He should leave. He said he would. But he's still here, isn’t he? He just stares. Something in his brain ticks. And then, slowly, he pulls the knife from his belt. The steel hits the streetlight close to him and you freeze. He doesn’t say a word as he shifts closer. One knee between your legs again. Hand under your chin, tilting your face up to his. Finally, the blade touches your skin. “Stay still,” he mutters.

The metal is cold when it drags along your collarbone, slow. You whimper, but don’t pull away. It’s not deep. Just enough to hurt a bit. Just enough to bleed a little. When he leans back, satisfied, there’s a rough little 'J' carved just above your heart.

“Now you’re mine,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. Then louder “ So don’t go forgettin’ who you belong to, girl.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too out of it. Your fingers come back red as you touch the small mark.

He tucks the knife away. “I’ll find you again. Same spot. Don't make me come lookin' for you." And then he’s gone. Just like that.

You stay there, knees scraped, heart pounding, sticky, aching and marked. You should be afraid. Instead, your fingers ghost over the wound, and all you can think is he’s coming back.

You walk home with your head light and your lips smiling. So stupid. So giddy. You’ll clean yourself up, cover the mark with something soft and cottony. And maybe tomorrow, you’ll wear something nicer to work. Just in case he’s watching.