#twenty years across the sea

[hacked-wtsdz]

penelope odysseus

Jamie and Claire + twenty years apart (part 3)

Based off of the poem: twenty years across the sea

Part 1

Part 2

[two-bees-poetry]

twenty years across the sea

[lilyinmysoul]

When The Night Ends

DarkJackson!Joel x F Reader

WC: 2k

Warnings: Smut, unprotected piv, somno (sorry not sorry), dubcon, dark Joel like I said, Joel is dominant, breeding kink, kinda forced breeding but she's into it, Joel palming himself

Note: This is based on a request I got, reblogs help so much. If you like it, tell me, so I can write more. If it's not your thing, shoot me a request so I know what is.

Joel isn’t sure how Jackson has so much damn alcohol, or where it all comes from, really. That hardly matters, though—all that matters is that it’s there, and he will drink it.

Regretfully, he couldn’t overdo it. He had patrols to go on, responsibilities to attend to—but nearly every Friday, without fail, he would take to the Tipsy Bison. Whether it be alone, with his brother, or the occasional patrol partner, he would be there.

You are, of course, aware of this. And even if you did have a say in the matter, it wouldn’t bother you much. There was a complete absence of a label regarding yours and Joel’s relationship; maybe it was because you both knew that he wasn’t cut out for such a role, or possibly how you knew that to bring it up would be to run the risk of disturbing a very concise system—his temper. Really, it appeared that you took what he gave you, and it seemed to be enough.

In any case, it is yet another Friday night. The double doors of the Tipsy Bison swing open, and the cool air on his skin mixes with the alcohol’s hazy embrace of his conscience, and Joel wants to see you. The winds are rough, hence why he is nearly the only man in the streets (paired with the time—it’s the dead of night). His brow furrows a bit harder when a man passes by with his son, and he begins his trek back to… wherever he finds himself. He’s too inebriated to make much sense of it. 

It had been too long, it appeared, since he’d seen you. You had noticed this too, and frankly, it seemed to be the nature of involving yourself with Joel Miller. As of late, he had increasingly withdrawn himself from your company; but tonight, he seemed emboldened in his sense of longing for you.

Although it is cold, the winter snow has since cleared, leaving only the occasional melting puddle of slush under his feet. Those same feet lead Joel all across town. He passes rows of closed up shops and blocks full of houses. Warm houses, he assumes. Houses occupied by families, maybe. Husbands, wives, children… alcohol makes him sentimental. Angry, even. He continues to trudge.

What’s interesting is that drinks seem to both aid and worsen the hole in Joel’s chest. They deliver some sort of tranquility, and also, a comparable and equally as intense sense of abhorrence. This isn’t something he contemplates as he nears his house, and when he sees it, he doesn’t slow. He continues to walk. After all, there isn’t much for him there; and so, his home is going, going, gone to a sea of other, almost identical ones. Ones with more to offer than a few half-built and boring guitars.

And when he arrives on your doorstep, it’s like second nature. He’s been here enough to know where you keep your spare key, but never long enough to find the one that opens the back door. Tiredly, he kneels and his hip pops as he reaches underneath the flower pot (he believes he gave this to you, but he really can’t remember) and slides from under it the key.

He turns the knob—not slowly or carefully, but rushedly—and it twists and opens. You had left it unlocked—God, he hates when you do that.

The door creaks open and gives way to Joel’s figure—you weren’t around to notice; it couldn’t be any earlier than midnight, and you had long since gone to bed. He fishes around on the wall in the pitch blackness for the light switch.  It takes him a moment, but he flicks it on. The kitchen is illuminated by a few twenty-year-old lightbulbs and cluttered by everything you couldn’t bother to put away. Each item thrown upon your table was a fragment of your life—not enough of which included him, which fueled his irritation.

His shoes don’t come off, and instead he climbs the stairs, his heavy boots leaving wet footprints on each step and 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 on the wood but not loud enough to wake you. His every pace is slightly swayed, his balance influenced by many glasses of whiskey, downed alone in a corner of the bar.

Your door is slightly askew, and its hinges squeal as he pushes it open. Joel’s eyes fall upon your sleeping figure, your limbs lost among the sea of blankets tossed atop your bed. Your work clothes had been haphazardly strewn across the floor, and you wore only a bra and panties. This was a spectacle of your everyday life, he realized; one that he didn’t know much about. Another pang of displeasure gnaws at his heart—he isn’t sure of its origin, but he knows that it’s disturbing him.

The way he kicks off his boots is slightly more hostile; a loud, dull noise that rings through the room. The old, hollow walls reverberate the sound, and you stir—but don’t wake. Once his old and beaten shoes rest against the wall, his feet carry him to the edge of your bed. As he takes in your sleeping face, your head resting in your hands and legs stretched wildly on the mattress, he feels almost proprietorial of you.

Only you know that Joel’s vexation often turns to arousal in your presence, and the two often blend. There is something about your still and sleeping face, the plush curves of your body made visible by your clothing (or, lack thereof)—or, it may simply be the fact that Joel is frustrated and he needs it taken care of. As he stands above you, his hand—as if on its own—snakes down to the bulge protruding from his worn jeans. His fingers rub and squeeze, his eyes running over you as you twitch and stir unconsciously. You seem to mesmerize him momentarily as he stands, his roving eyes concluding that they want more.

Soon enough, his drunkenly clumsy fingers are fumbling with his belt, pulling at its leather and clanking its buckle, pulling open the suddenly complex contraption. Next, the silver button of his jeans is popped and the zipper undone as your firm mattress dips under his weight when he sits. For a few moments, he looks at you. And with an almost uncharacteristic gentleness, his fingers reach out to touch you. The graze is tender as it glides along your side, your stomach, your chest—though maybe only an effort to adjourn your waking.

His calloused fingers reach the band of your underwear—a faded blue pair from however long ago. They roam over the soft fabric, cruising over its front and halting when they skim over the spot you like so much—it makes you tense; but your eyes don’t open. Two of Joel’s fingers trace circles for a moment. He watches your still face and glances down when your thighs squeeze. With a few more circlings, his patience has run dry and his captivation with you has turned to necessity.

He does as he can to be gradual with his movements as he lays over you on the bed, his hair tousled and his jeans halfway down. An elbow props him up, his face adjacent to yours as his glazed eyes search your closed ones. His free hand hastily frees himself from the confines of his boxers and rubs fumblingly over the damp fabric of your panties again before pushing aside its material.

His mind is slightly empty from the alcohol, and his head a bit achey, but he knows what he is doing. For no more than a split second, he looks down, aligning himself with you. He pumps his cock a few times before finally notching himself in—a hiss leaves his mouth, and as his hips begin pushing into yours, he looks back up. Your eyes are open.

Your eyes widen, surprised as sleepiness refuses you any sense of understanding.

“Shh,” Joel insists. “Baby, it’s me.” His voice tapers off when he says this, his head slouching to rest on your shoulder.

“Joel…” when his voice registers with you, familiar and low, your muscles relax a bit. “What… are you doing here?” You ask, and as soon as the question leaves your mouth, you understand its stupidity. His hips are moving now, in and out… ‘Why else would he be here?’ and you’re half asleep.

“This okay…?” he asks, but it doesn’t seem like he cares greatly about your answer; he is very much out of it. You smell it on him. On his skin, on his breath. Everywhere.

“Um, I…” His eyes are glassy and focused on yours, and his hips are getting faster. The room is black, and you’re not sure what to think, but you’re glad that he’s finally here again. The only sounds in your ears are the old radiator and the wet sound of skin on skin. “Yeah.”

His head dips to your neck, nipping and biting in a way that’s a little too primal. You wrap an arm around him, your hand resting on his back and when Joel begins to grunt, you let sounds escape your mouth, too.

“Shit…” his voice wavers, and he might be even more drunk than you thought he was. But as sloppy as his movements are, they are persistent. 

“Joel.” His name passes your lips. As a question, or as a statement, you aren’t sure. You don't get an answer. The moon outside is the only thing allowing you to see him, the accentuated lines across his face and the greys littering his hair. Your legs wrap around his hips now, seeking some sort of comfort, or reassurance.

He wasn’t ever particularly chatty during sex, but he is even quieter now. His energy, it seems, has been dedicated to pushing his hips as firmly and deeply into you as possible. He looks almost focused, determined. Or maybe distracted.

Joel is clearly working himself up. His movements rougher, his voice louder, and he’s close. You always know, with the way he tenses, the way he speaks. This is the only fact that registers in your mind; everything else is lost on you. So, when he says; “I’m not stoppin’,” you blink.

“What?”

“I’m gonna cum,” a thrust. “And I’m not pullin’ out, I’m not stoppin’.”

“Wh…” you start. A groan on both of your ends sounds when he hits a particularly good spot. You yourself are getting close now, your back arching slightly off the bed, your mind still cloudy as you try to make sense of Joel’s words.

A few of his fingers come down to rub your clit, circling onto you your own wetness before coming to rest on your stomach. His hand caresses the skin on your tummy. “Imagine that…” he mutters in an almost slurred tone. “Just imagine that.”

You look down at his hand, and then back up again. You meet his eyes, and you understand very clearly what he means. You don’t have the will to fight it–at least, you don’t think you do–so, you hold him tighter and closer, letting each thought fade from your mind as he continues to bliss you out. How he holds you so possessively, how he looks at you so rapaciously… you don’t mind at all.

A few more erratic thrusts, and you’re coming. A few more, and Joel is, too.

You hear it—a low grunt and a groan from Joel—and then you feel it; a deep, warm sensation— a release and movement of liquid that you’ve never felt before. He’s never done that. You can’t help but, in all your weariness, think about the weight of what has just taken place.

To claim you had never mulled over the thought of a child—Joel’s child—would be a lie. The thought was welcoming, sweet… but Joel was not. He was neither. What he had just made was either some kind of commitment, or a grave mistake.

“You’re mine, y’know.” He grumbles into your hair.

“Am I?” You ask.

“Y’are.”

“Okay. I believe you.”

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Thanks for reading! Lmk if you like

[eraserbread]

growing old with kento pls🥺🥺

for your twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, kento got you a cat, a kitten, to be exact -- golden, like him, hazel eyes like him. he's your baby, taking over that space in your home that your daughter's move back to tokyo brought out.

just like he always wanted, kento retired early in malaysia, and tokyo's where your daughter chose to stay. school in the city was far more riveting than stewing away in a beachside cottage. and alone for the first time again in nineteen years, you had love to celebrate.

so, he hands you that little purring kitten as soon as you stumble out of bed, smiling at the gentle coos you're giving. looking at you in the rising sun reminds him of how you'd dote over your young daughter twenty years ago. he's always loved you, but seeing your motherhood bloom and grow out of you made him obsessed.

"awh, kento." you're pouting, holding the kitten to your heart. you're in a shorter nightgown, cut above the knees he leans down and closes his hands over. for a fifty-year-old man, that mobility has never gotten lost. in fact, you think he looks the best he's ever have -- greyed roots, shaved stubble, fine lines. so familiar.

"happy twenty-fifth." he replies, kissing over your knee. "been with you longer than I've been alone, now. our marriage's brain is finally fully developed."

"you're such a dad." you scoff, lovingly. "it's a boy? I'm gonna name him kento."

"don't. that's not a very creative name." he stands with a grunt, leaning towards to kiss your lips. little kitty purring between your chests, he lingers.

the only thing you got him for twenty-five years together was his steaming bowl of char kway teow he's hunching over as you head through a night market. you were supposed to be sharing, but you'll let him have it. you can taste the umami on his lips when he kisses you, and that's enough.

the nights gone on in street food carbs, and drowned-out music. scooters whiz past you in the dusty streets, and kento keeps his arm strong around your shoulders, staking that lifelong claim in physicality.

always, you end up by the beach, lying out on plush lounge chairs. you're resting on his chest, heartbeat backing the rush of the waves and the pulse of the fire-dancers in front of you, lighting up the sand. you haven't touched alcohol all night, neither has he, but his sound has you nodding off. you trail your settled-in hands across his homey chest, pressing the tips of your nails into his clothed flesh.

you can feel him shiver, then whisper, "tickles."

then, for that thirty-eighth anniversary, your husband, grey and in his sixties, wakes you up with kisses to the neck. windows open, an early-morning sea breeze rushing through the bedroom, you stir to life and savor the touch.

"i have loved you for forty years. can you believe it?" he mutters, keeping his lips pressed to your skin. "and I still want you like it's the first."

you're smiling into the sheets, still so susceptible to his charms in your older years. he knows you inside and out, upside and down. at this point in life, he is you.

at the foot of the bed, poor old little yuji, your thirteen-year-old ginger cat purrs in sleep. kento's rustling makes him flick an ear, but the old boy is far too comfortable to move.

for year thirty-eight, you made him his favorite breakfast and served it to him as he sits on the balcony with a book in his lap. kento's come to wear glasses, thin-framed ones that hang on the edge of his nose as he grumbles at words.

it's all he lives for now, western poetry, wife handling, and cleaning up after a rowdy cat. every night like clockwork, he calls his daughter in tokyo -- sometimes she doesn't answer, but most of the time she does. for hours, or just as long as she allows, she goes on and on about her life, the woman she's seeing, the home she's buying, and the job she's loving.

kento listens with every ounce of his soul just like he listens to his words, and you, and the sound of the warm langkawi breeze as it hits his face.

out here in the seclusion, there aren't any curses -- no angst. all that matters is the life he's hand-picked, thoughtful to the core.

and that night, his final gift is a sweater you sewed for him, and you. sandy hands, warm cheeks -- you present your naked body to him in the night, letting the full moon guide him right to where he knows to touch.

age is just experience. it's been thirty-eight years of memorizing each other's bodies - intimacy is like oxygen. he reaches for the canyon between your thighs on your secluded, beachside balcony, swallowing the sound of his name like he has for a lifetime.

like clockwork, every single time this starts, he whispers between your lips, "I love you."

and you whisper back, "i love you, too."

[pucksandpower]

Mon Soleil

Charles Leclerc x high school sweetheart!Reader

Summary: you don’t belong in the shadows, but selfishly Charles loves that you’re only his there (in which Charles Leclerc has kept his girlfriend hidden from the world for years and years … until he didn’t)

The door shuts softly behind him.

That in itself is telling — Charles always shuts it gently when he’s trying not to bring the world inside with him. Shoes scuffed, travel-worn jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes a little too tired to be young, he exhales like the weight of the grid is still pressing against his spine.

Silence greets him, familiar and warm. It’s not the absence of noise, but the presence of peace.

He walks through the apartment slowly, like something might break if he moves too fast. The city hums outside, Monaco golden and quiet beneath the early evening sky. From the living room, the sliding balcony doors are cracked open just enough to let in the scent of sea salt and sun-warmed stone.

That’s where you are.

Curled up on the balcony chaise, legs tucked beneath you, a loose cardigan slipping off one shoulder. There’s a book in your lap, but it’s long since fallen shut. Your eyes are closed, head tipped toward the sky like you’re soaking in the last of the daylight. Hair soft, skin glowing in the low sun — it hits him all at once, how desperately he’s missed you.

Charles leans against the doorframe, watching for a moment, throat tight.

“Mon soleil,” he says softly, barely more than breath.

You blink your eyes open, slow and sleepy, like your mind’s still somewhere inside the pages or the sunlight or the quiet. Then you smile.

“Hey,” you say, voice rough with rest.

He crosses the distance in seconds. The moment his lips brush your temple, everything else dissolves — the cameras, the interviews, the brutal double-header, the fake smiles. All of it gone. You tilt your head so he can press a second kiss just under your ear, and his arms wrap around you from behind, grounding.

“You’re home early,” you murmur.

Charles huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. “It’s nine.”

Your fingers find his. “Early for you.”

He exhales, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “Didn’t want to go to the after-party. Couldn’t take another question about the championship.”

“Did you win?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, simply, gently. Like you mean it and nothing else. No noise. No expectations.

He closes his eyes.

“You know they had me filming a social media bit with Lewis twenty minutes after I crossed the finish line?” He says, muffled against your collarbone. “I was still sweating. I hadn’t even called Maman yet.”

“Sounds like a dream job.”

Charles snorts. “Yeah. The dream.”

You twist a little to look at him. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like something he hasn’t said yet is still sitting there, waiting.

“What is it?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he brushes your hair back, fingers gentle at your temple, then your jaw. The kind of touch that says you’re real. I need that right now. You lean into it.

“They want me to fake date someone,” he says finally, eyes fixed on yours. “For a brand thing. PR stunt. ‘Broaden my audience appeal.’ Some model who’s apparently very into vintage cars and barely has a pulse.”

You blink.

He watches you, gauging the flicker of emotion across your face. “I said no,” he adds, quickly. “Obviously. I didn’t even let them finish the pitch.”

Your voice is dry. “But you told me anyway.”

“I had to,” Charles says. “It’s your life too.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Do you think they’d actually push it?”

He sighs. “They’re not stupid. They know I’d walk before I let them touch this.” His thumb presses to the space over your heart. “But they’re not used to me saying no to everything else.”

“You’ve said no to a lot.”

He smiles faintly. “Yeah, but only when it’s worth it.”

You reach for his hand, the one still resting on your shoulder. Your fingers link instinctively.

“Was it hard?” You ask. “To say no?”

“No,” he says immediately. “What’s hard is not being able to tell the world why.”

There’s something deeper in that — something that aches.

You look at him. “You’d want to?”

He hesitates.

“I would,” Charles says quietly. “But I know what it would do to you.”

That stings, a little. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s true.

He sees it in your expression. “Hey,” he says, gently. “I didn’t mean that like — like you can’t handle it. I know you could. I just … I like this. Us. The quiet. The privacy.”

“I like it too,” you admit, leaning your cheek into his shoulder. “But sometimes I think … maybe I’m hiding.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately, and there’s something fierce about it, the way his arms tighten around you. “You’re not. You just like peace. And that doesn’t mean you’re hiding.”

You shrug.

He shifts to face you more directly, hands cupping your jaw now. “You don’t belong in the shadows,” Charles murmurs, brushing his thumbs across your cheeks. “But selfishly, I love that you’re only mine there.”

You exhale a shaky little laugh. “That’s kind of possessive.”

He smiles. “Yeah. It is.”

“You’re usually not.”

“Not with the world, no,” he says. “But with you? Yeah. I am. I want to be.”

You look at him for a long time.

There’s still sea breeze in the air, warm and thick with salt. The sun is low now, slipping behind the hills. The light on your skin is rose-gold, and he looks at you like you hung the sun there yourself.

“I wrote today,” you say finally.

His eyes brighten. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Couple thousand words. Not great ones. But better than the last few days.”

“I want to read them.”

You raise a brow. “You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

“I’m not ready.”

He doesn’t push. “Okay.”

You smile, just a little. “But I like that you ask.”

Charles leans forward, brushing his lips across your forehead. “Always will.”

The wind stirs a strand of hair across your cheek, and he tucks it behind your ear with a kind of reverence.

“How long are you home for?” You ask.

“Five days.”

“Before Spain?”

“Yeah. I was going to train tomorrow, but I think I’ll take the morning off.”

Your voice is quiet. “For rest?”

“For you,” he says, and the way he says it makes your heart stumble.

“Charles-”

“No,” he says, gently. “You don’t have to earn it. I want time with you. You’re the only place I feel human lately.”

You swallow.

He leans in and kisses your cheek, slow and warm. Then your jaw. Then your neck, just above your pulse. You shiver slightly, but it’s comfort more than anything else — being found, being known.

“You want to go to bed?” He asks quietly.

You nod.

So he takes your hand, and it’s not rushed — it’s not hungry or dramatic. It’s grounding. Soft. He guides you inside, flicking off lights as you go, easing you into your shared room like he’s placing you somewhere safe.

In the bedroom, he pulls off your cardigan for you, brushing your shoulders with his hands. He peels back the covers, helps you climb in, then joins you. Not an inch of space between your bodies. His arms come around your waist from behind, holding you steady.

He presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re not hiding,” he whispers. “You’re home.”

You reach back for his hand under the sheets. “Even when I’m quiet?”

“Especially when you’re quiet.”

He’s tracing patterns across your ribs now, soothing. Breathing slow. The world doesn’t exist here.

“Mon soleil,” he murmurs again, a little sleepier this time. “Even when the lights go out.”

You hum. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“I always come back to you.”

And in the hush of the room, you believe him.

He holds you closer.

Outside, Monaco sleeps.

Inside, he dreams only of you.

***

The car pulls up to the curb in front of the Palais de Tokyo, slow and deliberate like it knows what’s waiting outside.

Flashes ignite immediately — paparazzi like moths drawn to the promise of fame. The bulbs flicker against the polished black of the car, against the glittering heels stepping out before them, against the tension sitting thick in Charles’ chest.

He glances over at you.

“You sure?” He murmurs.

You nod, hands smoothed over the deep navy fabric of your dress. His fingers brush over yours where they rest in your lap — one soft, grounding touch.

“Okay,” he breathes. Then he adds, a little lower, “Stay close to me.”

The door opens.

The noise hits first — camera shutters, yelling voices, someone shouting his name in five different accents. It’s not unusual. It’s just … amplified. Paris amplifies everything. This isn’t a race weekend. This is Fashion Week. Which means the crowd outside isn’t just motorsport fans — it’s models, influencers, press junkies, people who invent rumors for fun and watch them come to life in real time.

You step out first.

And it’s small, the moment. Barely three seconds between your heels touching pavement and Charles following behind you, hand briefly ghosting the small of your back.

But it’s enough.

The buzz changes pitch the second he emerges.

There’s a flicker — a sharp inhale among the crowd, someone saying “Wait, who is that?” and another whispering your name as a question. Not as a fact. Just an idea. But ideas are dangerous here. Ideas spark headlines.

“Keep walking,” Charles mutters under his breath, close enough for only you to hear. “Just smile. Straight through.”

You nod. You’ve done this before — stepped through this minefield together. But something feels different tonight. Sharper.

Inside, the noise doesn’t follow. The air changes. The show hasn’t started yet, and the room is full of champagne flutes, soft designer scents, the low hum of fashion people pretending not to care who else is watching. You don’t drink — your fingers toy with the stem of a glass while Charles excuses himself for a brief interview across the room.

You watch him go.

He’s good at this. Too good. Easy smile, charming accent, sharp tux — he blends in so well it’s almost hard to remember how badly he used to flinch under attention.

The memory hits like a whisper.

***

It was at school, back in Monaco. He’d shown up to class ten minutes late, hair still wet from training, a smudge of grease on his collar. You were already sitting near the back, half-hiding behind a copy of Little Women.

He slid into the seat next to you, awkward and quiet. Everyone knew who he was. Charles Leclerc — the golden boy. The kid with the karting trophies and the tragic backstory. But up close, he didn’t seem golden. He seemed … tired.

He hadn’t spoken until three days later, when you’d accidentally left your notebook behind after class. He ran it out to you — literally ran. You were already halfway down the hall when he called your name.

You turned.

He held it out. “You forgot this.”

You took it, quietly. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, then blurted, “You write poems in the margins.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You read it?”

“No, I mean, just that one page. The one on the train. It was … good.”

You tilted your head. “You read poetry?”

“No,” he said, too quickly. Then, “Sometimes. I don’t understand most of it.”

You smiled. “That’s okay. Most people don’t.”

He paused. “Can I sit next to you again tomorrow?”

You nodded.

That was it. That was the moment it began.

Not with a spark. But a softness.

***

Now, across the room, Charles finishes his interview and makes his way back to you, expression slightly tight.

“Are we okay?” You ask under your breath.

He kisses your cheek. “Fine. One of the photographers caught a weird angle of us getting out of the car. It’ll blow over.”

You nod slowly. “You sure?”

“No,” he admits, low. “But I’m pretending.”

The lights dim then, and conversation dissolves into applause as the show begins. Your friend’s collection floats down the runway — fluid and sharp, dramatic and quiet all at once. You squeeze Charles’ hand, and he leans in to whisper, “He’ll be huge after this.”

You smile. “I know.”

But it doesn’t last.

After the show, as the crowd floods the exit, there’s a moment — a flash of something too fast to be fully seen. A journalist stepping forward, recorder in hand.

“Charles, Charles, one question?”

He stops out of habit. You hesitate beside him.

The journalist glances at you, sharp and curious. “Is this your girlfriend?”

Silence.

For a second — just one — he doesn’t say anything. The beat stretches, too long, too brittle.

Then, “No comment.”

You flinch, barely. But he feels it. Of course he does.

He wraps a protective arm around your waist, not possessive but anchoring. “We’re here supporting a friend.”

The journalist tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Right. So the matching entrance was just coincidence?”

Charles doesn’t answer.

You can feel the tension in his body, coiled and barely held.

He pulls you away before it escalates. No scene. Just a quick exit, one hand in yours as you disappear back into the private car waiting in the alley.

The moment the doors shut, the silence is deafening.

You stare out the window.

He speaks first. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” you say, too quickly.

“But it didn’t sound like-”

“I know, Charles.”

Another pause.

“I just …” he sighs. “It wasn’t the moment.”

You nod. “It never is.”

He closes his eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not. But it’s true.”

There’s a sharp quiet between you now, the kind that doesn’t come from anger but from ache.

Charles leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair. “I’m trying to protect you.”

You stare at him. “And I love you for it. But I’m not breakable.”

“I know that.”

You exhale, soft. “Do you?”

He turns to face you fully. “I do. But you didn’t see the headlines they almost ran after Monaco. They twist everything. I don’t want you swallowed up in that circus. I want you safe.”

“And I want you honest.”

His jaw tightens.

You look away. “This is the first time in months we’ve fought.”

“I hate it.”

“Me too.”

The car pulls up to the hotel. You walk inside together, quiet, each step heavy with words unspoken. You ride the elevator without touching. Not out of distance, but because neither of you knows how to fix this yet.

The second the hotel door clicks shut, Charles exhales.

You kick off your shoes, walk toward the window. The Paris skyline is lit in gold and white. The Eiffel Tower gleams in the distance, unbothered.

You don’t hear him cross the room, but you feel it when his hands come to your waist.

“I didn’t say it,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But I thought it.”

You swallow.

His lips brush your shoulder. “I always think it.”

“I know.”

His hands move slowly, drawing you back into him, arms around your waist. His voice dips lower. “I’m yours. Always. Even when I can’t say it out loud.”

You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “You shouldn’t have to hide the things you love.”

“I’m not hiding,” Charles says, quiet but certain. “I’m guarding. There’s a difference.”

Your eyes search his.

He leans in, forehead resting against yours. “Don’t shrink from the light,” you whisper.

“I don’t,” he breathes. “I just want the light to stay mine.”

You kiss him first.

And then everything slows.

There’s no rush in the way he undresses you — just reverence. His fingers skim your spine, your ribs, the sides of your thighs. You feel his breath at your neck, his lips brushing over your skin like apology and promise all at once.

He lifts you gently, lays you back against the sheets with a kind of sacred care. Like the whole world could fall apart and he’d still hold you steady. Every movement is deliberate, grounding. He touches you like you’re sunlight made tangible — something fleeting he wants to memorize again and again.

His hands stay on your hips, firm and steady, even as his mouth whispers over your skin — your collarbone, your chest, your stomach.

“I don’t need the world to know,” he murmurs, voice thick. “But I need you to know.”

“I do,” you breathe. “I’ve always known.”

He kisses you like that’s the only answer he’ll ever need.

When it’s over, your limbs tangled, breath synced, he brushes a strand of hair off your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For freezing.”

You shake your head. “You were scared.”

He holds you tighter. “I just want to keep you.”

“You have me.”

He nods.

Outside, Paris lives loud. Inside, Charles stays quiet — arms around you like gravity.

He says it again, barely audible.

“Mon soleil.”

And you fall asleep knowing he means it.

***

It’s early when Charles wakes, the sky outside a soft watercolor of dawn. The city’s barely breathing yet, Paris muted under pale blue and silver. The sheets are warm. You’re tucked against him, one arm slung across his ribs, your face buried somewhere near his collarbone.

He stays still for a moment.

Watches you.

You’re beautiful in the way only people at rest can be — unguarded, soft-edged, not thinking of the world or the weight of it. And Charles, for all his fame, for all his speed, has always worshipped slowness with you. He memorizes the shape of your mouth, the curve of your spine under the duvet. It makes him ache, how safe you look here, next to him. Like maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t ruined that yet.

He slips out of bed carefully, not waking you. Pads across the hotel room barefoot, dragging his fingers through sleep-mussed hair. There’s a note of stillness in him this morning, unusual but welcome. The weight of last night is still there, but it’s different now. Muted.

Your suitcase sits open in the corner, a paperback wedged between layers of clothing. The spine cracked, corners worn.

But it’s not the book that stops him.

It’s the manila folder on the desk.

The pages are stacked neatly, a thick rubber band holding them together. His name’s not on the front, and you haven’t told him much — only that it’s your second book, slower going than the first. But the edges are filled with your handwriting, your margin notes, your scratched-out titles.

He tells himself not to look.

Then he does.

Just one page, he promises.

Then two.

Then-

A line.

To the boy who lives at 320 km/h but holds me like I’m fragile porcelain.

Charles stops breathing for a second.

The words blur.

He sinks into the desk chair, pages cradled in his hands like they might shatter. He flips through more — just a few at first, then faster, scanning blocks of dialogue and prose, your voice echoing in every line. It’s fiction. Of course it is. But he knows himself in the spaces between. In the way the protagonist runs from everything except her. In the way he comes back. Always.

There’s a passage — midway through — that hits too close.

He doesn’t know how to rest. His body hums even in sleep. But when he touches her, something changes. It’s not desperation — it’s reverence. He holds her like she’s a map, and he’s finally found home.

Charles exhales, long and slow.

He reads on.

The world never asked him who he was. They only told him what to be. But with her, he can become something else. Someone honest. Someone flawed. Someone who doesn’t always win but is still worth loving.

He closes the manuscript after that, heart pounding. A different kind of pressure — intimate, unbearable, right under his ribs.

You see him.

You always have.

And suddenly, he wants to speak. To tell you everything he never quite knows how to say out loud.

So he finds a notepad in the hotel drawer. Quietly, without thinking too much, he writes.

***

Letter one.

Found tucked inside your book the next morning.

I am so tired of being the world’s Charles Leclerc. But I never tire of being yours.

***

Letter two.

Slipped between your sketchbook pages a few days later.

Sometimes I think you’re a quiet kind of genius. The world sees flashes, but I get the whole storm. You make me want to be more than fast. You make me want to be still.

***

Letter three.

Folded into the pocket of your jacket before he leaves for Spain.

I dreamt once that we lived in a house by the sea. No press. No racing. Just your words, my hands, and time. I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve that. But I want it.

***

He doesn’t sign them.

Doesn’t say they’re from him. Doesn’t need to.

You’d know his handwriting anywhere.

***

The morning after you return from Paris, you find the first one.

It’s there, plain as anything, pressed between two chapters of the book you’ve been reading for weeks. You weren’t even sure where you’d packed it. But it finds you.

You don’t say anything.

You just … sit with it.

Read it twice. Three times.

Then you place the paper back inside the pages and slide the book onto the nightstand like nothing happened.

When Charles stirs, you’re already watching him.

He groans a little, stretching. “What time is it?”

“Still early,” you murmur.

“Mm,” he rolls closer, eyes half-lidded. “You’re staring.”

“Maybe.”

He grins. “Lucky me.”

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s longer than usual. Slower. More certain. His hands come up to cradle your face, a little confused but not resisting.

When you pull back, he’s blinking at you. “What was that for?”

You shrug. “Felt like it.”

He hums, pulling you in again. “Do it again.”

So you do.

***

That day, he flies out for a press shoot in Spain. You stay in Monaco, returning to your writing, to your own quiet world.

But something’s shifted.

You start noticing the notes.

They don’t come every day. They’re not dramatic or poetic. They’re just him. Honest. Raw. Tucked where you least expect them — inside your journal, between the receipts in your wallet, once even in the fridge, stuck to the almond milk.

And still, you don’t mention them.

Because that’s the thing about Charles.

He’s loud on track. Loud when he’s winning. Loud when he’s fighting.

But when he loves — it’s quiet.

***

A few nights later, you’re on FaceTime. He’s sprawled across a hotel bed, hair wet from a shower, wearing a T-shirt that used to be yours.

“You find any new letters?” He asks, casual, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

You tilt your head. “Should I be looking?”

He smirks. “Maybe.”

You smile. “No new ones today.”

He feigns offense. “That you found.”

“Exactly.”

He laughs, soft and real. “You like them?”

“I do.”

There’s a pause.

“Even when I’m not good at saying it out loud,” Charles murmurs, “I’m thinking about you.”

“I know.”

He leans back, arms crossed under his head. “I think about how we met, sometimes. How I didn’t talk for like two weeks. You probably thought I was an idiot.”

“I thought you were shy.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. You were always rushing somewhere, but you looked like you were trying not to bump into anyone.”

He laughs. “Because I was. Monaco’s small but brutal.”

You soften. “You’ve always been good at seeing everything.”

He nods. “But you were the first person who saw me. Before the racing. Before the trophies.”

“I still do.”

He swallows hard.

***

Later that week, another letter finds you inside your typewriter cover.

Letter four.

I don’t always know who I am to the world. Sometimes it changes by the hour. But with you, I never have to wonder. You anchor me. You make the noise stop. I hope I do the same for you. Even if I don’t say it, I’m trying.

You fold it gently, slide it under your pillow.

He’s not with you tonight, but the space beside you feels a little less empty.

***

A few days later, you call him out of the blue.

He answers on the second ring, breathless. “Everything okay?”

You smile. “Yeah. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

He sighs, soft and happy. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

There’s a pause. Then:

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks.

You blink. “Stop what?”

“The notes. The letters. If it’s too much.”

Your heart twists. “Charles. No. I love them.”

He lets out a breath. “Okay.”

You add, quieter, “I keep them. All of them.”

“I know,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I figured.”

***

That weekend, he comes home.

No cameras. No entourage. Just him, shoulders looser than they’ve been in months.

You open the door in sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, and he smiles like it’s the only thing he’s been waiting for all week.

“Hi,” you say.

He drops his bag and kisses you before you can say anything else.

Later, curled up on the couch, his head in your lap, he murmurs, “You wrote about me.”

You pretend not to know what he means. “Everyone writes about you.”

“No,” he says, tilting his head to look up at you. “You wrote about me.”

You brush your fingers through his hair. “I write about what matters.”

He closes his eyes. “I hope you always do.”

You kiss his forehead. “And you’ll keep writing letters?”

He grins. “Until I run out of hiding spots.”

You smile. “Then you’ll just have to start saying them.”

He nods. “I will. One day.”

But until then-

The notes are enough.

***

He sounds like someone else on the phone.

The call comes after the sprint race in Miami, crackling with poor reception and exhaustion. He’s finished P2, and the media's already torn him apart for not converting pole into a win. Again. You can hear it in his voice — the frayed edges, the clipped tone he tries to soften for you.

“They said I’m not aggressive enough,” Charles mutters. “That I’m too emotional. That I’m-” he breaks off, breathing hard. “That I don’t have the killer instinct.”

You’re silent for a moment. “Do you believe them?”

“No,” he says, too fast. “But maybe … I don’t know. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m-” he trails off again, breath catching in his throat.

You sit up straighter, your grip on the phone tightening. “Charles.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

“Charles, look at me.”

“I can’t,” he whispers. “You’re not here.”

And that’s all it takes.

You’re already moving, throwing clothes into a carry-on bag with more purpose than coordination. You book a last-minute flight while brushing your teeth, your laptop balanced on the bathroom counter. The Miami heat feels a world away, but you can already see it — the chaos of the paddock, the swarm of cameras, the sound bites dissecting his every word.

And underneath it all: him.

Raw. Alone.

Not anymore.

***

By the time you arrive, the Sunday sun is already bruising the skyline, and you haven’t slept in seventeen hours. But the moment you step through the paddock gates, heart pounding behind your lanyard and sunglasses, you know exactly what you’re looking for.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s talking to an engineer, brow furrowed, body wound tight like wire. But then someone taps his shoulder, nods in your direction, and Charles turns.

His whole face shifts.

Like breathing after holding it too long.

He doesn’t say anything. Just strides across the paddock like the ground might collapse between you if he doesn’t close the distance fast enough. And then he’s there — eyes wild, chest rising and falling fast.

“You’re here,” he breathes, voice cracked.

You nod. “Of course I am.”

He grabs your wrist — not roughly, but with urgency. “Come with me.”

He pulls you through a back hallway you’ve never seen before, past mechanics and closed doors, until he finds an unlocked storage closet that smells like tires and adrenaline. He drags you in, shuts the door behind him, and exhales like he’s finally allowed to fall apart.

And then-

His arms are around you.

Just like that.

He buries his face in your neck, hands shaking at your waist. “I couldn’t do it anymore,” he whispers. “I tried. I really tried.”

“I know,” you say, threading your fingers into his hair. “I know you did.”

“They said so many things,” he murmurs against your skin. “Not just about driving. About who I am. About what I’m not. It was so loud, and I just — I needed you.”

You pull back just enough to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. “Charles. Listen to me. You are not what they say. You’re still my Charles. Not just Ferrari’s. Not theirs.”

His eyes close, a single tear slipping down. “You always say the right thing.”

“No,” you say, brushing it away. “I just say what’s true.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you — hair a mess from travel, skin tired from the flight, sunglasses still tangled in your hair. And he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

Like if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, the world will take you too.

Your back hits the supply shelf with a soft thud, and his hands are on your jaw, your shoulders, your waist — everywhere at once. You kiss him back just as fiercely, anchoring him with every breath.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.

“You’re still mine,” you whisper. “Always mine.”

***

That night, the hotel room is dark and quiet, lit only by the faint glow of Miami’s skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. You’re on the bed, curled up in one of his shirts, freshly showered, still buzzing from the day.

He sits on the edge, towel around his neck, hands braced on his knees like he’s holding himself together.

You crawl over to him slowly, wrapping your arms around his torso from behind.

“Hey,” you murmur against his shoulder.

He exhales. “I keep thinking I have to be perfect. Not just on track. Everywhere.”

“You don’t.”

“I know,” he says. “But they make it feel like I do. Like if I’m not smiling enough, or fast enough, or hard enough, I’m … replaceable.”

You press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “You’re not.”

He turns to face you, eyes dark and heavy with everything he’s been carrying.

“You always know how to make it stop hurting,” he whispers.

You crawl into his lap, straddling him slowly, hands cupping his cheeks.

“Because I love you,” you say simply.

His lips find yours again, slower this time. Less desperation. More reverence. His hands slide under your thighs, then up your back, anchoring you to him like you’re the only solid thing he has left.

“You’re my girl,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “My warmth. My sun.”

You kiss his temple. “Then let me be.”

And he does.

He lays you back on the sheets like you’re fragile and sacred all at once. His touch is soft but sure, worshipful, his hands tracing every inch of skin like it’s familiar scripture. He whispers in French sometimes, half-prayer, half-plea. His mouth brushes over your collarbone, your ribs, the inside of your wrist.

“Mon soleil,” he says again and again. “My girl. My warmth. My sun.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, breath catching as he kisses a slow trail along your sternum.

“You don’t have to prove anything here,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “But I still want to show you.”

His voice trembles — not from nerves, but from feeling. Too much of it, barely contained.

“If I crash out of everything,” he says, forehead resting against yours, “I want to crash into you.”

Your heart stutters.

“I’d catch you,” you breathe.

His lips find yours again, and this time it’s softer. Slower. Full of promises neither of you speak aloud. He moves like he’s memorizing you. Not rushing. Not conquering. Just … loving. Tracing you with quiet devotion.

When it’s over, he doesn’t let go. Just holds you to his chest, face buried in your hair.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Eventually, you say into the silence, “I’m coming to the next race.”

He nods, arm tightening around you. “Good.”

“I’ll be at the track. No press. Just watching.”

He kisses the crown of your head. “Knowing you’re there changes everything.”

You press a hand to his heart. “It’s still yours, you know. Even when you think you’ve lost yourself.”

He closes his eyes. “You always bring me back.”

***

And in the morning, before you leave for the airport, you find another note.

Folded into the pocket of your hoodie.

His handwriting, scrawled but certain.

You saved me this weekend. You keep saving me. I love you more than the silence between races, more than the moments I win. You are the only finish line that matters.

You don’t cry.

But you hold it to your chest for a long time before tucking it into your wallet.

Where all the others live.

***

The mirror glints with a kind of reverence.

Your reflection blurs around the edges, not because of the makeup or the soft updo or the silk pooling at your ankles, but because tonight — the first time ever — you are not just his secret. You’re stepping into the light with him.

He’s behind you in the hotel room, shirtless and warm from the shower, towel still low on his hips. His eyes are on you like you’re something he dreamed up. Slowly, he crosses the floor, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You look like starlight,” Charles murmurs against your skin.

You smile softly. “That’s poetic.”

“It’s just true.”

Your fingers rest lightly over his. “You still sure about this? We can still back out. Stay here. Order room service. Watch old races until you fall asleep in your pasta again.”

He laughs quietly, that low, melted sound. “And miss the chance to show you off? No, mon solei.”

He kisses your shoulder, breath warm. “Besides,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper, “you’ve been mine in the shadows for too long.”

***

The carpet is a blur of white lights and velvet ropes, of camera flashes and murmured names, but his hand never leaves yours.

Not once.

You step out of the car together, and everything slows.

You feel the collective intake of breath from the press line, from the onlookers who’ve speculated, dissected, whispered. Your dress shimmers under the strobes, and his tux is impeccable — tailored like the life he lives — but it’s the way he looks at you that steals the attention.

Not just affection. Not even pride.

A kind of awe. Like he can’t believe you’re real, and that you chose him.

It’s the kind of look that writes headlines before they’re even typed.

Charles doesn't falter. He doesn’t glance around to see who’s watching. His eyes are only for you. Fingers laced, thumb rubbing the inside of your wrist in slow, grounding circles.

You hear one journalist gasp softly into her mic, like she’s realizing it in real time.

“That’s her,” someone murmurs. “The girl Charles Leclerc looks at like she hung the stars.”

And still, his eyes don’t leave yours.

“Too late to run?” You whisper as cameras flash like lightning.

He grins. “You run, I follow.”

A dozen questions are hurled in your direction as you move down the carpet together.

“Is this your girlfriend?”

“Are you official?”

“When did it start?”

Charles only smiles — polite but cool. Still untouchable. But his hand never wavers in yours. He lets the silence answer for him.

A look. A touch. A truth held in the space between bodies.

The world sees it.

And for once, you let them.

***

Later, when the speeches are done and the champagne has long gone warm, you both slip away.

Charles leads you up to the rooftop of the venue — one of those quiet, off-limits spots only someone like him could access without question. The wind brushes against your skin, and the lights of Monaco twinkle in the distance, reflected on the sea like fallen stars.

You kick off your heels the second the door closes behind you.

“God, I thought I was going to trip over a camera cable and faceplant into Toto Wolff,” you mutter.

Charles laughs, pulling off his bowtie and pocketing it. “I was watching your feet the entire time, just in case.”

You walk to the edge of the rooftop together, city stretched out below you like something painted. He stands behind you again, wrapping his arms around your waist, just like in the mirror hours ago.

“Everyone was staring,” you say, voice quieter now.

“Good,” he murmurs.

You turn your head, just enough to see him. “Not too much?”

He shakes his head. “I wanted them to see. Finally.”

There’s a silence — comfortable, but heavy with something unsaid. You rest your head against his shoulder and close your eyes, letting the night soak into your skin.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.

“For what?”

“For being brave. For letting them see the real thing.”

He exhales slowly. “It wasn’t hard. Not with you next to me.”

You feel him shift behind you, hands moving, and then he’s stepping around to face you. His expression is unreadable — tender but serious, eyes darker than usual under the moonlight.

Then he pulls something from his jacket pocket.

A ring.

Small. Delicate. Not flashy.

Two stones nestled together, pressed into a slim gold band.

One for his birth month. One for yours.

Not a proposal.

But something more sacred, somehow.

A promise.

“Charles-”

“I don’t want headlines,” he says quietly. “I don’t want statements. I don’t even want to trend on Twitter.”

He takes your hand.

“I want you to know, here and now, that even if no one ever saw us, if this had stayed ours forever — I would still love you like this. With everything.”

He slides the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly.

“It’s not for the world,” he adds. “It’s for you. For us. For the days you stayed when I gave you nothing but exhaustion and travel and chaos. For the nights you held me when I came home empty. It’s a reminder. That no matter where I am, what I win, how loud it gets …”

He cups your cheek.

“You are still the only thing I want to come home to.”

You’re crying before you can stop it.

He pulls you into his chest, rocking you gently as you try to speak.

“You always make me feel like I’m not just … orbiting your world,” you manage. “Like I belong.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes.

“You are my world.”

You shake your head slowly, overwhelmed. “You’re always giving and giving. Aren’t you tired?”

His expression softens. “I am,” he admits. “But I’m less tired when I’m with you.”

You lean your forehead against his, the ring cool against his skin.

“I’ll wear this every day,” you whisper. “Even if it’s just for me.”

He smiles. “It’s always just for you.”

***

Much later, back in the hotel room, you sit on the balcony while he undresses inside. The city hums below, faint and electric. The air smells like salt and roses.

He comes out in soft cotton and bare feet, moving quietly.

And he sees you — bathed in the golden spill of the balcony lights, skin glowing, hair a little undone from the night, ring catching the faint glint of stars.

It mirrors the first night you sat like this, back at the beginning.

When he came home unraveling and found you, grounding him without even trying.

Now, he stops in the doorway, watching you like he’s memorizing it.

Like if he looks away, the light might disappear.

You glance up. “What?”

He smiles, slow and quiet. Walks over and leans down to kiss the top of your head.

“Mon soleil.”

You tilt your face toward him, teasing. “You’re really not gonna retire that nickname, huh?”

“Never,” he says simply, kissing your temple again. “Because it’s still true.”

You shift so he can sit behind you, and he wraps his arms around your waist, legs bracketing yours as you both look out at the water.

“The world saw you tonight,” he says after a long silence.

“And?” You murmur.

He presses his lips to the curve of your neck.

“And they finally know what I’ve always known,” he whispers.

You turn to look at him.

“That I revolve around you.”

The wind tugs gently at your hair, and his hands find yours again. His grip is warm. Steady.

You lean into him and close your eyes.

And for once, the world doesn’t feel too loud.

Because it’s not just you in the shadows anymore.

It’s you, glowing.

And him — right where he’s always been.

Yours.

[mommykye]

All demands

young!Ambessa Medarda x pregnant!wife!reader

summary: Ambessa gives into her wife’s demands

warnings: you guessed it, smut. ambessa’s has a dick

request are open

masterlist

The estate of Ambessa stood as a testament to power and refined brutality. Hewn from massive blocks of stark white and deep black marble, the imposing structure dominated the surrounding landscape, a physical manifestation of the formidable woman who resided within its walls. Even under the muted, overcast sky that perpetually seemed to hang over Noxus, the polished surfaces gleamed, the contrasting colors a deliberate and meaningful choice made years prior by Y/N. It was her subtle, constant reminder of the intricate balance she perceived within her wife – a dance between ruthless strength and unexpected tenderness.

Inside, the cool, echoing halls stretched into seemingly endless perspectives, the silence broken only by the soft, almost imperceptible padding of Y/N's bare feet against the smooth, unyielding floor. Despite the advanced stage of her pregnancy, the five-month swell preceding her like a proud banner, she moved with a fluid grace that spoke of her royal upbringing. At twenty-eight, Y/N possessed a maturity and poise that both complemented and subtly contrasted Ambessa’s own intense, almost volatile energy.

She found her wife in the strategy room, a chamber that hummed with the silent language of war and conquest. Massive maps, depicting conquered territories and potential battlefields in intricate detail, were spread across a colossal table of polished stone. Flanking this table were intricately carved chairs of polished darkwood, silent witnesses to countless hours of planning and deliberation. Ambessa, a towering figure even when seated, was hunched over a particularly detailed map of a volatile border region, her brow furrowed in the deep lines of intense concentration. A single, focused beam of light pierced through a narrow aperture in the high ceiling, illuminating the scene below like a macabre yet captivating painting, highlighting the stark angles of Ambessa’s face and the unforgiving lines of the maps.

Ambessa exuded a raw, untamed power, a force of nature barely contained by the stone and mortar of the room. She was a study in contrasts, a paradox of brutal efficiency and unexpected depths. Her face, often stern and unyielding, softened almost imperceptibly as she sensed Y/N's presence, a subtle shift that only Y/N had learned to recognize. Her golden eyes, usually sharp and assessing, held a fleeting flicker of warmth, a private ember lit only for her wife. Her powerful frame, honed from years spent on the battlefield and in rigorous training, was still, yet it emanated an aura of controlled strength, a coiled tension that spoke of her readiness for any challenge. She looked every bit the Noxian warlord, a woman who commanded respect and fear in equal measure. Her hair, the color of midnight, was pulled back from her face in a tight, intricate braid, revealing the strong lines of her jaw and the high, sharp planes of her cheekbones. She wore simple, functional clothing: dark, plain tunic, practical attire for a life spent navigating both the complexities of the war room inside their home and, as Y/N knew with intimate familiarity, the passionate entanglements of their shared bedchamber.

Y/N leaned against the heavy stone doorframe, her arms crossed beneath her burgeoning breasts, observing her wife for a long moment. She knew this room intimately, knew the intricate details of the maps, knew the brilliant, ruthless strategic mind that worked tirelessly behind those intense eyes. But more importantly, she knew the woman beneath the warlord, the woman who, for the past decade, had been her wife, her lover, her anchor in the often-turbulent seas of Noxian politics. Their shared history stretched back to a chance encounter during a delicate diplomatic mission years ago, a clash of wills that had unexpectedly and fiercely blossomed into an enduring love, a bond forged in mutual respect and undeniable passion.

Y/N had been immediately drawn to Ambessa's unwavering conviction, her fierce loyalty, and the barely leashed passion that simmered beneath her formidable exterior. Ambessa, in turn, had been captivated by Y/N's regal bearing, her sharp intellect that could dissect political intricacies with effortless grace, and the surprising vulnerability she occasionally allowed to surface, a fleeting glimpse behind the carefully constructed walls that she herself had conquered to earn a blissful life.

"You'll strain your eyes in this light," Y/N said, her voice a low, melodious drawl that broke the heavy silence of the room. It was a voice that had once commanded audiences, swayed councils with its persuasive cadence, but now, it held a unique intimacy, a silken thread woven into the rich tapestry of their shared life, reserved almost exclusively for Ambessa.

Ambessa glanced up, her sharp expression shifting almost imperceptibly from focused concentration to something softer, something that bordered on a rare and cherished amusement. "And you'll strain your back, standing there. Come, wife." She gestured to the chair beside her, the one usually reserved for her most trusted advisors, a silent yet profound acknowledgment of Y/N's pivotal role in her life, both personally and politically.

Y/N pushed herself off the doorframe, her movements still fluid and deliberate despite the gentle yet undeniable sway of her pregnant form. She walked towards the massive table, her bare feet making no sound on the polished floor. She reached Ambessa and, instead of taking the offered seat, she settled onto Ambessa's lap, facing her. The weight of her, the solid curve of her belly pressing intimately against Ambessa's chest, was a familiar and welcome sensation, a tangible connection that grounded them both.

Ambessa's dark eyebrows rose slightly, a silent question in their sharp arch, but she didn't protest. This was Y/N. This was how she was, especially now, with the heightened emotions and insistent desires that seemed to accompany the burgeoning life within her. Ambessa found a certain possessive satisfaction in Y/N's unwavering need for her, a primal pull that mirrored her own fierce devotion.

"Is that wise?" Ambessa asked, her voice a low rumble that vibrated against Y/N's back. "With the precious thing you carry?" Her large, calloused hand instinctively went to Y/N's rounded stomach, her touch gentle, a stark contrast to the brutal strength of her warrior's hands.

Y/N snorted softly, a sound that was both elegant and utterly irreverent. "I'm hardly made of glass, Ambessa. And I'm certainly not an invalid." She shifted slightly, adjusting her position so she was more comfortable, her hands resting on Ambessa's broad shoulders, her fingers digging lightly into the hard leather of her armor. Her eyes, dilated into the color of a stormy sea just before a tempest, locked onto Ambessa's. "Besides, I have a need."

Ambessa's gaze darkened, a slow, possessive burn igniting within their depths. "A need?" The single word was laced with a possessive curiosity, a hint of anticipation.

Y/N's lips curved into a sultry smile, a flash of the regal power that still resided within her, a power that Ambessa found endlessly alluring. "A very specific need. One that only you can satisfy." Her voice was a husky whisper, laced with a demanding edge that would have sent lesser beings scrambling for cover. But Ambessa was not a lesser being. She was Ambessa Medarda, and this woman, this demanding, pregnant woman, was her wife. And she found it exhilarating. The inherent power dynamic in their relationship, the constant push and pull of dominance and submission, was a source of intense and mutual pleasure, a silent language they both understood intimately.

"And what need is that, my demanding one?" Ambessa asked, her voice a low growl that resonated deep within Y/N, stirring a familiar heat in her core. Her hands settled on Y/N's hips, her strong fingers tracing the curve of her swollen belly, a silent acknowledgment of the life they had created together, a life that now amplified Y/N’s desires.

Y/N leaned closer, her breath warm against Ambessa's face, carrying the faint, exotic scent of the tea she favored, a fragrance that Ambessa had come to associate with her. "I need you, Ambessa. I need you inside me. Now." The directness of the request, the complete lack of preamble or coyness, was a deliberate act, a testament to the raw intimacy and uninhibited passion they shared. The sheer audacity of it, even in the relative privacy of their own estate, sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire through Ambessa. It was this very quality – this fearless, unapologetic desire – that had captivated her from the moment their paths had crossed. Y/N had never been one to shy away from what she wanted, even when what she wanted was the formidable Ambessa Medarda.

"Now?" Ambessa echoed, her voice a dangerous purr, her grip tightening slightly on Y/N's hips. "Here? On the strategy table?" The thought was undeniably arousing, the forbidden juxtaposition of war and intimacy, of strategic planning and raw, primal desire, a potent combination that resonated with the core of her being, a thrilling transgression against the very order she often imposed.

Y/N's smile widened, a predatory gleam in her stormy eyes. "The table is large. And sturdy. Much like its owner." She jokes, trailing a hand down Ambessa's chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric, the steady beat of her wife's heart quickening beneath her touch. "And the thought of you, taking me here, surrounded by your maps, your plans, the idea of being caught, it excites me." Her eyes gleamed with a primal hunger, a reflection of the deep, almost visceral connection they shared, a bond that transcended the battlefield and the intricate dance of Noxian politics. Pregnancy had amplified her desires, stripping away any lingering pretense of demureness. She was raw, demanding, and utterly irresistible in her newfound intensity.

Ambessa's control, always there, wavered precariously. The intoxicating combination of Y/N's scent – a heady mix of exotic perfumes and the subtle, musky undertones of arousal – her nearness, the warm weight of her in her lap, and the sheer eroticism of the request was almost overwhelming, threatening to shatter the carefully constructed walls of her composure. The strategic maps, the very symbols of her power and ambition, suddenly seemed insignificant, mere parchment and ink compared to the vibrant, demanding woman in her arms.

"You are…insatiable," Ambessa murmured, her voice thick with burgeoning desire, her thumb tracing the delicate curve of Y/N's jawline, a possessive caress.

"Only for you," Y/N purred back, her fingers now playing with the edge of Ambessa's collar, her touch both possessive and exquisitely provocative. "And the babe. The babe wants its mother happy." She knew how to manipulate Ambessa, how to crack the littlest of pressure points, continue on their growing family, into the tapestry of her desires, a subtle yet effective leverage.

Ambessa knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within her, that Y/N was using the pregnancy, using the innocent babe, to get exactly what she wanted. And, truth be told, she didn't care in the slightest. The thought of Y/N, carrying their child, craving her with such unbridled intensity, was a potent aphrodisiac, a constant reminder of the deep and unbreakable bond they shared, a testament to the love that lay beneath the surface of their often-brutal world.

"And what if I were to say no?" Ambessa challenged, her voice low and husky, a playful edge to her tone, though the heat in her eyes betrayed her true desire.

Y/N's smile turned predatory, a flash of sharp teeth beneath her full lips. "You wouldn't." It wasn't a question, not even a hint of doubt. It was a statement of absolute fact, born of years of shared intimacy and a profound understanding of her wife's deepest desires. Y/N knew the fire that burned beneath Ambessa's controlled exterior, the fierce passion that Ambessa rarely unleashed on anyone but her. She knew that Ambessa was as utterly enthralled by her as she was by Ambessa. And she was right. Ambessa wouldn't say no. Not when Y/N looked at her like that, her stormy eyes blazing with unadulterated need, her body radiating a palpable heat. Not when the thought of possessing her, of filling her, right here, right now, was so utterly compelling, so deliciously forbidden.

With a swift, decisive movement that spoke of her inherent strength and unwavering resolve, Ambessa stood, lifting Y/N with her as if she weighed nothing, her powerful muscles belying the delicate nature of her precious cargo. She didn't break eye contact, her dark gaze locked intently on Y/N's, her own desire a tangible force that crackled in the air between them.

"Then let us not waste any more time," Ambessa said, her voice a low growl that sent shivers of anticipation down Y/N's spine. Instead of turning towards the hidden doorway that led to the privacy of their opulent chambers, Ambessa took a deliberate step back, positioning herself firmly between Y/N's legs, the cool, smooth surface of the massive stone table pressing against the backs of Y/N's thighs.

Y/N's breath hitched, a sharp gasp of surprise and burgeoning excitement. She had instinctively expected their usual retreat to the secluded intimacy of their rooms, but this…this was a delicious deviation, a raw and impulsive act that spoke volumes about the intensity of Ambessa's desire, a willingness to transgress the boundaries of their usual rituals.

Ambessa's hands tightened on Y/N's hips, steadying her as she subtly shifted her weight, ensuring her wife's comfort while simultaneously asserting her control. The cool, unyielding surface of the table was a stark and thrilling contrast to the rising heat radiating from their intertwined bodies. The maps, the carefully laid plans of conquest and dominion, were now beneath Y/N, a silent and potent testament to the fact that, in this moment, nothing in the vast Noxian empire held more significance than the fierce and undeniable connection between them.

"Ambessa…" Y/N breathed, her voice laced with a mixture of surprise and rapidly escalating excitement.

"You wanted me now," Ambessa murmured, her gaze dropping momentarily to the gentle swell of Y/N's belly, then rising again to meet her eyes, a possessive gleam in their dark depths. "And I aim to please."

With deliberate, almost ritualistic movements, Ambessa reached down and began to unbuckle the fastenings of her dark clothing, the soft clinking of metal echoing in the heavy silence of the room, each small sound amplifying the growing tension between them. Y/N watched her, her heart pounding a heavy rhythm against her ribs, her own desire intensifying with each passing moment as the warlord began to shed her layers. The controlled exterior was slowly giving way to the passionate lover beneath.

Ambessa’s pants fell to the floor with a soft thud, leaving her in the tunic. Her strong, calloused hands then moved to the hem of Y/N’s flowing gown, the supple fabric offering little resistance to her touch, sending shivers of anticipation dancing across Y/N’s skin. Ambessa slowly pushed the gown upwards, revealing the delicate curve of Y/N’s bare legs, the soft skin flushed with rising desire.

Y/N instinctively wrapped her legs around Ambessa’s waist, pulling her closer, the intimate friction igniting a spark that threatened to consume them both. The feeling of Ambessa’s hard, muscled body pressed intimately against her own, the life within her a soft, precious cushion between them, was intoxicating, a tangible reminder of their shared love and future.

Ambessa’s hands continued their exploration, tracing the delicate curve of Y/N’s thighs, the gentle swell of her hips, her touch both possessive and reverent, acknowledging the beautiful changes that pregnancy had wrought upon Y/N’s body, changes that Ambessa found undeniably alluring, a testament to their shared creation.

"You are magnificent," Ambessa murmured, her voice thick with desire, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Y/N's neck, sending a jolt of pure sensation through her. "Every curve, every swell…you are breathtaking."

Y/N tilted her head back, allowing Ambessa greater access, her own breath coming in short, shallow gasps. "And you are taking far too long," she whispered, her own impatience growing with each teasing, passing moment. The intoxicating scent of Ambessa, a heady mix of leather and musk and something uniquely her own, filled her senses, further fueling the insistent ache within her.

Ambessa chuckled softly, a low rumble against Y/N’s skin that vibrated through her very core. "Patience, my love. What is worth having is worth savoring." But even as she spoke the words, her actions belied her claim. Her hands moved with increasing urgency, pushing Y/N’s gown higher, until it was bunched around her waist, exposing the soft skin of her thighs and the delicate curve of her pregnant belly as she places a soft kiss to her cheek.

Y/N reached down and gripped Ambessa’s tunic, pulling it upwards with a demanding tug. She wanted to feel Ambessa’s bare skin against hers, the raw heat of her body a tangible reassurance of her desire. Ambessa obliged without hesitation, stripping off the tunic and tossing it carelessly aside, her eyes never leaving Y/N’s, their depths filled with a primal hunger.

The contrast between them was stark and beautiful, a testament to the complementary nature of their desires. Y/N, with her softer, more yielding curves and the delicate flush of arousal blooming on her skin, and Ambessa, all hard muscle and controlled power, her eyes burning with an intensity that mirrored Y/N's own. They were two halves of a whole, their differences only serving to amplify the intense and undeniable connection between them.

Ambessa’s hands returned to Y/N’s hips, her strong thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin just above her pelvic bones, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Y/N. "Tell me what you want," Ambessa commanded, her voice a low growl that resonated deep within Y/N, stirring the insistent ache in her core. "Tell me exactly what you need."

Y/N’s eyes darkened with a primal desire. "I want you inside me, Ambessa. Deep inside. I want to feel you filling me, claiming me, making me yours." The words were a raw, uninhibited expression of her need, a testament to the deep physical and emotional connection they shared, a bond that transcended the constraints of their often-brutal world.

Ambessa’s gaze intensified, a possessive fire burning within their depths. "And you shall have it, my queen." Ambessa pulls down the remainder of her clothing, allowing it to pool at her ankles, revealing the hard, undeniable length of her desire straining against her dark undergarments. The air in the strategy room crackled with an almost palpable anticipation, thick with unspoken desires and the promise of raw intimacy. The maps beneath Y/N, depicting the strategic layouts of conquered territories and potential future campaigns, became silent witnesses to their passionate encounter, the intricate lines and symbols of war momentarily forgotten in the face of a more primal, all-consuming need.

Ambessa positioned herself more firmly between Y/N’s parted legs, her strong hands sliding beneath her wife’s thighs, lifting them higher, arching Y/N’s back against the cool stone. Y/N instinctively tightened her grip on the edge of the table, her body already anticipating the exquisite pleasure to come, her hips tilting upwards in silent invitation.

The first touch was electric, a searing spark that ignited a raging firestorm of desire within them both. Ambessa’s entry was slow and deliberate, a tender consideration for the life they were creating, allowing Y/N’s body to adjust to her size, yet the intensity of their connection was immediate and undeniable, a visceral merging of two souls bound by fierce love and insatiable desire.

Y/N gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound escaping her lips, her head falling back against the cool stone, unyielding marble as she felt Ambessa fill her, stretching her, claiming her in a way that transcended mere physical intimacy. Ambessa paused, her hands gripping Y/N’s thighs, her dark eyes locked intently on her wife’s flushed face, searching for any sign of discomfort.

"Does it feel good, my love?" she murmured, her voice thick with desire, a hint of tenderness lacing her usual commanding tone.

"Yes," Y/N breathed, reaching out to grab onto Ambessa’s shoulders allowing her fingers to dig into the muscle, her body already beginning to move instinctively against hers. "Oh, yes. But don't be so gentle, Ambessa. I need you rougher. I want to feel you." The words, a raw expression of her heightened desires, hung heavy in the air, a direct challenge to Ambessa’s initial tenderness.

A flicker of something primal ignited in Ambessa’s eyes. The warlord in her recognized and responded to the demand. With a low growl that rumbled deep in her chest, she surged forward, slamming into Y/N with a force that made her cry out, yet she remained acutely aware of the precious life they carried, her movements powerful but carefully controlled.

"Pregnant whore," Ambessa growled, the words a rough caress against Y/N’s ear, a dirty endearment that sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her. "You want me rough, you'll have it."

"Yes," Y/N gasped, meeting Ambessa’s fierce gaze with a hunger of her own. "Fuck me, Ambessa. Like you mean it. Make me feel this."

And Ambessa obliged, her movements becoming more insistent, more demanding, yet always mindful. The rhythm of their bodies intertwined, a primal dance of need and fulfillment, a language spoken in the thrust and parry of their hips, in the ragged gasps that escaped their lips. The only sounds in the room were their increasingly frantic breaths and the soft thud of Ambessa’s powerful body against Y/N’s.

Y/N’s senses heightened, every nerve ending alive and tingling. The intoxicating scent of Ambessa filled her nostrils, the feel of her wife’s hard, muscled body pressed against her own was a potent aphrodisiac. The pressure deep within her grew with each forceful thrust, building towards a crescendo of exquisite pleasure.

"That's it," Y/N moaned, her hips bucking against Ambessa’s. "Harder, Ambessa."

Ambessa’s movements became more demanding, her controlled strength unleashed in a torrent of raw passion, her own control beginning to slip as her desire surged, threatening to overwhelm her. She leaned down, her lips finding the sensitive curve of Y/N’s neck, her teeth gently nipping at the soft skin, eliciting a sharp cry from her wife.

"You feel so good," Ambessa grunted, her breath hot against Y/N’s skin. "So tight."

"And you feel like heaven," Y/N gasped, her body arching higher against Ambessa’s, her legs tightening around her waist, pulling her deeper. The strategic maps beneath them rustled and shifted with their frantic movements, the carefully drawn lines of conquered territories and potential battlefields becoming increasingly blurred and insignificant in the face of their primal embrace.

"Tell me you're mine," Ambessa commanded, her voice thick with possessive desire.

"I'm yours," Y/N cried out, her voice raw with passion. "Always yours, you brute."

In this moment, there was no Noxian warlord and no past royal. There were only two women, deeply in love and fiercely connected, lost in the all-consuming intensity of their shared desire, their bodies moving as one. Ambessa’s pace quickened, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She could feel Y/N’s body clenching around her, the unmistakable signs of her impending release.

"Y/N…" Ambessa groaned, her own carefully constructed control finally shattering.

Y/N cried out again, a long, keening sound that echoed in the silent room, her body convulsing around Ambessa’s. Waves of intense, exquisite pleasure washed over her, each one more powerful than the last, threatening to drown her in sensation. She clung to Ambessa, her nails digging into her wife’s back leaving long red lines, her head thrown back against the cool obsidian in an expression of pure ecstasy.

Ambessa held her tight, her powerful arms wrapped securely around Y/N’s trembling body, riding out the waves of her wife’s pleasure, her own release following swiftly on its heels, a guttural roar escaping her lips as she poured herself into Y/N. She buried her face in Y/N’s neck, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm, the scent of just straight Y/N filling the air around her.

They remained locked together for a long moment, their breathing slowly returning to a semblance of normalcy, the echoes of their passionate encounter still reverberating in the heavy silence of the strategy room. The weight of Y/N’s pregnant belly pressed intimately against Ambessa, a tangible and precious reminder of the life they had created, the future they shared, a future born from their fierce love and unyielding passion.

Finally, Ambessa pulled back slightly, her eyes filled with a tenderness that she rarely showed to anyone else, a vulnerability reserved solely for Y/N. She gently brushed a stray strand of sweat-dampened hair from Y/N’s flushed forehead, her touch surprisingly delicate.

"Are you alright, my love?" she murmured, her voice still rough with the remnants of passion.

Y/N smiled, a soft, contented expression spreading across her face, her stormy eyes now filled with a peaceful serenity. "More than alright," she whispered back, her voice still slightly breathless. "Perfect."

Ambessa leaned down and kissed her gently, a lingering touch that spoke volumes of the deep love and unbreakable connection between them, a silent promise of more to come.

"We should move," Ambessa said eventually, gesturing to the rumpled maps beneath them with a wry smile playing on her lips. "Lest our strategic planning become compromised."

Y/N chuckled softly, a warm, throaty sound. "Perhaps. Though I daresay we've just engaged in a different kind of strategic maneuver."

Ambessa’s eyes darkened again, a hint of the possessive fire rekindling within their depths. "Indeed. And one I find far more rewarding." She carefully disentangled herself from Y/N, her movements surprisingly gentle considering the raw passion they had just shared. She then lifted Y/N with the same effortless strength, cradling her in her arms.

"Where shall we go, my queen?" Ambessa murmured, carrying her towards the hidden doorway that led to their private chambers.

"Our bed," Y/N whispered, nuzzling against Ambessa’s neck. "And then perhaps we can discuss further strategic engagements."

Ambessa’s lips curved into a predatory smile. "I believe that can be arranged." She stepped through the hidden door, leaving the rumpled maps and the echoes of their passion behind, carrying her beloved wife towards the sanctuary of their shared chambers, the promise of more intimate battles hanging sweetly in the air.

[typhlonectes]

Why Is the Elusive Colossal Squid So Hard to Come Across?

Though rarely seen, the colossal squid lurks deep beneath the surface.

We’ve known about the colossal squid for nearly 150 years. Zoologist Japetus Steenstrup first reported on the species in 1857 after reading reports of it washing up on ocean shores. But there’s still a lot that we don’t know about it because it’s so hard to study. Its reproductive patterns, mating and hunting patterns are still largely unknown because we hardly ever see it in action. Nonetheless, ever since Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas, we’ve been captivated by this supersized cephalopod.

As long as a semi-truck and weighing as much as a ton — the colossal squid lives up to its name. With a massive beak and eyes the size of a human head, this enormous animal with eight arms and two extra-long tentacles has mainly remained elusive for much of human history. But in recent years, as humans have become better equipped to dive deeper into vast swaths of unchartered oceans, we’ve enjoyed a few colossal squid sightings...

Read more: https://www.discovermagazine.com/planet-earth/why-is-the-elusive-colossal-squid-so-hard-to-come-across

[bittersweet-jack-of-no-trades]

Stan gives the Mystery Shack to Soos, Ford ties up some loose ends that came of Stan using his name to commit massive tax fraud for thirty years, and then, finally, they take the Stan o' War II out on the high seas. Except...

They have no idea how to sail.

Sure, they had taught themselves (sorta) when they were kids, but that was... a long, long time ago. And sailing, especially sailing the 40' 'aged but beautiful' vessel they bought off the coast of California and refurbished, isn't actually... easy.

So they dock themselves up in the closest marina they could limp to on their little inboard engine, apologize to each other for the arguments that were sparked while fighting the main sheet in thirty-five knot winds and sideways rain, and shuffle their way to a sailing class.

And aren't they a sight: two sixty-somethings, identical twins, strangely haunted looks in their eyes, who seem to know everything and yet nothing about each other. Their classmates learn this quickly: Stan knows Ford's fingerprints, but not his favorite food. Ford remembers what Stan got for his fifth birthday, but not the name of his last ex. They're top of the class, of course (there's no official ranking, but everyone Knows Who's Best), and Ford keeps calling the twenty year old sailing instructor "kid," and we're pretty sure Stanley is... is that a gun? They're an entertaining pair of old men, for sure. Stan can't help it--- he's an entertainer at heart, he loves the attention--- and Ford finds he likes being recognized, but not for his oddities--- just his personality, and his stories.

Finally they feel confident enough to go out sailing on their own, and it's fulfilling, and fun, and they find a lot of cool shit. But as much as they love each other, and as much they learn about each other while sailing the deep blue, one just isn't enough company for two brothers who have always dreamed of being known. So, once or twice or four times a year, they sail back to that marina, check in on that class, and maybe do a little show 'n' tell. They become known in the area, two grunkles with a love for the sea but a heart belonging to land, and their visits are wild, fantastical things, with preserved mystical creatures and stories changing hands across each dock. Stan and Ford--- twins, but each their own personality, and appreciated for who they are. The Stan o' War II is their home, their purpose, and their future.

Fifteen or twenty or twenty-five or maybe, if we're lucky, thirty years later--- that's when the Stan o' War II sails into the marina slow and uncertain. And when they dock, it's not Stan and Ford who step off, but two young adults, a man and a woman. The sailing instructor, who is now a new twenty-year old, but has heard all the old stories of his predecessor, steps forward warily.

"You knew our grunkles, Stan and Ford," Dipper says to the suspicious crowd. He looks at the sailboat, and his face crumbles in the unmistakable folds of grief. "They... they used to say that their first breaths were by the sea, in a small Jersey beach town and--- and in order to top that, their last breaths should be on the sea. And they got their wish. And now... and now, well... Mabel and I, we don't know how to sail. We don't know how to keep the Stan o' War II alive."

It's natural, then, for Mabel and Dipper go to sailing class. They're twins who have fantastical stories and strangely haunted looks in their eyes; they're top of their class, even though there's no official ranking. When it's time, and class is over, they step onto the Stan o' War II and sail into the sunset.

The Dockmaster of the marina smiles sadly. He's not worried, though--- he saw how much they were like their grunkles while they were staying at the marina. And if he knows one thing about the Pines family, it's this: they'll be back, again and again, each discovery better than the last.

[eufezco]

THREE LIES AT ONCE

FINNICK ODAIR X FEM!STYLIST!READER

this is based on a prompt from character.ai c:

SYNOPSIS -> You're his stylist and you discover bruises.

You liked it when Finnick visited the Capitol and Finnick hated doing it except for the fact that he knew you would be there.

You had already earned a reputation as a stylist in the Capitol when you two met. And it had been four years since Finnick won his games but President Snow had kept him close because nothing was more appealing than a charming boy in his twenties to the people of the Capitol.

You learned from the best. Cinna taught you everything he knew about fashion and then made you forget about it all so you could build your own style. It actually worked quite well because your designs were sold in the Capitol as if people needed them to live.

Your colors and characteristic shapes, your outrageous skirts, your long dresses, and your headdresses were worn by everyone, men and women fought over your designs and they spent all their savings on your clothes. President Snow was more than delighted with you, not only because his granddaughter deeply admired you but because you knew how to be liked, and he loved that about you.

That's why President Snow found the perfect match with Finnick and you and for once in his life, he did something right.

Finnick became your muse. From the moment you were introduced at the Capitol and you saw him walking towards you with those bright green eyes, his perfectly messy blonde hair, his tanned skin thanks to the way the sun in District 4, and his body that looked like it had been sculpted by the gods. You knew you never wanted to design anything else but for him.

―When did you arrive and how is it that you haven't come to see me earlier? ―You threw yourself into his arms, your fingers dug into his blond locks of hair. This was not the typical relationship that stylists used to have with their models but after working with him for a couple of years now, it was inevitable that some affection would grow between the two of you. Especially when, during his stays in the Capitol, you spent most of your time together. You were the only thing that kept him from going crazy.

He would sit and watch you while you sketched out his next outfit. You would share a drink and ask him questions about how his life was back in District 4. Finnick loved to talk about his home and you loved to imagine yourself there, in the places that Finnick described to you so precisely. The sea reaching your feet, the sun shining against your skin, the sound of seagulls flying across the bluest sky you had ever seen... And for some reason that you were still trying to figure out, every time you imagined yourself in one of those scenarios, he was by your side. District 4 seemed like a lovely place.

Finnick's arms wrapped around your waist while his face hid in the crook of your neck. He inhaled your familiar scent when you hugged, too sweet for the Capitol, not like the perfume people there used to keep up with their continuous call for attention.

―Yesterday but I was too tired from the trip.

That was the first lie that Finnick told you that night.

There was an expression of relief on your face with something like a small smile on your lips, grateful to see him again after such a long time and when everything in your life was chaos thanks to the preparation of the next games. Your eyes were closed, enjoying him holding you until you heard him say those words and then they opened in a combination of surprise and confusion.

―Don't think that being tired is an excuse for not coming to see me, Finnick Odair. That should always be the first thing you do as soon as you set foot here. ―You said, still thinking about why would he lie to you.

You moved apart from the hug and Finnick had a big smile on his lips that inevitably made you smile too. ―I'm sorry. ―He apologized.

―You better be. But now I need you to tell me if you like it.

You turned to grab your notebook and showed him the sketch you drew. Finnick took the notebook from your hands so he could take a better look and admire every detail.

―This is beautiful. You're an artist. I doubt there is anyone half as good as you in the whole Panem.

―Oh, there's Cinna. I haven't managed to dethrone him yet.

―Come on, you outdid Cinna a long time ago. He says so himself. The student surpassed the master, there's nothing wrong with that.

You shook your head and said nothing. Finnick rolled his eyes, he knew you didn't like hearing from him or anyone else that you were better than Cinna. Not even when Cinna himself tells you.

―Have you started sewing it yet? Can I see it?

―That's why I needed to see you. I haven't started yet because I need to measure you again. The last time you wore one of my garments it was too tight. I don't want to risk it not fitting you this time. ―You grabbed the measuring tape and pins from the table in your studio, full of fabrics and patterns for the new tributes. Cinna had given you his notebook with some beautiful sketches and had told you that he needed something similar but for the male tribute, a guy named Peeta Mellark from District 12, and you had been working day and night to meet Cinna's expectations. ―The robe is behind the dressing screen.

―Yes ma'am.

Finnick walked over without saying another word. You admired his figure as he walked away. Finnick's back was twice as wide as when you met him, his arms had grown stronger, now you could identify each of the muscles in them and his legs had also doubled in size, unfortunately, Finnick loved to wear long skirts, if it were up to you he would be showing them all the time. The features of his face had also changed, now they were more pronounced. Finnick's dimples were more visible and his jaw was so sharp you'd swear if you slid your finger along it you'd cut yourself.

―This looks great on you. I don't know why I try to design you something new every time. I should let you go around with that.

Finnick shook his head, failing in his attempt not to laugh at your stupid joke. ―You are not only the best designer but also the funniest one, huh?

You rolled your eyes. Finnick knew you didn't like it when he told you that and he did it on purpose to tease you. ―Come on, take it off.

Finnick stood before the mirror as you stood behind him. Once he slipped it off, you gasped and jumped back, horrified.

―Gosh, Finnick, what is this? ―You took a few steps backward at the sight of the bruises that trailed down his back. By their bright red color you would say were rather recent. You didn't know how to react, you were petrified staring at his back.

Finnick smiled, dismissing what you just saw with practiced charm. ―Ah, just a little souvenir. My lovers like to play rough. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.

That was the second lie Finnick told you that night.

Finnick's chest was heavy but he was trying to keep his cool. He had assumed that by the time the two of you saw each other the wounds would have healed, besides the fact that he didn't think he would have to undress in front of you.

―Your lovers? This absolute atrocity was done by one of your lovers?

―They were probably just a little too... enthusiastic. Besides, I don't have a problem with it, I like it. My skin heals fast so I'll be all good in no time.

And that was the third lie. His skin did not heal fast. You had always told him off for coming to dress rehearsals all bruised up from his training sessions and those bruises had lasted for days. These new ones were sure to stay on his skin for at least a month.

―How can some one like this?

Finnick could hear the disdain in your voice. You should be disgusted, horrified and definitely judging him, but don't worry, so was he.

―Honey, if you don't understand it's not my problem.

―No, you're right. I don't understand. I don't think you enjoyed that.

―Oh, you're gonna tell me what I can or cannot enjoy?

―Have you seen your back? Have you seen how bad this looks?

Finnick chuckled. ―I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of this. Do you need all the details? Is the life of a stylist so boring?

―Finnick, listen to me. I don't want all the details I want the truth, and now it's the perfect time to start. ―You said. You grabbed him by his shoulders and turned him around to look at you. Finnick groaned as your hands were placed on his shoulders and when he stood face to face with you, he could see how upset you were.

―I don't know what you're talking about. ―He bit the inside of his cheeks, that was just what he had been told, not to tell anyone the truth about what had happened. He saw you roll your eyes and let all the air out of your body through your mouth, annoyed.

―I know that you didn't arrive yesterday. Cinna told me. Do you really think you can go unnoticed? Here? And I know for a fact that those bruises are not from one of your lovers, let alone that they were done to you a couple of days ago.

Finnick swallowed, looking at you with his head held high. He tried to keep the smile on his lips, pretending that everything was okay, that he did enjoy it when those bruises were inflicted on him, but his lower lip betrayed him and began to tremble. You bent down to pick up the robe and carefully threw it over his shoulders so he wouldn't feel so exposed. Finnick's head was bowed. You lifted it using your thumb and index finger on his chin very gently.

―I need you to tell me who did this to you. I can't help you if you don't tell me.

Finnick chuckled amid the sadness and shame he was feeling. ―Help me? You can't help me.

―I'm sure there's something I can do. I could―.

―They were Peacekeepers following Snow's orders.

Your jaw dropped and your heart rate accelerated. It was the first time that Finnick was admitting that to someone. It had been impossible to tell anyone, let alone a citizen of the Capitol like you. Finnick couldn't possibly admit that without compromising his carefully cultivated image. Besides, if he made himself out to be a victim, the Capitol would never allow someone they saw as weak to perform the role of the Golden Boy and all the people he cared about in District 4 would die. At that moment you realized that all the times he showed up at your studio claiming that his injuries were from training were not true and you felt sick to your stomach.

―How did it happen? ―You asked, swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat

―I tried to leave the Capitol. Before I could get on the train back to District 4 I was arrested by Peacekeepers and they took me to Snow's mansion. A lot of people came and when I refused to see them... I've been locked up there since then, that's why I couldn't come to see you earlier.

You shook your head, feeling awful. ―Don't worry about it, Finnick. I'm so sorry this is happening to you. ―Your stomach complained and begged your brain to stop imagining everything that Finnick would have been put through since then. The beatings, the strangers paying to sneak into his bed, the Peacekeepers bursting into his room and leaving him bleeding on the floor...

―Snow likes me. There has to be something I can do for you.

―You don't understand. It's not something that I can quit.

―I can spend all day designing and sewing to pay Snow the money he would make with you. I can talk to Cinna to raise the price of our designs. People here are rotten with money, they'll keep buying them anyway.

―It's not that simple. You can't just buy my freedom.

―Has anyone tried before?

Finnick thought about it and shook his head. ―Snow wouldn't allow that to happen. ―You ran your hand over your face in despair, not knowing what else to do to help him and feeling a responsibility to do something about it. You were the citizen of the Capitol, the one who had superior status and the favor of Snow, there must be something you could do.

―What if I buy you?

Finnick's eyes widened in surprise. ―Buy me?

You nodded and realized how bad that sounded. ―But not in like, a slave type of way. Gosh that sounded awful. I would just― Do it so you can live your life in your district. I wouldn't― keep you here, no. You'd just have to come to the Capitol a couple of times, make a few public appearances, and leave again.

―Why would you do that for me?

You bit the inside of your cheeks and nodded. ―You're my friend. I care about you.

You had managed to give him something he had long been missing. Hope. Maybe what you wanted to do would work or maybe not but at that moment Finnick felt that someone cared and that gave him hope that everything would work out.

Finnick took a step forward and placed his hands on your cheeks. He leaned in slightly and connected his lips with yours. Your hands ended up resting against his warm bare chest, closing your eyes and allowing him to kiss you. You knew it was the emotion of the moment, the adrenaline rush of knowing that maybe he could live his life in peace. You had given him hope and he was happy that someone had shed some light on his situation.

When you parted ways after the kiss, you both were smiling.

―Go and put your pants on, I'll treat your bruises.

―Do you know how?

―Well, not really, but I'm not short of needle and thread and I still have some alcohol from last night.

Finnick pressed his lips together and nodded. That would work. He walked to the dressing screen and you watched him as he walked away in the mirror's reflection. Before hiding behind the dressing screen, he said something that lit up a flame in your heart and made butterflies flutter in your stomach.

―I wish you would come with me to District 4.

my requests for the hunger games are open 📥

[cloudyluun]

Until You Stay | famous!harry

Summary: Beth Monroe is a sharp-tongued journalist looking for her big break. Harry Styles is a cocky, untouchable rockstar who doesn’t take well to being challenged. What starts as a battle of wills—sharp words and razor-edged tension—spirals into something darker, filthier, and impossible to walk away from. But when feelings get involved, when the masks slip, will they still be able to pretend it doesn’t mean anything?

A/N: This is a commissioned work of fiction based on Harry as a famous singer, I make no claims of knowing him personally in any way. But someone trusted me to bring their filthy, angsty dreams to life, and I may have gone just a little feral in the process. So enjoy the chaos, the tension, and, of course, Harry being an insufferable asshole.

Word Count: 7,7k

Warnings: 

Explicit Smut (very detailed & filthy)

Rough Sex, Degradation, and Dom/Sub Dynamics

Jealous/Possessive Harry

Toxic Dynamics & Power Struggles

Strong Language & Dirty Talk

Angst & Emotional Turmoil

Paparazzi & Media Manipulation

Mentions of Alcohol & Self-Destructive Behavior

A Hard-Won Happy Ending

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Beth Monroe had always known she was meant for more than this.

Twenty-seven years old and already jaded, she was the kind of journalist who wanted to chase real stories—the ones that peeled back the glossy surface of the world and exposed what lay underneath. The truth. Not the watered-down, PR-approved version of it, but the raw, unfiltered mess of reality. That’s why she had spent years clawing her way through the ranks of journalism, determined to escape the suffocating confines of celebrity gossip and meaningless soundbites.

But the industry had other plans for her.

She had started with ambition, fresh out of college, ready to write the stories that mattered. But the jobs that paid? The ones that kept the rent covered and the lights on? Those were the ones that required clickbait headlines and shallow coverage of people who barely seemed real.

And so, Beth had become another faceless name in the sea of entertainment journalists, forced to write about scandals, red carpet outfits, and who's dating who. She’d learned how to craft engaging pieces that held just enough bite to make them feel substantial, but in the end, it was all just noise. A constant cycle of disposable stories about people whose lives would never be touched by the words she wrote.

That’s why this assignment felt like her last shot.

Her boss had made it clear—this was either going to be her big break or her last chance before she was permanently relegated to covering B-list divorces and influencer drama.

"We need something real, Beth," her editor, Jonathan Pierce, had told her, fingers tapping against his desk as he leveled her with that too-patient look. "Not just another shallow puff piece. Styles is at the peak of his career right now. People want to know who he is, not the version we see on stage, but the man underneath it all."

Beth had bit back the urge to roll her eyes.

Harry Styles.

Of course.

If there was one name that could guarantee headlines and clicks, it was his. He was a global phenomenon, a walking enigma, an untouchable icon. At thirty, he had long since outgrown his boyband past, solidifying himself as one of the most powerful and respected musicians in the industry. His concerts sold out within minutes. His albums dominated the charts. His face was plastered across billboards, magazines, and social media feeds worldwide.

And yet—he was also infamously private.

Beth had done her research. He gave interviews, sure, but they were carefully controlled, filled with charming deflections and rehearsed soundbites. The media loved him, but no one actually knew him.

Her job? To change that.

She had been granted exclusive access to his European tour, shadowing him across multiple countries, given rare, behind-the-scenes insight into the life of Harry Styles, the person.

Beth knew how this would go.

She would show up, ask the hard-hitting questions, and be met with infuriatingly smooth non-answers. He’d probably flash that boyish smirk, tilt his head just right, and make it impossible for anyone to push too hard. The public adored him for that.

But Beth?

She wasn’t here to adore him. She was here to unravel him.

Still, she wasn’t expecting her first glimpse of him to hit her like a gut punch.

The moment she stepped into that room, she knew.

He was going to be a problem.

The private event was held at an intimate venue in Paris; a low-lit, exclusive affair where only VIPs, industry elites, and carefully selected press members were allowed inside. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, leather seating, and the faint musk of whiskey poured into crystal glasses.

Beth walked in, blending into the sea of journalists and label executives, scanning the room for the man she had spent weeks researching.

And then she saw him.

Harry Styles did not belong to the real world.

There was something about the way he existed in a space, the way people naturally gravitated toward him—an effortless pull, an undeniable gravity.

He stood near the back of the room, dressed in an all-black ensemble that should have looked simple but instead made him look infuriatingly expensive. The tailored slacks. The silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough to hint at tattoos inked across golden skin. The loose, effortless curls.

But it wasn’t just his looks.

It was the way he carried himself like he was untouchable.

Beth watched as he laughed at something someone said, flashing that devastating grin that made cameras worship him. But it was the look in his eyes that caught her attention—sharp, assessing, distant, even as he smiled.

And then, as if sensing her stare, he turned.

Their gazes met.

A slow flicker of recognition crossed his face, though they had never met before. His green eyes scanned her, quick and unreadable.

And then, just as fast, he looked away.

Dismissive.

Beth felt heat rise to her throat.

Oh.

Oh, he was going to be a problem.

And he had no idea what was coming for him.

Beth didn’t look away first.

She wasn’t the type to shrink under scrutiny, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to start now. But Harry? He barely spared her a full second before shifting his attention elsewhere, like she wasn’t worth a second glance.

The disinterest was strategic, she realized almost immediately. A controlled dismissal. The kind that kept people chasing, trying harder, falling over themselves for just an ounce of acknowledgment. She’d seen it before—men in power using silence as their weapon, turning the simple act of ignoring someone into an exercise of dominance.

It didn’t work on her.

So when she was finally ushered forward—her name murmured alongside a polite introduction—she didn’t bother offering her hand or plastering on a media-friendly smile. She met him with the same level of apathy he had thrown her way.

“Beth Monroe,” the event coordinator introduced. “She’s covering the European tour for Pulse magazine.”

Harry, who had just been charming some record executive’s wife with an easy smile and effortless conversation, didn’t even pretend to be interested. He gave the barest nod, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before lifting it to his lips.

“Journalist,” he mused, voice low, almost amused—but not in a way that invited conversation. More like he was tasting the word and finding it unappetizing.

Beth crossed her arms. "Is that a problem?"

That made him look at her properly.

Up close, she could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the sharp contrast between deliberate nonchalance and razor-sharp awareness. She knew the game well—he was observing, measuring, deciding exactly how much space she was allowed to take up.

And then, in the most unbothered, condescending way possible, he simply muttered, "No. Just predictable."

Beth’s lips parted, caught between shock and incredulous amusement.

"Predictable?" she echoed, lifting an eyebrow. "That’s a bit rich coming from a man whose entire brand is built on being the world’s most palatable rockstar."

There it was.

The shift.

The flicker of something in his gaze like she had managed to surprise him. Like maybe he wasn’t expecting her to push back.

It lasted half a second before he schooled his features, tipping his glass back and dismissing her completely.

Beth could feel the eyes on them. The silent tension in the room as the moment stretched between them. But Harry? He wasn’t interested. At least, not enough to entertain her further.

His voice was maddeningly even as he murmured, "Enjoy the party, Miss Monroe."

And just like that, he turned his back on her.

Beth spent the rest of the night watching. Not because she was enthralled—fuck no—but because she needed to understand him. If she was going to do this job right, she needed to know what made him tick, needed to peel back the carefully constructed layers he used to keep the world at arm’s length.

What she noticed was infuriating.

Harry was charming with everyone else. Effortlessly engaged, magnetic in a way that made people lean in, hang on his every word. He gave them just enough of himself—never too much, never too little. His persona was crafted with surgical precision.

But with her?

Nothing.

He ignored her. Not obviously, not rudely, but in a way that felt intentional. Every time she tried to break into a conversation, he sidestepped her. When she asked a question, he answered in vague, detached sentences.

And when she finally managed to pull him into a one-on-one exchange again, it ended just as quickly as the first.

“I’ve noticed you never really answer questions,” she said, arms crossed as she studied him from across the dimly lit bar area.

Harry didn’t look up from where he was stirring his drink with a lazy wrist. “And I’ve noticed journalists never stop asking them.”

Beth exhaled sharply through her nose. “Right. Because heaven forbid anyone learns something real about Harry Styles.”

That got his attention.

He set his glass down, leaning against the counter as his gaze slid over her slowly.

“You lot aren’t interested in ‘real.’” His voice was quiet, but firm. “You’re interested in a headline.”

Beth bristled. “And you’re interested in a narrative.”

Something shifted.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, the weight of the conversation settling between them.

Then Harry smirked.

“Good luck with your story, Miss Monroe.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Beth clenched her jaw.

She wasn’t done with him yet.

Beth had dealt with difficult men before. Politicians who thought they were too powerful to be held accountable, executives who assumed her presence in a room meant she was someone’s assistant rather than the journalist they’d have to answer to. She had sharpened herself against condescension and arrogance, made a career out of standing her ground in rooms filled with people who wanted to dismiss her.

But Harry Styles?

He was a different breed of difficult.

For the next several weeks, Beth followed him across Europe, shadowing his tour with increasing frustration. She sat through press conferences where he charmed reporters into asking safe, meaningless questions—the kind that allowed him to give those clever, detached answers that never actually revealed anything.

She watched him interact with fans, saw the way he flipped the switch so effortlessly—one moment the distant, untouchable rockstar, the next, someone who could make a stadium of people feel like they mattered.

And yet, with her?

He remained a wall.

He made it a point to avoid her questions, brushing past them with an easy smirk and a raised eyebrow, like he found her attempts amusing.

“Beth, darling, you’re thinking too hard,” he had murmured once, lounging backstage after a show, still glistening with sweat from the stage lights. “Why don’t you just write the same piece everyone else does? You know, the whole ‘Harry Styles is mysterious but also terribly charming’ bit. Sells every time.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t write fanfiction.”

He grinned. “Shame.”

And then there were the games.

Beth would show up for scheduled interview slots, only to be told that Harry was "unavailable." Sometimes it was because he was in a mood. Sometimes it was because he was “too busy” relaxing in his dressing room, scrolling through his phone, while she sat outside with her recorder untouched on her lap.

When she finally called him out on it, he didn’t even pretend to feel bad.

“Beth, love,” he drawled, voice dripping in mock sympathy, “you’re in my world now. Things don’t always run on schedule.”

Her patience cracked. “So you’re just wasting my time for fun?”

Harry leaned back in his seat, legs spread wide, fingers tapping lazily against the armrest. “Not for fun.” Then, after a beat, he smirked. “Though it is fun watching you get all worked up.”

She wanted to throw something at him.

The breaking point came after a particularly brutal argument.

It had been a long day—one of those rare occasions when Beth had actually gotten a few uninterrupted moments to ask real questions. She had pushed harder than usual, refusing to let him slide through with half-answers and smirks.

“Why do you do that?” she had asked, arms crossed as she watched him peel the rings off his fingers after soundcheck.

Harry flicked a glance up. “Do what?”

“Pretend you’re giving people something real when all you’re actually doing is controlling the narrative.”

The look he gave her was sharp, guarded. “That’s rich, coming from someone whose job is to spin a story.”

Beth exhaled through her nose. “You think this is easy for me? That I just write whatever sells? I’m not here to make you look good, Harry. I’m here to write the truth.”

A tense silence stretched between them.

And then, before she even saw him move, he was in front of her.

Too close.

Her breath caught.

She wasn’t sure if he had stepped forward or if she had unconsciously leaned in, but suddenly, there was no space between them. The air thickened, buzzing with something hot and electric.

His jaw flexed.

His hands curled into loose fists at his sides, as if he was holding something back.

Beth lifted her chin, refusing to shrink away.

The corner of his mouth twitched—not in amusement, not quite. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and slow, a quiet challenge.

“You think you’ve got me figured out, huh?”

Beth swallowed, throat tight. “I think you hate that you can’t intimidate me.”

Silence.

A heavy, suffocating pause.

For a second—just a second—she swore his gaze dropped to her mouth.

But neither of them moved.

Neither of them acted on it.

And later that night, when Beth was alone in her hotel room, staring at the ceiling—she realized she was still thinking about it.

She wondered if he was, too.

Beth liked to believe that she had control over herself—over her emotions, over the way her body reacted, over the frustrating, infuriating pull she felt every time Harry Styles so much as looked at her.

But control was hard to maintain when someone was constantly poking, prodding, pushing just to see where her breaking point was.

And Harry?

Harry was pushing.

Hard.

It happened in Milan.

The afterparty was in full swing—music thumping, bodies swaying, conversations weaving in and out of the dim, golden-lit space. Beth wasn’t drinking, but the atmosphere was intoxicating in itself, everyone high off the post-show adrenaline.

Harry had been watching her all night.

Not obviously, not in a way anyone else would notice, but she felt it. The flicker of his gaze when she moved through the crowd, the way his attention snagged whenever she threw her head back in laughter.

She ignored it.

She refused to let him get in her head.

Which was why, when another musician—Nate, a guitarist from one of the opening acts—struck up a conversation with her, Beth didn’t hesitate to let herself enjoy it.

He was easy to talk to, charming in a way that didn’t feel like a performance. And when he leaned in, whispering something that made her laugh—a real, unguarded laugh—she barely had time to register the shift in the air before Harry was there.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t say anything.

He just stood there, nursing a drink, his stare cutting through the noise like a blade.

Beth felt it before she saw it—the shift in Nate’s posture, the way his fingers curled around the bottle in his hand.

“I’ll catch you later,” Nate murmured, voice a little too careful.

Beth blinked. “Wait, what?”

But he was already slipping away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the room.

And that was when she felt him.

The warmth of his presence behind her, the slow exhale against the shell of her ear.

“You like playing games, love?”

Beth closed her eyes.

Of course. Of course he had to do this.

She turned slowly, deliberately, only to find him watching her with a look she couldn’t quite place.

“Excuse me?” she said, tone light, though she could feel her pulse thrumming against her skin.

Harry tilted his head, mocking. “That was cute. The whole giggle and lean-in routine. Did you rehearse that?”

Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I not allowed to have a conversation without your approval?”

His jaw flexed. “Didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying, exactly?”

He took a step closer.

Then another.

Beth refused to step back.

His voice dropped lower, dangerously smooth.

“I’m saying… you’ve been running your mouth for weeks. Acting like you don’t give a shit about me. But then—” He let out a quiet, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “—then you go and pull that?”

She scoffed. “Pull what?”

Harry smiled. It wasn’t nice.

“You wanted me to see that.”

Beth’s stomach flipped.

She should have laughed in his face. Should have rolled her eyes, brushed past him, walked away.

But she didn’t.

Because there was something about the way he was looking at her.

Something thick and charged and dangerous.

His hands twitched at his sides, like he didn’t trust himself not to touch her.

Beth’s breath shook.

The music downstairs faded into a dull throb, the laughter and chatter dissolving into nothing. The party might as well have been on the other side of the world.

It was just them now.

Beth barely registered how it happened—one moment, she was in the thick of the afterparty, heat and voices pressing in on all sides. The next, the door clicked shut behind her. A soft, decisive sound.

She turned just in time to see Harry’s hand linger on the lock, fingers curling around the metal, twisting until it slid into place. A quiet snick.

Her pulse skittered.

Slowly, he turned back to her, gaze dark and unreadable.

Somehow, between one breath and the next, Beth’s back was already against the wall, cool brick pressing through the thin fabric of her dress. She could still feel the phantom warmth of Nate’s touch—light, fleeting—but it didn’t matter. Not when Harry was in front of her now. Not when his body was taut with something sharp, something dark. His eyes, usually lidded with lazy arrogance, were harder now. Narrowed. Burning.

His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was trying to control himself.

Then, low, rough, "You like playing games, love?"

A shiver ran down her spine.

She forced herself to lift her chin. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

His jaw twitched.

Slow. Measured. He reached out, running two fingers up her arm, featherlight but searing. Beth refused to react, refused to show him that he got under her skin.

His lips curled. "Laughing. Touching. Batting your lashes at him like you wanted him to take you right there in front of everyone."

That made her scoff. "Oh, fuck off—"

She barely got the words out before he was on her.

No warning. No hesitation.

One hand shot to her throat—not squeezing, just holding, firm enough to make her gasp as his body pressed flush against hers. His other hand planted itself beside her head, caging her in completely.

His mouth hovered just above hers, breath warm, uneven.

"You wanna push me, is that it?" he murmured, voice like gravel. "You wanna see what happens when I lose my patience?"

Her breath hitched.

It wasn’t fear curling in her stomach. It was something much worse.

She wanted this.

Needed it.

So she pushed him again, knowing it was reckless. "Maybe I do."

That was all it took.

Harry didn’t waste another second.

His grip tightened, and then he was kissing her—if it could even be called that. There was nothing soft about it. No buildup, no hesitation. It was a clash of teeth and tongues, a war between them.

His hand left her throat, moving down, down, over the thin fabric of her dress, gripping her waist so tightly it ached.

Beth’s nails raked down his arms, her own frustration spilling over. She wanted to hurt him. Make him feel this the way she did.

"Fuck—"

The word was ripped from her throat as he yanked her leg up, hitching it over his hip. The dress rode up instantly, baring her thigh, and then his hand was there, fingers digging into her skin, making her burn.

Desperate.

That was what this was.

It wasn’t love.

It wasn’t romance.

It was hunger.

It was starving.

His teeth scraped along her jaw, down her neck. He bit—not enough to leave marks, but enough to make her feel it.

“Look at you,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down her jaw. “Needy. Desperate. And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Her fingers fisted in his hair. "Fuck you."

He laughed, breathless, dark.

"Say it," he pressed. "Say you want it."

Beth clenched her teeth. She hated him.

And yet.

And yet.

"Say it."

She swallowed hard, nails still biting into his shoulders. "I want it."

He hummed in approval, pushing her harder against the wall. "Good girl."

Then he wrecked her.

There was no teasing. No gentle touch. He dragged her panties down and shoved her dress up with no regard, making her gasp as the cool air kissed her exposed skin. His fingers slid between her thighs, finding her soaked, and he smirked.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he muttered, lips brushing her ear. "You act like you don’t want this, but look at you."

She bit her lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound.

It didn’t last.

His fingers slipped inside her, rough, unrelenting, and the cry broke from her throat before she could stop it.

"That’s it," he murmured, pumping them hard and deep. "Don’t hold back now."

Her head tipped back against the wall, hands gripping his shoulders, nails biting through the fabric of his shirt. His thumb pressed against her clit, rubbing, teasing, pushing her closer and closer to the edge with every sharp movement.

"Thinkin’ about him now?" Harry taunted, voice low. "Bet you’re not."

She wasn’t.

She hated it, but she wasn’t.

All she could think about was Harry.

His fingers. His voice. The way he was taking what he wanted without a second thought.

Her whole body tensed, pleasure winding tight in her stomach.

And then he pulled away.

A whimper slipped out before she could stop it.

He grinned. "Not yet."

He undid his belt in a swift motion, shoved his jeans down just enough, and then he was lifting her completely, pressing her against the wall, spreading her open for him.

She barely had time to take a breath before he slammed into her.

"Fuck—"

She choked on a gasp, nails raking down his back as he filled her, stretched her in a way that made her legs shake.

There was no time to adjust.

No time to breathe.

He just fucked her.

Hard.

Desperate.

The wall scraped against her back with every sharp thrust, and she loved it.

His fingers bit into her thighs, holding her in place, making her take every inch, every punishing roll of his hips.

"You take me so fuckin’ well," he murmured, voice strained, lips dragging over her neck. "Like you need this."

She did.

God help her, she did.

She was close—so fucking close, and she knew he could feel it in the way she clenched around him, in the way her nails dug deeper, in the way her body arched.

"Say it," he ordered. "Say you’re mine."

Her breath stuttered.

He thrust harder. "Say it, Beth."

She swallowed the lump in her throat, her body screaming for release.

And then she broke.

"I’m yours."

He groaned, deep and guttural, and that was all it took.

Pleasure crashed through her, leaving her shaking, wrecked, gasping as he kept going, drawing it out until she had nothing left to give.

Moments later, he followed, hips jerking, a rough growl spilling from his throat as he came deep inside her.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Their breathing was heavy, erratic, mingling in the thick air between them.

Then, just like that, it was gone.

Harry pulled away, adjusted himself, ran a hand through his hair like nothing had happened.

Beth watched, still breathless, still reeling.

He met her eyes, his own dark, unreadable.

Then, with a smirk that made her stomach flip, he stepped back.

"See you around, love."

And then he was gone.

Leaving her wrecked, ruined, and still fucking wanting.

But worst of all?

She still wanted him.

She hated herself for it.

She hated him more.

Beth barely remembered leaving the party, barely registered the way the city lights blurred together in the back of her cab, the hum of Milan’s nightlife drowning out the noise in her head. Her body still felt him—his hands, his breath, the rough edge of his voice scraping against her skin.

It should have been enough.

It should have burned her out, smothered whatever slow, insidious pull had been building between them.

But it didn’t.

Because when she saw him again the next day, sitting in the green room of the arena, lounging like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t ruined her the night before—Beth realized something awful.

She wasn’t done with him yet.

--

Harry was different now.

Not in the way Beth had expected—not in the way most men got after a night like that.

There was no smugness, no knowing smirk, no self-satisfied arrogance that she could take a swing at.

Instead, he was… colder.

Distant. Detached. Like she was nothing more than a mild inconvenience, an insignificant blip on his radar.

He barely looked at her.

Didn’t acknowledge her when she walked into a room, didn’t spare her even a glance during soundcheck or press briefings.

And that should have been fine.

She should have been fine.

But the second she started talking to someone else—the second she so much as smiled in another man’s direction—Harry’s jaw would lock.

His shoulders would tense.

His fingers would curl around his drink, around his microphone, around anything to keep from doing something reckless.

Beth noticed.

And she made sure he knew it.

She leaned in closer when someone else made her laugh. Let her fingers linger just a little longer when she touched an arm. Tilted her head just right when she listened, knowing Harry was in the room, knowing he was watching even if he refused to look at her directly.

She wanted to prove a point.

If she was just a fuck, if she was nothing, then he shouldn’t care.

So why did he?

--

It happened in Paris.

Beth had been talking to a photographer, a harmless conversation, nothing she wasn’t allowed to do.

Harry had been across the room, pretending he didn’t give a shit.

Then suddenly, he wasn’t.

Suddenly, he was right there.

His hand closed around her wrist, fingers tight, his voice just low enough for only her to hear.

“Outside. Now.”

She blinked up at him, feigning innocence. “Excuse me?”

His grip didn’t loosen. “You heard me.”

For a second, she considered telling him to go to hell.

But she didn’t.

Because she wanted this too.

The door barely shut behind them before he was on her.

Teeth at her jaw, hands rough on her hips, shoving her against the brick wall of some dark alley behind the venue.

Beth gasped, but it wasn’t from shock.

She should have expected this.

She had wanted this.

“You’re a fucking brat,” Harry muttered against her skin, his voice thick with frustration, with heat, with something else she couldn’t name. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

Beth grinned, sharp and mean. “What am I doing, Harry?”

His fingers tightened.

“You think you can get a reaction out of me?” His teeth scraped her jaw. “Think you can make me jealous?”

Her breath hitched.

“So you admit it?” she whispered. “You were jealous?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because the way he touched her—rougher, filthier than before—told her everything she needed to know.

The first time had been about control. About proving a point.

This time?

This time, it was a need.

Desperate. Dirty. Addictive.

And neither of them could stop.

Every time they tried, they failed.

The silence never lasted. The distance never held.

Because the second they were in the same room again, the second their eyes locked across crowded spaces, it was already too late.

They had pulled each other under too many times to pretend they knew how to breathe without drowning.

Beth knew it was toxic.

Knew it in the way her hands trembled when she buttoned up her shirt in the dark, his warmth still clinging to her skin.

Knew it in the way Harry’s fingers curled into fists when he watched her leave, like he wanted to reach for her but refused to let himself.

Knew it in the way they never talked about it.

Because talking would make it real. Talking would force them to admit that it wasn’t just physical, wasn’t just convenience, wasn’t just a mistake they kept making over and over again.

But they didn’t stop.

Not when they should have.

Not even when the headlines started.

Not even when the whispers turned into full-blown rumors, twisting what they had into something uglier, something Beth couldn’t control.

She was losing pieces of herself to this, to him.

And Harry—Harry wasn’t losing anything.

Not his reputation. Not his career. Not his control.

She should have left before it reached this point—before it ripped through them like a wildfire, scorching everything in its path, leaving nothing but wreckage and ruin in its wake.

Before it bled into everything else.

Before it turned into this.

--

It happened in London, outside a sleek, high-end restaurant that reeked of old money and exclusivity—the kind of place Harry fit into effortlessly, where his name alone held weight, where he belonged.

Beth never had any interest in it. The glint of polished silverware, the hushed conversations over expensive wine, the way the air itself seemed thicker inside—like money had a scent, and it didn’t belong to people like her.

She hadn’t even wanted to come. Had told herself, promised herself, that she was done. That she wouldn’t let him do this to her again.

And yet, here she was.

The air outside was thick, muggy, summer pressing against her skin like a second layer, suffocating, clinging. A neon sign from across the street flickered, buzzing intermittently, painting the pavement in broken splashes of red light.

Harry stood a few steps away, pacing, hands raking through his already-messy curls. His jaw was locked, shoulders drawn tight, his frustration visible in the tense way he moved. He looked untouchable—towering, sharp, devastating in his black suit, the collar of his shirt slightly open like even it couldn’t handle the heat of the moment.

His eyes found hers—dark, searing, burning like embers about to catch.

“Are you seriously fucking mad at me for this?” His voice was low, taut, a thread stretched too thin, on the verge of snapping.

Beth folded her arms tightly across her chest, holding herself together. She could feel the anger, coiling hot in her stomach, winding through her like a slow, controlled burn. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

His lips pressed into a hard, thin line. “Enlighten me.”

She let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking her head. He didn’t care. He never fucking cared.

“Your team,” she spat, voice shaking despite her best efforts, “just made me look like some desperate, attention-seeking—”

“—that’s not what happened.”

“Really?” She stepped closer, chin tilting up defiantly, her eyes searching his face for something—anything. A flicker of regret. Understanding. A crack in the cold, calculated exterior he was so good at wearing. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like they threw me under the fucking bus to save your ass.”

The photos had hit the tabloids that morning.

Beth Monroe, clinging to Harry Styles. Beth Monroe, picking a fight in public. Beth Monroe, the problem.

Headlines twisting the truth, reshaping the narrative, turning her into something she wasn’t. His PR team had done what they always did—spun the story, cleaned up the mess, protected the asset.

Beth had been collateral damage.

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze flicking away as if he couldn’t be bothered to deal with this. “Jesus, Beth, why do you care so much what people think?”

Her stomach twisted—not just at the words, but at how he said them.

Like it was nothing. Like she was nothing.

Like all of this—all the nights, all the touches, all the ways they’d clawed at each other, desperate and reckless—had meant absolutely fucking nothing to him.

And maybe it hadn’t. Maybe she had been fooling herself this entire time.

Something inside her snapped—something raw and fragile and past the point of saving.

“You know what?” She took a breath, forcing her voice to stay steady, forcing herself to hold his gaze even though it hurt. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

And before she could change her mind—before she could let him pull her back in—she turned around.

And for the first time, she didn’t look back.

It should have been a relief.

Should have felt like he had won.

But it didn’t.

Harry downed the rest of his drink, the ice clinking against the glass as he set it down with more force than necessary.

The neon lights of the club flickered above him, casting shadows along the crowded space. Smoke curled through the air, mixing with the thrum of bass vibrating through the floor, a heartbeat that wasn’t his. People surrounded him—laughter, touches, whispers—but none of it registered.

His third drink.

Or maybe his fourth.

He wasn’t keeping track. Didn’t need to.

Because Beth was gone.

And he should feel lighter. Should feel fucking free.

But instead, there was just this—this hollow, gnawing feeling in his chest, a slow rot that no amount of whiskey could burn away.

He had told himself it was just sex. That it was just a game.

A messy, reckless game they both played, fully aware of the rules.

So why the fuck was he still thinking about her?

Why did he still hear her voice—sharp and furious, echoing in his ears like an accusation he couldn’t shake?

I don’t. Not anymore.

Why did he still see her face when he closed his eyes—not the smirking, defiant expression she always wore when they fought, but the way she had looked at him that night—raw, open, hurt.

Why the fuck did that bother him?

Harry scoffed under his breath, shaking his head, reaching for another drink.

Fuck that.

She’d be back.

She always came back.

Wouldn’t she?

The weeks passed.

She didn’t call. Didn’t text. Didn’t show up at any more venues.

And no matter how many women he took home—no matter how many soft lips and unfamiliar hands he let touch him—it was never the same.

Because none of them were her.

None of them made him feel alive the way she did when she pushed him, when she fought him, when she stood her ground and refused to give in.

And for the first time, Harry realized—

He had fucked up.

Not just in the way he always did—careless, reckless, breaking things without thinking about the consequences.

No, this was different.

This was real.

This was Beth.

And he had let her slip through his fingers like she was nothing.

Like she hadn’t changed him.

Like she hadn’t fucking ruined him.

It took him weeks. Too many weeks.

Weeks of sleepless nights, of bitter drinks that burned as they went down, of meaningless encounters with women who weren’t her.

Weeks of ignoring the pit in his stomach whenever he reached for his phone and saw her name missing from his notifications.

Weeks of denying—lying to himself—until he couldn’t anymore.

Until it became impossible to pretend that this wasn’t more.

That she wasn’t everything.

So, he found her.

No cameras. No PR team carefully crafting the narrative. No staged apology meant to keep his image intact.

Just him.

Beth stood in the doorway of her apartment, eyes wary, lips pressed together like she wasn’t sure if she should slam the door in his face or let him inside just to yell at him.

She was in sweats, hair tied back, looking so soft and real and heartbreakingly beautiful that Harry had to clench his fists at his sides to stop himself from reaching for her.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You really have no concept of boundaries, do you?”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Would it help if I said I knocked first?”

Beth lifted a single, unimpressed brow.

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”

She sighed, exhaling heavily, fingers gripping the doorframe. “What do you want, Harry?”

Her voice was flat, tired—so fucking tired—and it hit him in the chest like a punch.

He did that.

He made her sound like that.

And maybe if she had been yelling, maybe if she had been angry, it would have been easier.

But this?

This quiet disappointment, this absence of fire, of fight—this was worse.

Because it meant she had already decided to let him go.

And he couldn’t have that.

He wouldn’t.

Harry swallowed, licking his lips, feeling the words crawl up his throat, unfamiliar and foreign and terrifying.

“I was afraid,” he admitted, voice rough, uneven. “You got too close.”

Beth’s gaze flickered, but she didn’t speak.

Didn’t stop him either.

“I didn’t—I don’t—” He let out a slow breath, shifting his weight. “You were supposed to be temporary, Beth.” His voice cracked on her name. “And I don’t want temporary anymore.”

Her eyes softened. Just a little.

But she didn’t let him off the hook.

Not yet.

She folded her arms across her chest, tilting her head. “So what? You came all this way just to tell me that?”

His jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

“And now you expect me to just—what? Forget everything? Pretend like you didn’t throw me to the wolves the second things got hard?”

“No.” His voice was hoarse. “I don’t expect that.”

Beth exhaled slowly, closing her eyes for a moment before she looked at him again, and fuck, he felt stripped bare under her gaze.

“I was falling for you,” she whispered, the words barely audible but lethal. “And you made me feel like I was nothing.”

His stomach dropped.

“I know,” he rasped. “And I’m—I’m so fucking sorry, Beth.”

She didn’t speak, but her fingers trembled where they curled around her sleeve.

Harry took a step closer.

Then another.

Until she was right there, close enough to touch, but he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he just let himself be seen—raw, vulnerable, desperate in a way he had never allowed himself to be before.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, voice low, uneven. “But I want to try. I want you.”

Beth swallowed hard, blinking quickly, like she was trying to hold something back.

“Say it again.”

He frowned. “What?”

“Say it again,” she whispered.

Harry took a breath, steady and sure.

“I want you.”

Beth let out a shaky exhale, something breaking, fracturing between them—but this time, it wasn’t falling apart.

It was falling into place.

She didn’t answer.

Not with words.

But when she finally reached for him, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him down, letting him in—

He knew.

She wanted him too.

-

This isn’t like before.

It’s not fueled by resentment, not tangled in frustration or sharp-edged words.

It’s not an attempt to silence their own thoughts or to claim victory in an unwinnable battle.

This time, it’s different.

Because this time, they’re choosing each other.

And neither of them wants to pretend anymore.

It’s quiet.

Not the uneasy, tension-laced silence they used to share, but something softer. He’s brought her here—to his real place, not some impersonal hotel room or a shadowy corner where they could disappear without consequence.

It’s his space.

Dim lighting from the city outside filters through half-drawn blinds, painting warm, golden stripes across the floor. The air is thick, heavy with something unspoken, the echoes of every past moment clinging to the walls.

No noise from the outside world.

Just them.

And for the first time, that’s all they need.

They stand close but don’t touch—not yet.

It’s strange, this carefulness between them, this slow, deliberate restraint. For so long, everything between them has been about force, about taking, about dominance wrapped in lust.

But now—

His fingers reach for her, hesitant but certain, trailing the line of her jaw with an aching kind of reverence.

No roughness. No bruising grip.

Just a slow, featherlight touch, like he’s memorizing her, like he’s afraid to move too fast.

Beth’s breath stutters. She tilts her face into his touch, just barely, just enough to tell him that she wants this too.

When she opens her eyes, he’s already watching her.

Already waiting.

Already sure.

When he kisses her, it’s nothing like before.

Not an attempt to overpower, not a silent demand for control.

It’s soft.

Tentative, at first—like he’s rediscovering her, learning the shape of her lips, savoring her warmth. A slow slide of mouths, the quiet exhale of breath mingling between them.

And then—

The restraint fractures.

A low, desperate groan rumbles in his chest, and his hands move to her waist, pulling her closer, molding her against him. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, but it’s not about possession anymore.

It’s need.

It’s want.

It’s everything they’ve never allowed themselves to feel.

Her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down into her, and he lets her. Lets her take as much as she wants.

He doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t tear at her clothes like before, doesn’t drag fabric over her skin like it’s just another obstacle to get through.

He takes his time.

Fingers skimming her shoulders, down the length of her arms, over her ribs. He lingers, watching her, drinking her in like he’s seeing her for the first time.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough with something raw, something that sounds like awe.

Her breath catches.

She should feel exposed. Vulnerable.

But the heat in his gaze doesn’t make her feel bare.

It makes her feel wanted.

She reaches for him then, pulling at his shirt, sliding her hands over warm, firm skin, feeling the steady, grounding beat of his heart beneath her palms.

He lets her undress him too.

No rush. No urgency.

Just this.

Just them.

He takes his time.

Worships her with his hands, his mouth, his tongue, exploring every inch like he’s memorizing her, like he never wants to forget the way she feels beneath him.

His fingers trace the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the softness of her inner thigh.

He doesn’t hurry.

Doesn’t just take.

He gives.

She fists the sheets when he drags his mouth lower, when he pauses to watch her reaction, when he smirks against her skin at the way she shifts, needy, impatient.

She doesn’t want to beg. Not this time.

But when his mouth finally touches her, warm and devastatingly slow—

She does.

He doesn’t rush her to the edge.

He builds it.

His mouth works her over with precision, savoring every shudder, every gasp, every quiet, breathless plea.

His hands hold her open, steadying her, grounding her, keeping her exactly where he wants her.

He watches her the entire time.

Doesn’t look away.

Not when she trembles.

Not when she cries out his name.

Not when she finally, finally falls apart beneath him.

He just holds her gaze, dark and unwavering, like he’s making damn sure she knows—

This means something.

When he finally slides into her, it’s different.

No rough, frantic pace. No bruising hands.

Just this.

Just the slow, deliberate push of his hips, deep and measured, drawing a gasp from her lips.

He stills for a moment, presses his forehead against hers, breathing her in, grounding himself in the feel of her.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, her nails dragging lightly over his skin.

Not clawing.

Not marking.

Just holding.

He moves then.

Not just fucking—making love.

Every slow thrust feels like a confession.

Every whispered “mine” against her lips feels like a promise.

And this time—

She doesn’t fight it.

She lets him have her.

And takes him in return.

No rush to leave.

No scramble for clothes.

No silence.

Just this.

Just them, tangled in sheets that smell like them, his arms heavy around her, his fingers tracing slow, mindless patterns against her back.

For the first time, he stays.

For the first time, she lets him.

There’s a pause. A deep, quiet moment where neither of them speaks.

Then—

“You’re mine now, aren’t you?”

His voice is quiet. Certain.

Beth doesn’t hesitate.

She shifts closer, presses her lips against his jaw, and breathes him in.

“Yeah, Harry.”

A slow smile tugs at his lips.

She watches it spread, watches the tension leave his body, watches the way he finally lets himself believe it.

“I am.”

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

taglist:

@oscahpastry, @mema10, @angelbabyyy99, @iloveharrystyles04, @cinemharry, @drwho06, @donutsandpalmtrees, @panini, @mads3502; @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa, @one-sweet-gubler, @rizosrizos26, @ciriceimpera, @everyscarisahealingplace, @hello-heyhi, @sexymfharriet, @lizsogolden, @hannah9921, @chicabonitasblog, @huhidontknowstuff, @berrywoods1245, @jennovaaa, @angeldavis777, @prettygurl-2009, @almostcontentcreator, @run-for-the-hills, @maudie-duan, @dipmeinhoneyh, @harrrrystylesslut, @georgiarose94, @stylestarkey, @watarmelon212, @ hopefullimaginer123, @fangirl509east

[hacked-wtsdz]

penelope odysseus

Jamie and Claire + twenty years apart (part 2)

Based off of the poem: twenty years across the sea

Part 1

Part 3

[two-bees-poetry]

welcome!

I'm Alex, my main blog is @alex-bumble-bee. Like it says in my bio, I'm 21, I'm a butch lesbian, and I write poetry- lots of it is in reference to classic literature or mythology. I feel like I'm slowly growing a little community on here, and I couldn't be happier, so please reach out! I love getting asks and I love meeting new people <3

My linktree to find me on other platforms is here!

My Ko-Fi is here, if you'd like to support.

You can find all of my poetry under #mine, all of my asks under #asks, and all of my thoughts and bloggings under #musings.

Under the cut is a sporadically-updated masterlist of my work, sorted in various ways, to help you find what you're looking for :)

forms

contrapuntal poems -> twenty years across the sea, this has to be enough, can i come home?, sister i, sister ii, the guardian and the searcher, my voice is in my sword, so soft it hurts, my brother, my brother

blackout poems (?) -> are you hungry (medea, alone), i have no words for this (macduff, a girl)

villanelles -> village girl's villanelle, elkha's villanelle

sonnets -> i am become

sestinas -> SESTINA FOR A HEALED WOUND

shakespeare

macbeth -> my voice is in my sword, so soft it hurts, i have no words for this (macduff, a girl), i am become, lady macbeth grants you an interview, there are three witches and they are teenage girls

king lear -> can i come home?, stages of a king waging war on his daughters, my brother, my brother

hamlet -> horatio's epilogue

mythology

the odyssey -> twenty years across the sea

antigone -> antigone was right

house of atreus -> a house tour from electra

medea -> this has to be enough, are you hungry? (medea, alone)

poems about

being a lesbian -> boyish girl, once a month, my main character is a teenage lesbian, i have no words for this (macduff, a girl), a sailor and a siren, in moonlight, breathing (hold, hold), SESTINA FOR A HEALED WOUND

other stuff -> middle, what i was looking for, village girl's villanelle, tesselation, war of attrition, motherhood ismene, elkha's villanelle,

[wonyowonyo]

Melody in the Rain (K. Haerin x M! Reader)

Wc: 14.3k

In a rain-soaked Seoul alley, a struggling busker, and a K-pop idol escaping her polished world, forge a fleeting connection through an impromptu duet, their voices weaving a love story of shadows and stars. A/N: My longest oneshot to date (?), making up for my sudden absence hehe. Also decided to tweak out my scene banners, do tell me if these new banners are great! Hope yall enjoy this one and expect sudden oneshot drops soon. *small letters are flashbacks.

The rain draped Seoul in a shimmering veil, each drop a soft percussion against the cracked pavement of the alley. Y/N perched on a wobbly stool, his old acoustic guitar cradled against his chest like a lifeline. The alley was a narrow, forgotten scar between two looming buildings, their brick walls streaked with moss and faded graffiti—hearts, curses, a smeared dragon coiling into oblivion. Neon signs from the main street cast a faint glow, their colors bleeding into the puddles at Y/N’s feet: pink, blue, violet, swirling like a dream he couldn’t quite grasp. The air smelled of wet asphalt, distant street food—grilled skewers, sesame oil—and the faint tang of rust from his battered tip jar, a tin can that sat forlornly on the ground, holding three coins and a crumpled candy wrapper someone had mistaken for generosity.

His fingers, callused and chilled, danced across the strings, coaxing a melody that felt like a sigh. It was a song he’d written at seventeen, after his father’s funeral, when the world had seemed too quiet without the old man’s gravelly laugh. The notes were slow, deliberate, weaving grief into minor chords and hope into a fragile major lift. They didn’t match the pulsing K-pop beats drifting from a shop down the street, where NewJeans’ latest hit thrummed through tinny speakers, all glossy hooks and electric cheer. Y/N’s music was raw, unpolished, the kind that didn’t stop crowds but might make one person pause, if only for a moment. He hunched over the guitar, his damp jacket—a thrift-store find with frayed cuffs—clinging to his shoulders, his dark hair falling into his eyes, wet strands sticking to his forehead. At twenty-one, he felt the weight of years he hadn’t lived, his breath fogging in the April chill as he played for an audience of rain and shadows.

Seoul had been his gamble, a city of glass towers and endless possibility, where a boy from a coastal town could become someone. Six years ago, he’d arrived with his father’s guitar slung over his shoulder, a notebook of songs scrawled by the sea, and a heart full of defiance. Back in his hometown, the waves had been his first stage, crashing applause to his clumsy chords, and his father, a fisherman with jazz records hidden in a battered trunk, had been his guide. Y/N could still see him on the porch, the salt air thick, strumming a blues riff with weathered hands. “Play like you mean it, Y/N,” he’d say, his voice warm as the vinyl’s crackle. “Music’s how you hold a moment—good or bad.” Those words had anchored Y/N after the heart attack stole his father away, leaving only silence and a guitar with a chipped neck. His mother, practical and worn, had begged him to stay, to take a job at the docks. “Dreams don’t pay for rice,” she’d said, her eyes sharp with fear. But Y/N, stubborn and grieving, had chosen Seoul, believing his songs could prove her wrong.

The city had other plans. Studio doors slammed shut, demo tapes vanished into indifferent hands, and auditions left him with nothing but echoes of rejection. The worst was burned into his memory, a wound he couldn’t stop prodding.

-

The audition room was sterile, all white walls and fluorescent glare, the air heavy with the producer’s cologne—something sharp, expensive, like a blade. Y/N, nineteen and gangly, stood in the center, his guitar feeling too small in his hands. The producer, a man with slicked-back hair and a bored expression, tapped a pen against his desk, the rhythm impatient. Y/N’s song—a quiet, aching piece about his father’s hands, the sea, the moments that slip away—poured out, his voice trembling but true. He’d stayed up all night perfecting it, his fingers raw, his heart open. Halfway through the second verse, the producer raised a hand, the gesture as final as a guillotine. “You’re not special enough,” he said, his tone flat, like he was commenting on the weather. Y/N froze, the notes dying in his throat. The producer didn’t look up, already flipping through papers. “Next.” Y/N stumbled out, the city’s noise swallowing him, the words carving a hollow in his chest that still ached five years later.

-

Now, busking in alleys and subway stations was his reality, his fingers bleeding some nights, his pride bruised but unbroken. Each chord was a defiance, a refusal to let the city win. But the tip jar told a different story—three coins, not even enough for a coffee. He glanced at it, his lips twisting in a wry smile. “Another sold-out show,” he muttered, the sarcasm a thin shield against the sting. The rain fell harder, a steady drumbeat that drowned out the city’s hum, and Y/N leaned into the song, his voice joining the melody, low and rough: “Waves keep calling, but I’m still here / Holding moments that disappear…” The notes hung in the air, fragile as the mist rising from the pavement, and for a moment, he was back by the sea, his father’s hand on his shoulder, the world small and safe.

Another memory flickered, unbidden but vivid.

He was twelve, sprawled on the floor of their tiny living room, the summer heat pressing against the windows. His father sat cross-legged, the guitar across his lap, its chipped neck catching the light. A Billie Holiday record spun on the old turntable, her voice weaving through the air like smoke. “Listen to her, Y/N,” his father said, his eyes bright. “She’s not just singing—she’s telling you how it feels to break and keep going.” He handed Y/N the guitar, guiding his small fingers to a G chord. “Your turn. Make it feel like something.” Y/N strummed, the sound clumsy but earnest, and his father grinned, ruffling his hair. “That’s it, kid. Hold the moment.” That night, Y/N fell asleep with the guitar beside him, dreaming of stages he’d never seen.

-

A sharp clatter snapped him back to the alley. A stray cat, its tabby fur matted with rain, had leapt from a dumpster, knocking over his tip jar. Coins scattered across the wet pavement, glinting like tiny moons in the streetlight’s glow. The cat froze, its green eyes meeting Y/N’s, unapologetic and faintly smug. He laughed, a rough, genuine sound that startled him, cutting through the rain’s murmur. “Tough critic,” he said, kneeling to gather the coins, his fingers brushing the cold, gritty pavement. The cat watched, tail flicking, then darted behind a crate, leaving a trail of pawprints in the puddles that shimmered like a child’s drawing of stars.

As Y/N stood, coins clutched in his damp hand, he sensed a shift in the alley’s quiet. Someone was there, at the mouth where the neon glow met the shadows. A girl stood under a black umbrella, her figure slight but steady, like a note held just long enough to linger. Her hoodie hid most of her face, but her eyes—wide, curious, catching the light like polished obsidian—locked onto him. She wasn’t passing through, wasn’t hurrying to escape the rain. She was watching, as if his song had tethered her to the spot, a moth drawn to a flame she didn’t yet understand.

Haerin’s breath caught as she stood there, the umbrella’s weight grounding her. Y/N’s music had stopped her mid-step, its rawness slicing through the city’s noise like a whisper in a crowded room. She’d been wandering, her sneakers soaked, her heart heavy with the need to escape—escape the schedules, the cameras, the weight of being NewJeans’ “cat,” the girl whose quiet charm hid a storm of unspoken words. His song felt like her journal come to life, each note a mirror to the longing she buried in her lyrics, the ones she’d never dared share. She watched him, unaware of how her gaze pierced him, how it made the alley feel smaller, the rain softer.

Y/N’s pulse quickened, his fingers tightening on the guitar neck. He wasn’t used to an audience, not one who stayed. The occasional passerby might toss a coin or nod, their eyes sliding past him, their minds already elsewhere. This girl’s gaze was different—piercing, not in judgment but in recognition, like she saw the boy behind the chords, the one who’d almost forgotten how to hope. He swallowed, his throat dry despite the damp air, and kept playing, the melody steady but his heart unsteady.

She stepped forward, her sneakers splashing softly in a puddle, the umbrella tilting to reveal more of her face. Her features were delicate, almost ethereal, with a quiet intensity that made the alley feel like a stage lit just for them. She reached into her pocket, pulling out a single coin, and dropped it into his jar. The clink was sharp, a counterpoint to the rain’s rhythm. “That was beautiful,” she said, her voice clear yet gentle, like a melody that didn’t need to shout to be heard.

Heat crept up Y/N’s neck, and he ducked his head, the compliment catching him off guard. “Thanks,” he managed, his voice rougher than he meant. Emboldened by her smile—small, but bright enough to rival the neon—he added, “Your smile’s worth more than the coin, though.” The words tumbled out, clumsy and unpolished, and he winced, expecting her to laugh or walk away. Smooth, Y/N, he thought, his ears burning.

But she laughed, a sound like wind chimes caught in a breeze, light and unguarded. It was the kind of laugh that made the alley feel less cold, the rain less heavy, a spark of whimsy in the gray. “I’m Haerin,” she said, stepping closer, the umbrella casting a shadow over them both. Her eyes flickered with something playful, but her posture held a trace of tension, like a bird poised to fly.

Y/N nodded, unsure how to respond. “Y/N,” he said, gesturing vaguely at himself, the guitar, the alley. “Welcome to… whatever this is.” Her laugh came again, softer, and he felt a spark, a fragile connection forming in the space between them. He wanted to keep her there, to hold this moment like his father had taught him, but he didn’t know how.

Haerin’s phone buzzed in her pocket, a faint vibration that cut through the rain’s hum. She silenced it with a quick, practiced motion, her fingers deft but her expression tightening for a split second. Y/N caught it, the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her gaze darted to the alley’s end, as if expecting someone to appear. He wondered what she was running from, what had brought her to this forgotten corner when Seoul offered brighter, drier places to be.

She tilted her head, her eyes settling on his guitar, the chipped neck glinting under the streetlight. “Play another?” she asked, her voice soft but curious, like she was testing the air between them. “If you don’t mind the rain.”

Y/N’s heart skipped, surprise mingling with a flicker of pride. “Rain’s my best audience,” he said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. He adjusted his grip, the wood slick under his palms, and strummed a new melody, shorter, lighter, one he’d written on a rare good day in Seoul, when the city had felt like it might still hold a place for him. The notes danced, bright but fleeting, like fireflies in the dusk. He didn’t sing this time, letting the guitar speak, his eyes flicking to Haerin, gauging her reaction.

She stood still, her umbrella angled to shield them both, her gaze fixed on his hands. The music seemed to pull her closer, her sneakers inching forward, the puddle’s reflection rippling under her step. When the last note faded, she exhaled, a small sound that felt like applause. “You play like it’s a story,” she said, her words quiet but deliberate. “What’s this one about?”

Y/N hesitated, the question catching him off guard. He wasn’t used to explaining his music—most people didn’t ask. “Just… a day when things felt possible,” he said, his voice low, almost lost in the rain. “Doesn’t happen often.”

Haerin nodded, her eyes softening, like she understood more than he’d said. “Those days are worth holding onto,” she murmured, her fingers brushing the edge of her umbrella, raindrops sliding off like tiny promises. Her phone buzzed again, louder this time, and she ignored it, but Y/N saw the flicker of guilt in her expression, the weight of something left behind.

He didn’t know that, hours earlier, Haerin had slipped out of the NewJeans dorm, her heart heavy with the weight of schedules and expectations. The rain had been her excuse, the umbrella her shield, but the truth was simpler: she needed to breathe, to be herself, not the idol, not the “cat” of NewJeans, just Haerin.

-

The dorm was a whirlwind of sound and motion, a stark contrast to the alley’s quiet. Coffee cups littered the kitchen counter, their rings staining the wood, and the TV blared a music show recap, NewJeans’ latest performance flickering on the screen, their synchronized moves flawless under stage lights. Minji stood by the fridge, her arms crossed, her leader’s calm fraying at the edges. “Haerin, we’re a team,” she said, her voice firm but laced with worry. “You can’t just disappear when we’re this close to a comeback.”

Haerin sat on the couch, her knees drawn up, her journal clutched like a secret. The pages held songs she’d never shared—ballads of loneliness and fleeting freedom, words too raw for NewJeans’ polished image. “I know, unnie,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the journal’s spine, where a doodle of a cat curled around a music note. “I just needed air.”

Hyein burst into the room, her energy a spark in the tense air. “You’re our wandering cat, unnie!” she teased, flopping beside Haerin and nudging her shoulder. “Were you writing again? Your songs are so cool—you gotta show us!” Her eyes shone with admiration, but Haerin’s chest tightened. The memory of her rejected song—a melancholic piece dismissed as “too heavy” by a producer—still stung, locking her words away.

Hanni, leaning against the counter with a mug of tea, caught Haerin’s expression. “You don’t have to hide them, you know,” she said softly, her voice warm like a hug. “Your heart’s in those songs. They’re you.” Her encouragement was gentle, but it only deepened Haerin’s fear—what if “her” wasn’t enough?

Danielle, sprawled on the floor with a sketchpad, looked up, her smile bright as sunlight. “Yeah, Haerin, your songs are like… secret magic. You’ll share when you’re ready, right?” Her optimism was infectious, but Haerin could only nod, her throat tight. She loved her members, their warmth, their trust, but their faith felt like a weight she couldn’t carry.

Minji softened, her gaze settling on Haerin. “Just… tell us where you go, okay? We worry.” Haerin forced a smile, promising herself she’d be back before anyone noticed. But as she slipped out later, hoodie up and umbrella in hand, the city’s rain-soaked streets called to her. She wasn’t running away, not really—just chasing a moment where she could be free, where her voice could be hers alone.

-

In the alley, Haerin’s gaze returned to Y/N, her tension easing like a chord resolving. “Do you always play like that?” she asked, her voice pulling him back to the present. “Like you’re telling a secret?”

Y/N’s fingers stilled on the strings, her question catching him off balance. He shrugged, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Only when no one’s listening,” he said, his tone light but his eyes betraying a flicker of truth. “Crowds don’t usually stick around for secrets.”

Haerin tilted her head, her eyes glinting with something that felt like mischief, or maybe understanding. “Maybe they should,” she said, her words soft but deliberate. “The quiet ones mean the most.”

Her words landed like a stone in still water, rippling through Y/N’s chest. He didn’t know who she was, didn’t know the weight she carried, but in that moment, she was the only audience he needed. The rain fell softer now, a gentle rhythm that seemed to hum in time with his pulse, and the alley felt like a stage for something new—a song, a connection, a moment he wanted to hold onto. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Haerin’s phone buzzed again, a sharp intrusion, and her smile faltered, just for a second, before she tucked it away.

“Keep playing,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, as if she sensed the moment slipping. “I want to hear more.” She stepped back, the umbrella tilting to shield her, but her eyes stayed on him, bright and unwavering, like a promise the rain couldn’t wash away.

Y/N nodded, his fingers finding the strings again, the melody picking up where it left off. He played for her, for the alley, for the boy he’d been and the man he still hoped to be. And as Haerin stood there, a stranger who felt like a song he’d always known, the rain seemed to sing along, weaving their moment into the city’s endless hum.

-

The rain had softened to a drizzle, its rhythm fading into a gentle hum that wove through Seoul’s restless pulse. Y/N followed Haerin out of the alley, his guitar slung over his shoulder, its chipped neck grazing his damp jacket. The city’s heartbeat grew louder beyond the alley’s shelter—car horns bleating, the sizzle of skewers on a nearby vendor’s grill, the chatter of umbrellas bobbing through neon-lit streets. Haerin walked ahead, her black umbrella a dark halo against the flickering glow of a convenience store’s sign, its green and orange stripes smudged by mist. She glanced back, her eyes catching his with a flicker of mischief, a silent invitation that made his chest tighten. “Coffee?” she asked, her voice light but laced with a warmth that felt like a melody he hadn’t heard before.

Y/N hesitated, his sneakers scuffing the wet pavement, the coins in his pocket—barely enough for a bus fare—jingling faintly. His jacket, frayed at the cuffs and heavy with rain, clung to his shoulders, and he was suddenly aware of his reflection in a puddle: a busker with chapped hands, hair plastered to his forehead, a shadow of the boy who’d dreamed of stages. Haerin’s hoodie was plain, her sneakers scuffed, but there was a quiet grace to her, a polish that made him feel like a smudged sketch beside a finished painting. Yet her smile was warm, unguarded, and it tugged at him, a chord he couldn’t ignore. “Sure,” he said, his voice rough, a half-smile breaking through his nerves. “But only if they start accepting soggy dreams as payment.”

Her laugh rang out, that wind-chime sound from the alley, cutting through the drizzle like a sunbeam. “My treat,” she said, tilting her umbrella to shield him as they crossed the street, her shoulder brushing his for a fleeting moment, a warmth that made his breath catch. The street stall was a small oasis, its plastic tarp flapping in the breeze, steam rising from a dented coffee machine that hissed like an old radiator. Two wobbly tables sat under the awning, their surfaces scarred with cigarette burns and carved initials—J+H, a lopsided heart, a faded star. A single lantern hung from a pole, its golden glow dancing on the wet pavement, turning puddles into pools of liquid light. The vendor, an older woman with a perm and crow’s feet etched deep, stirred a pot of instant coffee, her hands steady despite the chill. Her apron, stained with grease and faded flowers, fluttered as she hummed a trot song under her breath, the tune clashing with the faint K-pop beat from a shop down the street—NewJeans, their latest hit looping through tinny speakers.

Y/N ducked under the awning, the guitar case bumping his hip as he settled onto a plastic stool, its legs uneven on the cracked concrete. The air smelled of burnt coffee grounds, sesame oil from a nearby cart, and the clean, wet scent of rain. Haerin slid onto the stool across from him, folding her umbrella and shaking droplets from her hoodie, each one catching the lantern’s light like a tiny prism. The vendor slid two paper cups across the counter, the coffee black and steaming, its surface swirling with faint bubbles that popped like distant stars. Y/N wrapped his hands around his cup, the warmth seeping into his chilled fingers, grounding him against the city’s restless hum. Haerin’s hands stayed still, her fingers tracing the cup’s rim, her eyes flicking to him with a curiosity that felt like a question she hadn’t asked yet.

The silence between them was soft, not awkward, like the pause before a song’s next verse. Y/N sipped the coffee, its bitterness sharp on his tongue, and glanced back at the alley, its shadows blurred by the drizzle. The stray cat from earlier perched on a crate, licking its paw with regal indifference, its green eyes glinting under the streetlight. He chuckled under his breath, a sound that drew Haerin’s attention. “What?” she asked, her lips curving, the lantern’s glow catching the faint flush on her cheeks, like a watercolor bloom.

“Just the cat,” Y/N said, nodding toward the alley. “Thinks it owns the place. Knocked over my tip jar like it was judging my setlist.” His tone was light, but his fingers tightened on the cup, the memory of the jar—three coins, a candy wrapper—stinging anew. He pushed it down, focusing on Haerin, on the way her laugh made the stall feel like a refuge, a bubble carved out of Seoul’s chaos.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her eyes bright with amusement. “Maybe it’s a critic with taste,” she teased, her voice playful but soft, like she was testing how much he’d let her in. “Your music’s too good for a tin can, though. It deserves… I don’t know, a stage? A crowd?” Her words were gentle, but they landed like a stone in Y/N’s chest, stirring the hollow left by years of rejection—the producer’s voice, “You’re not special enough,” echoing in his mind like a bad refrain.

He shrugged, his smile wry, his gaze dropping to the coffee’s dark surface, where his reflection wavered, distorted. “Crowds don’t stick around for guys like me,” he said, his voice low, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He tapped the cup, the sound a faint rhythm against the drizzle’s hum, his fingers restless. “I’m just the guy in the alley, playing for the rain and stray cats. Not exactly K-pop material.” He gestured toward the shop down the street, where NewJeans’ song pulsed, its polished beat a world away from his raw chords. The contrast stung, a reminder of the city’s hunger for shine, not shadows.

Haerin’s expression shifted, a flicker of something—recognition, empathy, maybe pain—crossing her face. She leaned back, her fingers curling around her cup, her gaze drifting to the puddle at the stall’s edge, its surface rippling with neon reflections. “K-pop’s not everything,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “Sometimes the music that matters most is the kind you play for yourself.” Her words carried a weight, a truth she seemed to hold close, and Y/N wondered what lay behind them, what made her sound like she knew the cost of dreams.

Her fingers paused on the cup, and she tilted her head, her hoodie slipping slightly to reveal a glimpse of a silver necklace, its pendant tucked under the fabric, a secret she didn’t share. Y/N studied her, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the way her silence felt like a song waiting to be sung. He felt a pull, a need to know her story, to understand why she’d stopped for him when the city rushed on. “You sound like you get it,” he said, his voice tentative, testing the air. “You… play? Sing? Something?” He gestured to his guitar case, its worn leather scratched and peeling, a silent invitation to bridge the gap between them.

Haerin’s lips parted, then closed, a hesitation that spoke louder than words. She smiled, small and guarded, and said, “I sing. Sort of. Not like you, though.” Her fingers tapped the cup, a nervous rhythm that mirrored the drizzle’s patter, and she looked down, her expression softening, almost wistful. “Your music feels… real. Like it’s part of you. Mine’s… complicated.” The last word was barely audible, swallowed by the vendor’s hummed trot and the distant honk of a taxi, but it hung between them, heavy with unspoken stories.

Y/N’s heart thudded, her words stirring a spark of kinship, a flicker of hope. He leaned forward, the stool creaking under his weight, and took a chance. “This guitar,” he said, patting the case, its leather cool under his palm, “it’s like my heart’s out here, for anyone to step on. Sounds stupid, but… it’s all I’ve got.” His voice was raw, the confession slipping out like a note he hadn’t meant to play. He looked at her, half-expecting her to laugh or change the subject, but her eyes met his, steady, unguarded, and he felt seen, truly seen, for the first time in years.

Haerin’s breath caught, her fingers pausing on the cup. She leaned forward, her hoodie brushing the table’s edge, and her voice was soft but firm. “It’s not stupid,” she said, her gaze holding his, unwavering. “It’s… brave. I write songs, too, but I keep them hidden. They’re not… what people expect.” Her words were a confession, small but heavy, and her fingers curled into her palm, as if to hold the secret close. Her eyes flickered to the puddle again, its neon ripples like a canvas of fleeting dreams, and Y/N sensed a story she wasn’t ready to tell—a story that felt like his own, in a way he couldn’t yet name.

He swallowed, his throat dry despite the coffee’s warmth. “Hidden’s not the same as gone,” he said, his voice tentative, like he was testing a new chord. “Maybe they’re waiting for the right moment. The right… listener.” He didn’t know what he was promising, only that he wanted her to keep talking, to share the piece of herself she guarded so fiercely. His fingers brushed the guitar case, a grounding touch, and he added, “I’ve got songs like that. Ones I don’t play for anyone. Like… one I wrote about a lighthouse back home. Sounds dumb, but it was the only thing that stayed steady when everything else fell apart.” His voice softened, the memory of his father’s death, the sea’s endless pull, rising unbidden. He hadn’t meant to say so much, but Haerin’s presence, her quiet intensity, loosened something in him.

Haerin’s eyes widened, a spark of curiosity lighting them. “A lighthouse?” she asked, her voice gentle, coaxing. “What’s it about?” She leaned closer, her elbow on the table, the lantern’s glow catching the curve of her cheek, and Y/N felt the air shift, the space between them shrinking.

He hesitated, his fingers tapping the cup, then spoke, his voice low, almost a murmur. “It’s… about standing still, even when the waves keep coming. About holding light for someone, even if they’re gone.” He thought of his father, the porch, the jazz records, and his throat tightened. “I don’t play it much. Feels too… bare.” He looked at her, expecting pity, but found only understanding, her gaze like a mirror to his own vulnerability.

Haerin nodded, her lips parting as if to speak, then stopping. “I get that,” she said finally, her voice barely above the drizzle’s hum. “I’ve got songs like that, too. Ones that feel… too much like me. Like if I let them out, they’d break something.” Her fingers traced the table’s carved heart, a slow, deliberate motion, and she added, “One’s about a shadow that wants to be seen, but… no one looks.” Her voice faltered, and she looked down, her lashes hiding her eyes, but Y/N felt the weight of her words, the echo of a dream caged by expectation.

Their eyes met, a silent chord resonating between them, and Y/N felt a pull, a need to keep her here, to learn the song she kept hidden. “Sounds like a song worth hearing,” he said, his voice soft, earnest. “Shadows deserve light, too.” His words hung in the air, a promise he hadn’t planned, and Haerin’s smile, small and almost sad, lit her face like the lantern’s glow.

She picked up a napkin, her fingers nimble, and doodled a tiny music note, its lines curling like a cat’s tail, then added a small shadow beside it, a whimsical nod to their talk. She slid it across the table, her fingers brushing his for a fleeting second, the contact sending a jolt through him. “A souvenir,” she said, her voice playful but laced with something deeper, something that made Y/N’s chest ache. “For your sold-out show.”

He took the napkin, his callused fingers careful, as if it were a treasure. “For my one-person audience,” he joked, but his voice was soft, his eyes holding hers, searching for the story she wasn’t telling. The cat, still perched in the alley, meowed—a sharp, impatient sound that broke the moment, making them both laugh, a shared spark that felt like a secret.

Haerin’s phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with a message. Y/N caught the words: Haerin, come back soon. We miss you. �� Hanni. She silenced it, her fingers lingering on the phone, her smile faltering. “I should… stay a bit longer,” she said, almost to herself, her voice a mix of defiance and guilt. Her eyes flicked to the alley, where the cat now chased a droplet, its paws splashing in a puddle, and she smiled, a fleeting whimsy that eased the tension.

Y/N nodded, not pushing, not questioning, but feeling the weight of her choice. He sipped his coffee, the bitterness grounding him, and glanced at the napkin, the music note and shadow a tangible piece of her. “Tell me about your shadow song,” he said, his voice gentle, a dare wrapped in curiosity. “What makes it… too much?”

Haerin’s breath hitched, her fingers pausing on the cup. She looked at him, her eyes searching, as if weighing whether to let him in. “It’s… about wanting to be seen, but being afraid of what people will see,” she said, her voice low, each word a careful step. “I wrote it after…” She stopped, her gaze drifting to the puddle, its neon ripples like a fractured stage. “After someone told me my music wasn’t right. Too heavy, too… me.” Her voice cracked, just slightly, and Y/N’s heart clenched, recognizing the echo of his own rejection.

-

The producer’s office was a glass cage, all sharp edges and cold light, the city sprawling beyond the window like a promise Haerin couldn’t reach. She stood, her journal clutched to her chest, her song—a melancholic ballad about a shadow in a spotlight—laid bare on the table. The producer, a woman with sharp nails and sharper eyes, skimmed the lyrics, her lips pursed. “It’s well-written,” she said, her tone clipped, “but it’s too heavy for NewJeans. Fans want light, Haerin, not… this.” She gestured to the journal, dismissive, and Haerin felt her heart shrink, her voice silenced before it could sing. She nodded, her smile forced, and left, the city’s noise swallowing her as she tucked her journal away, vowing to keep her shadows hidden.

Back in the dorm, Hanni had found her curled on the couch, her journal closed but her eyes distant. “Hey,” Hanni said, sitting beside her, her voice soft as a lullaby. “Your songs are you, Haerin. Don’t let them take that away.” She squeezed Haerin’s hand, her warmth a lifeline, but Haerin could only nod, the rejection still burning.

Danielle, sketching at the table, looked up, her smile bright despite the tension. “Your songs are like secret magic,” she said, her voice lilting. “You’ll share when you’re ready, right?” Her optimism was a spark, but Haerin felt the weight of her members’ faith, a pressure to be more than a shadow.

Minji, pacing by the counter, sighed. “Haerin, we’re a team,” she said, her voice firm but worried. “You can’t disappear when we’re this busy. We need you.” Hyein, bouncing in with a banana, teased, “You’re our wandering cat, unnie! Show us your songs!” Their love was a tether, but it made Haerin’s escape—hoodie up, umbrella in hand—all the more urgent, the rain her only witness.

-

At the stall, Haerin’s gaze returned to Y/N, the memory of her members fading but their voices lingering—Hanni’s warmth, Danielle’s optimism, Minji’s worry, Hyein’s spark. The producer’s rejection echoed, but Y/N’s music, his raw honesty, felt like a door she could open, if only for a moment. She wanted to stay, to let this bubble of warmth and coffee steam stretch, to be Haerin, not NewJeans’ shadow.

The vendor hummed louder, her trot song clashing with the K-pop beat, and the cat splashed in the puddle again, its antics drawing a soft laugh from Haerin. She doodled another note on the napkin, a tiny lighthouse beside the shadow, a nod to Y/N’s story, and slid it back to him. “For your lighthouse song,” she said, her voice playful but earnest, her eyes holding his, a silent thank-you for letting her in.

Y/N took it, his fingers careful, the lighthouse a spark in his chest. “You’re building me a whole setlist,” he said, his smile shy but warm, his heart racing at the thought of her listening, truly listening. The stall, with its scarred tables and steaming cups, was their refuge, a place where the rain couldn’t wash away their words. And as the drizzle hummed outside, the lantern’s glow wrapping them in gold, Y/N felt the first notes of something new—a melody they might write together, if only for this fleeting, rain-soaked moment.

-

The drizzle clung to Seoul like a whispered secret, its soft patter blending with the city’s distant hum as Y/N and Haerin stepped back into the alley. The street stall’s warmth lingered in Y/N’s fingers, the coffee’s bitter tang still sharp on his tongue, but the alley felt like coming home—a narrow, shadowed crevice where neon light barely reached, where his music could breathe without judgment. The brick walls, streaked with moss and faded graffiti, glistened under the streetlight’s amber glow. A heart scrawled in red paint bled into a curse in black, beside a smeared dragon coiling into oblivion, each mark a story of nights lost to rain and longing. Puddles shimmered on the cracked pavement, reflecting slivers of pink and violet from a flickering sign down the street, their ripples swirling like miniature galaxies, fragile and fleeting. The air carried the clean scent of rain, undercut by the musk of wet cardboard, the smoky tang of a distant barbecue cart, and a faint whiff of motor oil from a scooter idling nearby, a reminder of the city’s restless pulse just beyond their refuge.

Y/N adjusted the guitar on his shoulder, its weight a steady anchor, the chipped neck cool against his damp jacket. His sneakers squelched softly, leaving faint prints in the puddles, and he glanced at the tip jar, still overturned from the cat’s earlier mischief, its three coins glinting like lost wishes. Haerin walked beside him, her umbrella folded, her hoodie damp but her steps light, as if the alley’s quiet had loosened a knot in her soul. Her sneakers splashed in a puddle, sending ripples that caught the light, and she glanced at him, her eyes glinting with a playful spark that made his heart stutter. The lantern’s glow from the stall faded behind them, replaced by the alley’s dim intimacy, where shadows danced like notes waiting to be played. The stray cat, their silent critic, lounged atop a crate, its tabby fur slick with rain, its green eyes tracking them with lazy curiosity. It flicked its tail, a slow metronome, and Y/N caught its gaze, chuckling, the sound rough but warm, a thread connecting him to Haerin’s wind-chime laugh from the stall.

Haerin stopped near his stool, the tin can’s rusted edge catching a droplet that slid down like a tear. She knelt, picking up a coin from the puddle, its surface dulled by grime, and placed it back in the jar with a deliberate clink, her fingers brushing the metal with care. “Your stage deserves better than this,” she said, her voice soft but laced with conviction, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that made the alley feel smaller, the rain softer. Y/N’s breath caught, her words echoing the napkin’s music note and lighthouse, now tucked in his pocket, a tangible piece of her belief in him. He saw his reflection in her eyes—worn jacket, damp hair, a busker who’d almost forgotten how to dream—and felt a flicker of something, not hope exactly, but possibility.

He shrugged, a wry smile tugging at his lips, his fingers tightening on the guitar strap until the leather bit into his palm. “Stage is a strong word,” he said, his voice low, the self-doubt creeping in like a dissonant chord. “It’s just… me and the rain, most days. Not exactly headlining.” He kicked a pebble, watching it skitter across the pavement, its arc swallowed by a puddle’s neon glow. The memory of his audition failure—the producer’s cold “You’re not special enough”—flared, a wound he couldn’t stop prodding. His shoulders slumped, the guitar heavier, and he glanced at Haerin, half-expecting her to see the failure etched in his callused hands, but her gaze was steady, not pitying, like she saw the music he still carried, the boy who’d once played for the sea.

Haerin tilted her head, her hoodie slipping to reveal a strand of dark hair, damp and curling against her cheek like a painter’s stroke. “Then let’s make it a stage,” she said, her voice a mix of mischief and defiance, a spark that lit the alley like a match in the dark. “Play something with me. Just for now, just for us.” Her words hung in the air, a dare wrapped in a dream, and Y/N’s heart raced, surprise mingling with a flicker of fear. He wasn’t used to sharing his music, not like this, not with someone whose laugh felt like a song he’d always known, whose presence made the alley feel like a world of their own.

“Together?” he asked, his voice rough, his fingers already itching to strum. He set the guitar case down, the leather creaking, and opened it, the instrument’s worn wood catching the streetlight’s glow, its scratches like a map of his failures and hopes. Haerin nodded, her smile small but bright, and she stepped closer, the drizzle dusting her hoodie like tiny diamonds. The cat meowed, a sharp, approving note, and Y/N laughed, the tension easing. “Guess we’ve got an audience,” he said, settling onto the stool, the guitar across his lap, its strings cool under his callused fingers. He adjusted his grip, the wood slick with rain, and felt Haerin’s gaze, steady and warm, like a spotlight he didn’t mind.

He strummed a gentle chord, a G major that resonated like a deep breath, its warmth cutting through the alley’s chill. The notes were tentative, searching, like a question he didn’t know how to ask. His fingers trembled, not from the cold but from the weight of her watching, her belief pressing against his doubt. Haerin stood close, her shoulder inches from his, her presence a quiet anchor. She hummed softly, a haunting melody that wove around his chords, her voice raw, unpolished, nothing like the glossy K-pop pulsing from the shop down the street. It was hers, unguarded, a whisper of the journal she kept hidden, and it sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine, not from the rain but from the way it felt like she was singing his own heart back to him.

Y/N’s fingers found a rhythm, a slow, hopeful progression that echoed the lighthouse song he’d shared at the stall. He didn’t sing, letting the guitar speak, its notes bright but fleeting, like fireflies in the dusk. Haerin’s hum grew bolder, her melody curling around his, and she added words, soft and improvised, drawn from her secret lyrics: “Shadows sway where no one sees / A fleeting light, a whispered plea…” Her voice trembled, not with fear but with release, each note a rebellion against the constraints she carried—schedules, spotlights, a producer’s dismissal. She closed her eyes, her lashes dark against her cheeks, and swayed slightly, as if the music had untethered her, letting her float free.

Y/N’s heart swelled, his fingers responding with a bridge, a hopeful lift in C major, its chords steady like the lighthouse’s beam, a light for her shadows. He added a soft riff, a delicate flourish that danced with her melody, and Haerin’s voice rose, her lyrics evolving: “Hold the dark, let it be / A spark of truth will set me free…” The words felt like a confession, raw and unfiltered, and Y/N’s chords deepened, a D minor that grounded her flight, a conversation woven in sound. Their music became a duet, their notes intertwining, raw and unpolished but alive, a tapestry of hope and longing that filled the alley like a pulse.

The alley seemed to listen, the rain’s patter a soft percussion, the puddles’ ripples a silent applause, their neon glow pulsing like a heartbeat. The cat, now curled on the crate, watched with half-closed eyes, its tail flicking in time, a whimsical critic turned fan. It stretched, leaping to the pavement with a soft splash, and circled Haerin’s feet, brushing against her sneaker, its wet fur leaving a faint mark. Haerin laughed mid-note, a sound that blended with her melody, and Y/N joined her, his chuckle a low harmony, their shared joy a spark that lit the shadows. The cat sat back, licking a paw, its green eyes glinting as if to say, Keep going.

Y/N’s fingers faltered, a single wrong note breaking the spell, and he winced, his cheeks warming. “Sorry,” he muttered, but Haerin shook her head, her laugh brighter, like the drizzle catching the streetlight. “Not bad for a first take,” she said, her voice playful but warm, her eyes holding his, a silent thank-you for letting her sing, truly sing. She stepped closer, her sneaker brushing his, the space between them charged, like the air before a storm. Y/N’s pulse raced, his hands trembling as he set the guitar down, the strings humming faintly, an echo of their duet.

“That… felt real,” he said, his voice low, raw, his eyes searching hers. “Like we were saying something.” His fingers flexed, still tingling from the strings, and he took a breath, the confession spilling out. “I’m always scared my music’s too… ordinary. Like it’ll never be enough for anyone.” The words were a wound laid bare, the producer’s voice—“not special enough”—ringing in his ears, and he braced for Haerin to brush it off, to see the failure he feared defined him.

Haerin’s expression softened, her eyes tracing his face, the streetlight’s amber haze casting shadows on her cheek, like a canvas of unspoken dreams. She knelt beside the guitar case, her fingers brushing its worn leather, a gesture that felt like understanding. “It’s not ordinary,” she said, her voice firm, almost fierce. “It’s… you. That’s enough.” Her words landed like a chord resolving, and she paused, her fingers twitching as if to reach for him, then curling into her palm. “I’m scared, too,” she added, her voice softer, a confession matching his. “My songs… they don’t fit where I am. They’re not what people want from me.” Her gaze dropped to the puddle at their feet, its neon ripples like a fractured stage, and Y/N saw the weight she carried, the echo of his own fear in her trembling voice.

-

The NewJeans dorm was quiet that evening, a rare pause between schedules, the air heavy with the scent of lavender candles Hyein had lit on a whim, their flames flickering like tiny stars. Haerin sat on her bed, her journal open, her pen tracing a lyric: “A voice the light won’t free…” Hyein, sprawled on the floor with a manga, looked up, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Unnie, teach me one of your songs,” she said, her voice eager, almost pleading. “They’re so… you. Like, they feel real.” She reached for the journal, her fingers brushing its edge, and Haerin pulled back, a reflex born of fear. Hyein’s smile faltered, but her trust remained, a spark in the dim room. “You’ll show me someday, right?” she asked, her voice soft, a promise Haerin wasn’t sure she could keep.

The memory of her rejected ballad—a shadow in a spotlight—burned brighter, the producer’s dismissal (“Too heavy for NewJeans”) a wound she hid even from her members. Hyein’s admiration, her faith that Haerin’s songs were enough, felt like a weight, a love she didn’t know how to repay. Later, alone, Haerin had hummed the song to herself, her voice barely audible, a rebellion she kept from the dorm’s warmth, from the members who loved her but couldn’t see her shadows.

-

In the alley, Haerin stood, her fingers brushing her hoodie’s cuff, a nervous gesture that betrayed her vulnerability. “Singing with you… it felt like I could be me,” she said, her voice barely above the rain’s hum, each word a step into uncharted territory. “Not what I’m supposed to be.” Her confession hung fragile as the mist rising from the pavement, and Y/N’s heart clenched, recognizing the courage it took to bare that truth.

He leaned forward, the stool creaking under his weight, his voice tentative. “You sounded like you,” he said, his eyes searching hers, bright under the streetlight’s glow. “Not supposed to be anything else.” His words were a promise, a light for her shadows, and he wanted to say more, to tell her how her voice had lit the alley brighter than the neon, how it had made him believe his music could matter. But his throat tightened, the words caught like a missed note, and he settled for a small smile, his fingers brushing the guitar strings, a faint hum resonating.

Haerin’s smile was shy, almost radiant, warming her eyes like the puddle’s neon glow, a galaxy they’d created together. She stepped closer, her sneaker brushing his again, and reached out, adjusting his guitar strap, her fingers grazing his shoulder. The touch was brief, electric, a spark that made Y/N freeze, his pulse racing, the air thick with unspoken possibility. Her hand lingered, her breath hitching, then pulled back, her cheeks flushing under the streetlight’s amber haze. The cat meowed, a sharp, teasing note, and darted to a puddle, splashing with a playful flick of its tail, its pawprints shimmering like a constellation. They both laughed, the sound a shared spark that eased the tension but deepened the connection, a melody only they could hear.

Haerin knelt, extending a hand to the cat, which sniffed her fingers, then nuzzled them, its wet fur leaving a faint mark on her wrist. “Our critic’s a fan now,” she said, her voice light but laced with warmth, her eyes meeting Y/N’s, a silent thank-you for this moment, this song, this stage. The cat leapt back to the crate, curling up with a contented yawn, its approval a whimsical seal on their duet.

Her phone buzzed, a muffled ring cutting through the drizzle, and Haerin’s expression faltered. She pulled it from her pocket, the screen glowing with Minji’s name, the call insistent. A faint, worried voice leaked through before she silenced it: “Haerin, where are you? We’re behind schedule.” Her fingers tightened on the phone, her gaze flicking to the alley’s end, where the city’s neon glow pulsed like a siren. Guilt shadowed her eyes, but she didn’t move, her defiance a quiet rebellion against the world waiting beyond the alley, the expectations that caged her voice.

Y/N’s heart sank, sensing the pull of her other life, the weight of names—Minji, Danielle, Hanni, Hyein—that meant nothing to him but everything to her. He didn’t push, didn’t question, but his voice was soft, a gentle anchor. “You’re here now,” he said, his eyes holding hers, steady as his chords. “That’s what matters.” He picked up the guitar, strumming a single chord, a C major that resonated like a promise, its warmth a light in the alley’s shadows.

Haerin’s smile returned, faint but real, like a star breaking through clouds. She stepped back, her sneaker splashing in the puddle, its ripples glowing like a dream she wasn’t ready to wake from. “Keep playing,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, as if she sensed the moment slipping. “I want to hear more.” Her eyes lingered on him, bright and unwavering, like a lighthouse in the rain, a promise the drizzle couldn’t wash away.

Y/N nodded, his fingers finding the strings again, the melody picking up where their duet had left off. He played for her, for the alley, for the boy he’d been and the man he still hoped to be. The rain fell softer now, a gentle rhythm that seemed to sing their song back to them, and the alley, with its puddles and shadows, became their world—a sacred stage where their music had carved a refuge, where shadows and lighthouses could coexist, if only for this fleeting, rain-soaked moment.

-

The alley exhaled as the duet’s final notes dissolved, the rain’s soft patter giving way to a fragile stillness, like the hush after a song’s last chord. The drizzle had all but stopped, leaving a glistening sheen on the cracked pavement, where puddles held fleeting reflections of neon—pink, violet, a fractured blue from a sign that flickered like a faltering pulse. The brick walls, streaked with moss and graffiti’s ghosts, loomed closer in the dim streetlight, their stories etched in layers: a red heart bleeding into a black curse, a smeared dragon coiling into oblivion, a faded name scratched with a key, each mark a whisper of nights lost to rain and longing. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of wet asphalt, the faint smoke of a barbecue cart, and a trace of jasmine from a nearby vendor’s incense, a fleeting sweetness that clashed with the city’s encroaching pulse—a car horn’s bleat, the chatter of late-night pedestrians, the thrum of K-pop from a shop, no longer NewJeans but another group’s polished beat, sharp and alien against the alley’s quiet. The stray cat, their whimsical critic, lounged on its crate, its tabby fur drying in patches, its green eyes half-closed but watchful, as if guarding the fragile stage they’d built.

Y/N’s fingers lingered on the guitar, the strings still humming faintly, their duet’s echo a warmth in his chest that battled the chill creeping into his bones. He sat on the wobbly stool, his damp jacket clinging to his shoulders, its frayed cuffs brushing his wrists like a reminder of his threadbare dreams. His hair fell into his eyes, damp strands catching the streetlight’s amber glow, and he brushed it back, his callused fingers trembling, not from the cold but from the weight of the moment slipping away. The guitar felt lighter now, its chipped neck a badge of their shared song, but his heart was heavy, sensing the shift in Haerin’s posture—the way her shoulders tensed, the way her fingers curled into her hoodie’s cuffs, as if bracing for a storm only she could see. She stood beside him, her sneakers scuffing the pavement, her gaze fixed on a puddle where neon ripples danced like a tiny galaxy, a dream she couldn’t hold. The silence between them was no longer soft but taut, a string stretched to its limit, vibrating with unspoken fears.

Haerin’s phone buzzed, a sharp vibration that cut through the alley’s hush like a misplaced note. She pulled it from her pocket, the screen’s glow casting her face in stark relief, her eyes darkening as she read the message. Y/N caught a glimpse—Haerin, we need you. Schedule’s tight. – Minji—before she silenced it, her thumb swift but her expression faltering, a flicker of guilt shadowing her delicate features. Her lips parted, then closed, and she tucked the phone away, but her fingers lingered on the pocket, her knuckles pale against the dark fabric. “I’m not supposed to be here,” she murmured, her voice barely above the puddle’s ripple, her eyes flicking to the alley’s mouth, where the city’s neon glow pulsed like a siren calling her back to a life she’d paused.

Y/N’s heart sank, the words landing like a stone in his chest, heavy and cold. He set the guitar in its case, the leather creaking under his touch, and stood, his sneakers splashing softly in a puddle, the ripples distorting his reflection—worn jacket, slumped shoulders, a busker who’d never be enough for Seoul’s shining stages. He wanted to ask who she was, what tethered her to that insistent phone, but her guarded gaze stopped him, a reminder of the fragile trust they’d built through chords and confessions. Instead, he took a step closer, his shadow merging with hers in the puddle’s neon glow, a fleeting union that felt more real than the city beyond. “But you’re here,” he said, his voice low, steady, a chord meant to anchor her, but his hands fidgeted, betraying the fear that she’d slip away, that the alley’s magic would dissolve like the rain’s last drops.

Haerin’s eyes met his, wide and searching, the streetlight catching the damp sheen on her cheeks, like tears she hadn’t shed. Her breath caught, a small, shaky sound, and she nodded, a barely perceptible motion that carried the weight of her defiance. “It’s… complicated,” she said, her voice cracking, a note of vulnerability that echoed their duet’s raw honesty. She stepped back, her sneaker scuffing the pavement, leaving a faint arc in the dust, and her gaze dropped to the cat, which stretched with a lazy yawn, its tail flicking like a metronome keeping time for their fading moment. A faint smile curved her lips, a whimsical spark in the growing tension, but it faded as her fingers brushed the silver necklace hidden under her hoodie, its pendant a secret she guarded like her journal’s pages.

Y/N’s throat tightened, his own fears rising like a tide, threatening to drown the warmth of their duet. He kicked a pebble, watching it skitter into a puddle, its ripples blurring their reflections—his tired eyes, her guarded stance, two shadows on the edge of something real. “I get it,” he said, his voice rough, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “I’m scared I’m nobody, you know? Just… the guy in the alley, playing songs no one wants. Never enough for this city.” His fingers flexed, the calluses rough against his palm, and he thought of the producer’s voice—“You’re not special enough”—a refrain that haunted every chord, every empty tip jar. He looked at Haerin, his heart bare, his chest tight with the fear that she’d see the failure he carried, the boy who’d come to Seoul with a guitar and a dream, only to find rejection in every closed door.

Haerin’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening on her necklace, the chain glinting faintly as it slipped from her hoodie, its pendant—a small, silver star—catching the streetlight’s glow. She stepped closer, the space between them shrinking, the puddle’s neon glow framing her sneakers, their laces frayed but steady. “You’re not nobody,” she said, her voice firm, almost fierce, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made the alley feel like their universe. “Your music… it’s real. It’s you.” Her words were a lifeline, a chord resolving the dissonance in his heart, but her expression wavered, a crack in her resolve as her own fears surfaced. “I feel like a puppet sometimes,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper, each word a confession torn from her journal’s hidden pages. “Like my voice isn’t mine. Like I’m just… what they want me to be, smiling for a stage that doesn’t know me.” Her shoulders trembled, her fists clenching, and Y/N saw the weight of a world he couldn’t name—a stage far brighter than his alley, but no less lonely, its spotlight a cage she couldn’t escape.

He took a breath, his voice tentative, a step into her shadows. “You’re not a puppet,” he said, his eyes searching hers, bright under the streetlight’s amber haze. “Not here. Not when you sang with me.” His words were a lighthouse, steady in her storm, but his hands shook, the fear of losing her to that other world a weight he couldn’t shake. He thought of their duet, her voice weaving with his chords, raw and free, and added, “Your song… it was you. The real you. I heard it.” His voice cracked, raw with the truth, and he braced for her to pull away, to let the city’s pull win, but her gaze held his, a galaxy of trust and longing that made his heart ache.

Haerin’s lips parted, a shaky exhale escaping, and she stepped closer, her sneaker brushing the guitar case, the puddle’s ripples slowing, like a stage dimming. “You make me believe that,” she said, her voice soft, almost a plea, her eyes tracing his face—his damp hair, his tired eyes, the hope he couldn’t hide. “But… they’re my home, too. The people waiting for me… they’re everything.” Her words were a bridge between her worlds, torn between the alley’s freedom and the loyalty she carried for names Y/N didn’t know—Minji, Danielle, Hanni, Hyein—names that tethered her to a life beyond the puddle’s glow.

-

The air was thick with the scent of chamomile tea Danielle had brewed, its steam curling like a lullaby. Haerin sat on the couch, her journal closed, her fingers tracing its spine, where a doodle of a cat curled around a music note, a silent rebellion against the sting of her rejected song—a melancholic ballad dismissed as “too heavy” by a producer’s sharp voice. The wound burned, a secret she hid even from her members, who saw her as their quiet “cat,” not the girl whose shadows bled into her lyrics.

Danielle, sprawled on the floor with a sketchpad, looked up, her smile radiant despite the late hour. “Haerin, your songs are magic,” she said, her voice lilting, a spark in the dim room. “Don’t give up on them, okay? They’re you.” Her optimism was a balm, but it deepened Haerin’s fear—what if “she” wasn’t enough for the spotlight’s demands?

Hanni, curled in an armchair with a guitar she rarely played, nodded, her eyes warm with empathy. “Yeah, they’re like… a piece of your heart,” she said, strumming a clumsy chord, her laugh softening the tension. “You’ll share when you’re ready, Haerin. We’ve got your back.” Their support was a tether, a love that made Haerin’s chest ache with gratitude and guilt, knowing her silence hurt them, too.

Minji, standing by the counter with a mug of tea, caught Haerin’s distant gaze and sighed, her leader’s calm fraying. “We’re a team, Haerin,” she said, her voice firm but laced with worry, her eyes searching. “Your songs, your quiet… they’re part of us. But we need you to let us in.” Her words were a plea, a reminder of their shared dream, and Haerin nodded, her smile forced, the weight of Minji’s trust heavier than the stage’s spotlight.

When Hyein later teased, “You’re our wandering cat, unnie!” and hugged her, Haerin felt the pull of their love, a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. She’d slipped out that morning, hoodie up, umbrella in hand, chasing a moment where her voice could be hers, not the idol’s, not the “cat’s,” but Haerin’s—a moment she’d found in the alley, with Y/N’s chords and a stray cat’s whimsy.

-

In the alley, Haerin’s gaze lingered on Y/N, the memory of her members’ warmth—Danielle’s optimism, Hanni’s empathy, Minji’s worry, Hyein’s spark—fading but their voices echoing, a reminder of the home beyond the puddle’s tiny galaxy. The duet had been her rebellion, her voice unshackled, but Minji’s text pulled at her, a thread she couldn’t cut. She stepped closer, her sneaker brushing the guitar case, and reached out, adjusting Y/N’s strap, her fingers grazing his shoulder with deliberate care. The touch was electric, a spark that made Y/N freeze, his pulse racing, the air thick with unspoken longing. Her hand lingered, her breath hitching, her eyes searching his, as if memorizing the boy who’d given her this stage, this fleeting freedom.

Y/N’s heart thudded, his hand twitching as if to reach for hers, but he stopped, his fingers curling into his palm, the moment too fragile to break. “You don’t have to be what they want,” he said, his voice low, raw, a confession born of their duet. “You’re enough. Right here, right now.” His words were a lighthouse, steady in her storm, but his eyes betrayed his fear—that she’d walk away, that the alley’s magic would fade like the rain’s last drops. He thought of the napkin in his pocket, its lighthouse and shadow a promise of someday, and added, “Your song… it’s still in you. Don’t let them take it.” His voice trembled, a plea for her to hold onto the Haerin he’d heard, the one who’d sung of shadows and set his heart alight.

Haerin’s eyes glistened, unshed tears catching the streetlight, and she nodded, her voice a whisper. “You don’t know how much that means,” she said, her fingers brushing her necklace, the silver star glinting like a vow. “But I… I don’t know how to be both. The me here, and the me they need.” Her confession was a crack in her armor, and she stepped closer, the puddle’s glow framing her sneakers, her breath mingling with his in the cool air. “You make me want to try,” she added, her voice soft, a melody of hope and fear, her eyes holding his, a universe of trust and longing that made the alley feel infinite.

The cat, sensing the weight, leapt from the crate, splashing in a puddle with a playful flick of its tail, its pawprints shimmering like a constellation scattered across a canvas. It circled Y/N’s feet, brushing against his sneaker, its wet fur leaving a faint mark, a whimsical claim on their moment. Haerin laughed, a soft, bittersweet sound, and Y/N joined her, their laughter a shared chord, fragile but real. “Our critic’s got opinions,” he said, his voice light but warm, his eyes meeting hers, a silent thank-you for holding this space with him. The cat darted to Haerin, nuzzling her hand, and she knelt, her fingers gentle, her smile a spark in the alley’s shadows.

“Look,” Haerin said, her voice soft, whimsical, pointing to the puddle where the cat had splashed. “A tiny galaxy, breaking apart.” The reflections—pink, violet, a flicker of blue—swirled like stars scattering, a fleeting universe they’d created, now fraying at the edges. Y/N crouched beside her, their shoulders brushing, the puddle’s glow framing their faces, their reflections blurred but close. “We’ll write about it someday,” he said, his voice low, a half-joke laced with longing, the word someday heavy with the truth they both felt: this moment was borrowed, their worlds too different to hold it forever.

Haerin’s smile was bittersweet, her eyes tracing the puddle’s fading stars. “Someday,” she echoed, her voice a whisper, her fingers brushing the guitar case, as if to anchor herself to the alley, to him. She stood, her sneaker scuffing the pavement, and her gaze lingered on the cat, now curled on the crate with a contented yawn, its approval a whimsical seal on their fragile stage.

Her phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with another text: Haerin, please. We’re waiting. – Minji. Haerin’s expression clouded, her fingers tightening on the phone, her shoulders slumping under the weight of duty and love. She silenced it, but her gaze drifted to the alley’s end, where the city’s neon glow pulsed, a relentless reminder of the life she’d paused. “I… have to go soon,” she said, her voice cracking, each word a step away from the alley, from him. Her eyes met Y/N’s, bright with unshed tears, and he saw the battle in her—freedom versus loyalty, shadows versus light, the Haerin of the alley versus the Haerin of the stage.

Y/N’s heart twisted, his hands clenching, the urge to hold her here warring with the need to let her go. He stepped closer, the puddle’s glow fading under their shadows, and his voice was raw, a final chord. “You’ll find a way,” he said, his eyes steady, a lighthouse in her storm. “To be both. To keep your song.” His words were a vow, a belief in the girl who’d sung with him, and he reached into his pocket, brushing the napkin’s lighthouse and shadow, a reminder of their someday. “And if you ever need an audience… I’m here,” he added, his voice soft, his smile shy but real, his heart laid bare.

Haerin’s breath caught, her fingers brushing her necklace, the silver star a silent promise. She stepped closer, the space between them a breath, and her voice was a whisper, a melody of gratitude and longing. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes holding his, a galaxy they’d built in a puddle’s glow. “For seeing me.” Her words were a gift, a note that lingered in the alley’s hush, and Y/N felt the ache of a song they might never finish, a love they might never name, but one that would echo in every chord he played.

The cat stretched, its paw dipping into the puddle, sending ripples that blurred their tiny galaxy, a whimsical reminder of time’s passage. Haerin’s laugh was soft, a spark in the fading light, and Y/N joined her, their laughter a shared refrain, a moment they’d hold against the city’s pull. The alley cradled them, its shadows and puddles a stage for their unspoken vows, but the neon glow crept closer, the city’s pulse louder, a reminder that their time was borrowed, not owned. Y/N’s fingers brushed the guitar case, the napkin a weight in his pocket, and he looked at Haerin, her hoodie damp, her eyes bright, and felt the promise of a song that could outlast the rain, if only they could find their way back to this alley, to each other.

-

The alley shimmered with the echo of their laughter, a fleeting chord sparked by the cat’s puddle splash, its pawprints glinting like fading stars in the neon-streaked water. The city’s glow—pink, violet, a fractured blue—pressed closer, its light swallowing the puddles’ fragile galaxies, as if Seoul itself was reclaiming Haerin from the shadows. The brick walls, etched with moss and graffiti’s ghosts—hearts bleeding into curses, a dragon’s smeared coils, a name scratched in desperation—faded under the streetlight’s amber haze, their stories dimming as the alley mourned the magic slipping away. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of drying asphalt, the distant char of a barbecue cart, and a faint trace of motor oil from a scooter idling beyond the alley’s mouth, where Seoul’s pulse grew louder—car horns, laughter, the glossy thrum of K-pop from a shop, its polished beat a harsh intruder in the alley’s raw hush. The stray cat, their whimsical critic, lounged on its crate, its tabby fur nearly dry, its green eyes glinting with a quiet sorrow, as if it sensed the farewell weaving through the night.

Y/N stood by his guitar case, his fingers brushing the journal scrap in his pocket, Haerin’s star doodle a weight that anchored her cheek graze—“Thank you… For seeing me”—to his heart, a melody he’d carry forever. His jacket, damp and frayed, clung to his shoulders, its cuffs brushing his wrists, a reminder of his place in Seoul’s margins—a busker whose songs barely filled a tin can. His hair fell into his eyes, damp strands catching the streetlight’s glow, and he pushed it back, his callused fingers trembling, not from the chill but from the grief clawing at his chest. Haerin, this girl who’d sung with him, who’d made him feel enough, was slipping away, her world of spotlights and schedules pulling her from the alley’s refuge. He glanced at her, her hoodie damp, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and saw the storm in her gaze—love for her unseen family warring with the freedom she’d found here, a girl torn between stars and shadows.

Haerin stood by the puddle, its last ripples fading, a mirror to her faltering resolve, her sneakers scuffing the pavement, leaving faint arcs in the dust that caught the streetlight’s amber haze. Her fingers clutched her phone, Hanni’s call—“Haerin, we’re worried. Come back, okay?”—a tether she couldn’t cut, its weight heavy in her pocket. Her necklace, the silver star pendant glinting under the streetlight, was a beacon of her hidden self, the Haerin who’d sung of shadows and lighthouses. Her eyes flicked to the alley’s end, where the city’s neon pulsed like a spotlight she couldn’t outrun, and she took a shaky breath, her voice a whisper, “I don’t want to wake up from this.” Her gaze settled on Y/N, a silent plea that pierced his chest, as if she could hold onto him, their song, the alley’s fleeting magic.

A flicker of light caught Y/N’s eye—a makeshift setup at the alley’s end, where a battered table held a microphone, a tangle of wires, and a glowing radio transmitter, its antenna swaying like a metronome. A quirky DJ, her hair streaked with purple, adjusted a headset, her voice crackling through a small speaker: “Midnight Waves, broadcasting raw Seoul to whoever’s listening.” The setup was rogue, unpolished, a rebellion against the city’s glossy soundscape, and Y/N’s heart raced, a spark of possibility igniting. He glanced at Haerin, her eyes wide with curiosity, and said, his voice low, “What if… we share it? Our song. Right now.” His words were a dare, a chord born of their duet, and he braced for her to pull away, but her gaze held his, a galaxy of courage and longing.

Haerin’s breath caught, her fingers brushing her necklace, the silver star trembling against her skin. “With strangers?” she asked, her voice cracking, a mix of fear and defiance. But her eyes flicked to the radio, its static hum a siren call, and she nodded, a small, resolute motion. “Let’s do it,” she said, her voice soft but fierce, a rebellion against the idol mask she’d worn too long. She stepped toward the setup, Y/N beside her, their shadows merging in the puddle’s faint glow, a fleeting union against the city’s pull.

The DJ grinned, her eyes glinting with mischief. “You’ve got a song?” she asked, handing Haerin the mic, its weight cool in her trembling hands. Y/N lifted his guitar, its chipped neck steady under his fingers, and strummed a G major, the chord resonating like a deep breath, their duet’s echo reborn. Haerin’s voice joined, raw and unpolished, her shadow lyrics weaving with his chords: “Shadows sway where no one sees…” The broadcast carried their music into the night, to unseen listeners in Seoul’s corners—taxi drivers, night owls, dreamers like them. The alley transformed, its shadows a stage, the cat their silent critic, its tail flicking in approval.

Y/N’s heart swelled, his chords bolder, a C major bridge lifting Haerin’s melody like a lighthouse’s beam. Her voice trembled, not with fear but with release, each note a defiance against the polished world waiting for her. The DJ nodded, her headset bobbing, and whispered, “You’re reaching them,” her words a spark that lit the alley brighter than the neon. Haerin’s eyes met Y/N’s, bright with tears and courage, and he saw the girl who’d sung his heart back to him, the girl who’d made him believe he could be heard.

-

The NewJeans dorm was a sanctuary that night, the air soft with the scent of lavender candles Hyein had lit, their flames flickering like stars against the walls. Haerin sat on her bed, her journal open, its pages heavy with lyrics too raw for the stage—a voice the spotlight wouldn’t free, a shadow yearning for light. The sting of her rejected ballad, dismissed as “too heavy,” lingered, a bruise she hid from her members, who saw her as their quiet dreamer, their “cat.”

Hyein, sprawled on the floor with a manga, looked up, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Unnie, your songs are like… stories we need,” she said, her voice eager, a melody of trust. “You’ll share them someday, right?” Her faith was a spark, but it deepened Haerin’s fear—what if her truth was too heavy for their shared dream?

Danielle, curled on the couch with a sketchpad, nodded, her smile radiant. “They’re you, Haerin,” she said, her voice lilting, a balm against the bruise. “Don’t let anyone silence them.” Her optimism was a weight, a love Haerin cherished but couldn’t fully repay, her silence a wall she hadn’t meant to build.

When Minji later sighed, “We worry when you wander,” and Hanni hummed one of Haerin’s melodies, Haerin felt their bond, a home she couldn’t abandon. She’d slipped out that morning, hoodie up, chasing a moment where her voice could be hers, a moment she’d found in the alley, with Y/N’s guitar and a stray cat’s whimsy.

-

The broadcast ended, the mic’s hum fading, and Haerin handed it back, her fingers trembling, her eyes meeting Y/N’s, a silent thank-you for this defiance, this stage. The DJ leaned in, her voice low. “You’ve got a gift, both of you. I run this every week—want a slot, guitarist?” Y/N’s breath caught, the offer a horizon he’d never dared imagine, a platform to reach beyond the alley. He nodded, his voice steady, “I’m in,” a vow sparked by Haerin’s courage, a step out of his isolation.

Haerin’s phone buzzed, a text from Hyein: “Unnie, where are you? We miss you.” Her eyes glistened, her fingers tightening on the phone, but she took a breath, her voice resolute. “I’m going to pitch one,” she said, her gaze steady on Y/N. “A raw song, to my label. They might hate it, but… I need to try.” Her promise was a rebellion, a spark of the Haerin who’d sung in the alley, and Y/N’s chest swelled, pride mingling with grief.

The crowd at the alley’s end grew louder, their phones flashing, whispers of “It’s her!” sharp against the night. A new call cut through—Haerin’s manager, her voice clipped: “Haerin, you’re late. Car’s here.” Haerin tensed, her hand dropping to her hoodie, her eyes flicking to Y/N, a silent apology. The alley’s refuge crumbled, the crowd’s gaze a spotlight she couldn’t escape. “I have to go,” she said, her voice cracking, her gaze returning to the puddle, its lost constellations a mirror to her heart.

Y/N nodded, his jaw tight, the grief of losing her warring with the hope she’d sparked. He stepped closer, his hand hovering, as if to touch her, but stopped, the crowd’s presence a barrier. “Sing it,” he said, his voice steady, a lighthouse in her storm. “Your song. And I’ll play mine, out there.” His eyes held hers, a vow to carry her belief into Seoul’s corners, to a radio’s waves, to a new stage.

Haerin’s eyes glistened, her hand reaching out, fingers grazing his, a touch so brief it felt like a dream, yet it lingered, a note that would echo in every song he played. “You’re my constellation,” she said, her voice a melody of gratitude, her eyes tracing his face—his damp hair, his callused hands, the hope he couldn’t hide. The cat leapt from the crate, nudging Haerin’s sneaker, its purr a whimsical farewell, and she laughed, a sound that mingled with Y/N’s, a final refrain.

Haerin turned, her hoodie a dark silhouette against the neon glow, and walked toward the crowd, her steps heavy but resolute. Y/N watched, the radio’s static hum a promise in his pocket, and picked up his guitar, the alley’s shadows cradling their someday. The cat meowed, a final note, as Y/N stepped toward the DJ’s setup, ready to play, to send their constellation into Seoul’s heart.

-

The Hongdae streets pulsed with life, a kaleidoscope of neon and noise where summer’s last warmth clung to the air, mingling with the scent of grilled skewers, bubble tea, and the faint tang of spray paint from a street artist’s mural. Fairy lights crisscrossed above, their golden glow swaying in the breeze, casting constellations onto the pavement where buskers strummed, dancers spun, and crowds flowed like a river—students with neon bracelets, couples sharing earbuds, vendors calling out for takoyaki. The energy was electric, a far cry from the alley’s quiet shadows, yet the hum of raw music—guitars, beatboxes, a lone violin—carried the same defiant heartbeat Y/N had felt months ago, when Haerin’s voice had woven with his under a rogue radio’s static hum. The city’s pulse was louder here, neon signs flashing—blue, pink, a violet flicker—over shops blasting K-pop, but the festival’s stage, a wooden platform draped in lanterns, was a haven for the unpolished, where Y/N’s chords now rang.

He stood under the lanterns, his guitar steady in his hands, its chipped neck a badge of every alley note he’d played. His jacket, still frayed but cleaner, hung loosely, the journal scrap with Haerin’s star doodle a quiet weight in his pocket, her cheek graze a melody that hadn’t faded in five months. His hair, longer now, fell into his eyes, catching the lantern’s amber glow, and he pushed it back, his callused fingers steady, no longer trembling. The Midnight Waves broadcast had given him a voice, a small but loyal following tuning in each week, and tonight, he was here, a guest performer at Hongdae’s street festival, his chords reaching a crowd that swayed, clapped, and tossed coins into his open case. The producer’s echo—“You’re not special enough”—was distant now, drowned by the listeners who’d heard his shadows, by Haerin’s belief that had carried him here. He strummed a G major, the chord that had started their duet, and sang, his voice low, raw: “Shadows sway where no one sees…” The crowd hummed, a few singing along, and Y/N’s chest swelled, a quiet confidence blooming where despair once lived.

Across the street, Haerin wove through the festival, her hoodie swapped for a denim jacket, a baseball cap shielding her eyes, though her silver star pendant was gone, left with Y/N in the alley’s final moments. She walked with Hyein and Danielle, NewJeans’ schedule loosened for a rare fan event—a pop-up booth where fans waved lightsticks and snapped photos. Haerin’s smile was practiced, her idol mask softer now, tempered by the shadow song she’d pitched to her label, a raw ballad NewJeans had recorded as a B-side, released last month to quiet acclaim. The victory was hers, a piece of the alley woven into her group’s light, but her heart still wandered to that rainy night, to Y/N’s chords, to the boy who’d seen her. Hyein nudged her, her eyes bright under a bucket hat. “Unnie, you’re daydreaming again,” she teased, waving a glowstick. Danielle laughed, her arm around Haerin’s shoulders. “Let her dream,” she said, her voice warm. “She’s earned it.”

A familiar chord caught Haerin’s ear, a G major that pierced the festival’s din, and her breath hitched, her steps faltering. She turned, her eyes scanning the crowd, landing on the lantern-lit stage where Y/N stood, his voice carrying their duet’s echo: “…a lighthouse calls through endless seas.” Her heart raced, the alley’s shadows rushing back—the puddle’s stars, the cat’s nudge, his steady gaze. She slipped away, Hyein’s call—“Haerin, where’re you going?”—fading as she wove through the crowd, her cap low, her pulse loud in her ears. The stage drew her like a beacon, Y/N’s chords a thread that hadn’t snapped, a constellation they’d drawn together.

Y/N’s song ended, the crowd’s applause a soft roar, and he bent to scoop coins from his case, his fingers brushing the journal scrap, Haerin’s star a quiet vow. A shadow moved at the stage’s edge, a girl in a denim jacket, her cap casting her face in shadow, but her posture—hesitant, intense—stirred his heart. He straightened, his breath catching, and their eyes met, Haerin’s wide and bright, no longer hidden by a hoodie but shining with recognition. The crowd blurred, the festival’s noise fading, and the alley’s magic bloomed again, a stage for two.

Haerin stepped closer, her sneakers scuffing the pavement, a faint arc in the dust that echoed their alley nights. “Y/N,” she said, her voice soft, a melody that cut through the din, and his name on her lips was a chord he’d waited five months to hear. He set his guitar down, his hands trembling, not from fear but from the weight of her presence, the girl who’d lit his shadows. “Haerin,” he said, his voice low, raw, and he took a step, the space between them shrinking, the lantern’s glow merging their shadows as one.

-

Weeks after the alley, the air thick with the scent of chamomile tea Minji had brewed, its steam curling like a lullaby. Haerin sat on the couch, her journal open, the shadow song she’d recorded in secret now a demo she’d shared with her members, its raw notes a rebellion against the label’s polish. Minji sat beside her, her leader’s calm softened by pride. “It’s beautiful, Haerin,” she said, her voice firm, her eyes warm. “It’s you. We’ll fight for it.” Her support was a tether, a love that eased Haerin’s guilt for wandering.

Hanni, sprawled on the floor with a guitar, strummed a clumsy chord, her laugh bright. “It’s like… the alley came with you,” she said, her eyes teasing but kind. Danielle nodded, her sketchpad forgotten. “It’s our heart, too,” she said, her voice lilting, a spark in the dim room. Hyein, curled in an armchair, grinned. “Our cat brought back a treasure!” Their love was a home, a stage where Haerin’s voice could breathe, and she’d smiled, the alley’s echo—Y/N’s chords, the cat’s nudge—a promise she’d kept.

-

In Hongdae, Haerin’s breath caught, her fingers brushing her jacket, the absence of her star pendant a quiet ache. “I heard you,” she said, her voice cracking, a confession born of their broadcast. “On the radio, sometimes. Midnight Waves.” Her cheeks flushed, a shy admission, and Y/N’s heart thudded, the thought of her listening, miles away, a thread that hadn’t snapped. “I got a slot,” he said, his voice steady, a quiet pride. “And… an opening gig, for an indie band. Because of you.” His words were a vow, his eyes tracing her face—her cap’s shadow, her bright eyes, the courage she’d sparked.

Haerin’s smile was soft, bittersweet, and she stepped closer, the crowd’s hum a distant tide. “We recorded it,” she said, her voice firm, fierce. “My shadow song. It’s out, a B-side. They loved it.” Her triumph was a lighthouse, a victory over the industry’s chains, and Y/N’s chest swelled, pride mingling with longing. “I knew you would,” he said, his voice low, a melody of faith, and their eyes held, a galaxy they’d built in a puddle’s glow.

A fan’s voice broke the moment, a girl with a lightstick pointing: “Is that Haerin?” The crowd stirred, phones flashing, and Haerin tensed, her cap low, her eyes flicking to Y/N, a silent apology. Hyein and Danielle appeared, weaving through, Hyein’s grin wide. “Unnie, you found a stage!” she teased, but her eyes softened, seeing Y/N. Danielle nodded, her smile warm. “We’ll cover for you,” she whispered, pulling Hyein back, giving Haerin this moment.

The festival’s noise pressed closer, but Haerin stepped to the stage, her hand reaching for Y/N’s guitar, her fingers brushing his, a touch that lingered like their duet. “One more,” she said, her voice soft, whimsical, a spark in the farewell’s weight. She strummed a G major, shaky but sure, and sang, her voice raw: “Fading stars still guide the night…” Y/N joined, his chords steady, their voices weaving: “…a song for shadows, burning bright.” The crowd hushed, a few swaying, and the lanterns glowed, their light a constellation they’d drawn together.

The song ended, their voices fading, and Haerin handed the guitar back, her eyes glistening. “I like you,” she said, her voice a whisper, a confession torn from her journal’s pages, and Y/N’s breath caught, his heart laid bare. “I like you, too,” he said, his voice raw, his hand hovering, as if to touch her, but stopping, the crowd’s presence a gentle barrier. “Find me,” she said, her voice a melody of hope, her eyes holding his. “On the radio, in a song… I’ll be listening.”

Y/N nodded, his fingers brushing the journal scrap, her star a vow. “I’ll play,” he said, his voice steady, a lighthouse in her storm. “For you.” Haerin stepped back, her denim jacket a soft silhouette against the neon glow, and rejoined Hyein and Danielle, her smile shy but real. A stray cat, tabby and familiar, darted through the crowd, brushing Y/N’s sneaker, its green eyes glinting, a whimsical echo of their alley. Y/N laughed, the sound mingling with Haerin’s, a final refrain, and picked up his guitar, the festival’s stage a new beginning, their love a song that would find its way, carried on Hongdae’s lights, on radio waves, on the stars they’d scattered together.

[cumironi]

Filthiest suo smut you can write (bonus points for using “good girl”) 🫣

꒰   FREAKY DEAKY   ꒱

SUO HAYATO. . . . you and suo were dating back in high school, you two were love birds, people tend to go around calling you two soulmate because of how perfect you two are for each other, but you two break up, and meet again after 8 years. you two are at the local club with friends, and one thing leads to another, by at the end of the night, suo hayato found his dick inside you.

warning : age-up! suo sayato ( mid-twenty sou & reader ), ōral ( m! receiving ), dirty talk, degrading, praise kink, hair-pulling, name-calling, choking, fingering, toxicity.

w/c : 8,9k

as you stand with your friends, the music pulsating through the dimly lit club, your eyes scan the room until they land on a familiar figure across the way. your heart skips a beat—it's suo hayato. it's been over eight years since you last saw him, yet there he is, just as you remember.

that unsettling, bone-chilling smile curves on his lips, sending a shiver down your spine. his presence is magnetic, even after all this time. he’s still wearing that eye-patch, a symbol of the man he was—and perhaps still is. memories flood back, mixing with the heavy bass of the music.

he catches your gaze, and for a moment, it feels like no time has passed at all. the room seems to shrink, the noise fading into the background as your past collides with the present. his smile never wavers, and you can't help but wonder what he's thinking, what he's doing here after all these years. it’s like a ghost has walked back into your life, and you’re not sure if you’re ready to face it.

you quickly avert your gaze, trying to focus on anything else—the lights, the crowd, the drink in your hand—but it’s no use. you can feel his eyes on you, that maroon gaze piercing through the dimness of the club, tracking your every move like a predator locked onto its prey.

you shift uncomfortably, moving closer to your friends, hoping the crowd will swallow you up, but it’s as if he’s tethered to you. every time you glance up, there he is, that unnerving smile never fading.

the air feels thicker, the music more distant as your anxiety starts to creep in. you know you should walk away, leave the club, but something keeps you rooted in place—maybe it’s the unresolved tension, the years of distance, or maybe it’s just the fear of what might happen if you turn your back on him.

you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but the intensity of his stare only grows, making your skin crawl. it’s like he’s silently daring you to come closer, to confront whatever it is that lingers between you after all this time. but are you ready to face him?

your heart pounds in your chest, and you instinctively turn away, desperately trying to lose yourself in the sea of people around you. courage is the last thing you feel—you don’t want to face him, don’t want to remember the way his soft hands used to trace your skin, or how his lips would brush against yours in those quiet moments you shared.

no, you don’t want any of that. the thought of meeting him again, of exchanging words, or worse, feeling that familiar touch, sends a wave of panic through you. the memories are too vivid, too raw, and you can’t afford to let them resurface now.

you down your drink, hoping the burn will distract you from the growing anxiety, but it does little to calm your nerves. all you want is to escape, to forget that he’s even here, but the weight of his presence lingers, heavy and suffocating.

you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, taking a deep breath, trying to ground yourself, but the images of the past keep flashing in your mind—his hands, his lips, his voice. no, you can’t do this. not here, not now.

with a shaky breath, you tell your friends you need some air, forcing a casual smile. they don’t question it, too caught up in the night’s excitement to notice the turmoil beneath the surface. as you make your way to the exit, you pray that he won’t follow, that this encounter will stay in the past where it belongs.

as you push through the crowd, trying to make your way to the exit, your eyes unintentionally catch sight of them—his friends, your old circle. nirei, with her always-cool demeanor, leans against the bar, laughing at something sakura said. sakura, ever the lively one, gestures animatedly, her laughter ringing above the music. umemiya, stoic as ever, stands off to the side, nursing a drink, while hiragi, with that perpetual smirk, surveys the room.

seeing them together, unchanged after all these years, makes your chest tighten. they were once a part of your life too, part of the memories you’ve tried so hard to leave behind. but now, just like him, they’re here, pulling you back into a time you’ve long since tried to forget.

you notice the subtle glances they throw in his direction, the way they seem to orbit around him, just as they always did. it’s as if nothing’s changed—as if you could walk over and slip right back into the group, like you were never gone. but the thought is fleeting, immediately replaced by the dread of facing them again, of them seeing the way you’re struggling to keep your composure.

you finally reach the exit, the cool night air hitting your face as you step outside. you take a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering unease, but it clings to you, stubborn and unrelenting. their faces, their laughter, his smile—they’re all etched into your mind, no matter how much distance you put between yourself and the club.

as you stand there, away from the noise and the memories, you realize that no matter how much time has passed, some parts of the past are always ready to resurface, waiting for the moment when you least expect them.

just as you think you've escaped, just as the cool air outside offers a brief respite, it happens. a strong hand grabs your arm, pulling you back inside with a force that takes your breath away. before you can react, you're dragged through the crowded club, everything blurring around you as panic surges through your veins.

within seconds, you're shoved into one of the bathrooms. the door slams shut behind you, and the sound of the lock clicking into place echoes in the small space. your heart is racing, fear and adrenaline mixing into a dizzying rush as you try to make sense of what’s happening.

you’re pushed back against the wall, your mind reeling, and then you see him—suo hayato, standing there in front of you, his presence dominating the cramped room. his maroon eye gleams with an unsettling intensity, and that bone-chilling smile is still fixed on his face, but now there’s something darker in it, something that makes your blood run cold.

“did you really think you could just walk away?” his voice is low, almost a whisper, but it cuts through the silence like a knife. his grip on your arm tightens, and you feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating.

you try to pull away, but he doesn’t let go, keeping you trapped between him and the cold tiles of the bathroom wall. your mind races, searching for something to say, something to do, but all you can focus on is the way he’s looking at you, like you’re a puzzle he’s been waiting to solve for far too long.

“you can’t just ignore me,” he murmurs, leaning in closer, his breath warm against your skin. “not after all this time.” his words hang in the air, heavy with implication, and you realize just how deep you’re in—trapped, with no way out, forced to confront the man you’ve spent years trying to forget.

the cramped bathroom's dim light reflects off the polished tiles, casting eerie shadows on the closed door and the small sink. the air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and the thumping bass from the club's music reverberates through the walls.

for the first few moments, the only sounds are the labored breaths escaping both your lips. your heart races so rapidly, you’re sure he can hear it. your mind is clouded by a blend of fear and a strange sense of anticipation—a feeling that’s hard to reconcile, almost contradictory.

“i’ve got you now,” he mutters, his teeth bared in a sinister smile. his hand slides down your arm to your hip, gripping tightly as he presses closer against you, pinning you further against the wall.

“you can’t ignore me anymore. we’ve got unfinished business, you and i,” he adds. his face is so close that you can feel the heat of his breath against your skin. as he leans in, the heat from his body radiating against yours, your back presses harder into the wall. his voice is a low murmur, each word accompanied by a breath that seems to caress your skin.

his hand on your hip becomes more firm, almost possessive, as if he's marking you as his. you can feel the coolness of his rings against your skin, contrasting sharply with the warmth of his touch.

“unfinished business?” you manage to stammer out, your voice quivering despite your best efforts to maintain composure. the warmth of his breath is almost unbearable, causing a strange shiver to run down your spine.

you try again to push against his chest, to create any space between you, but he holds firm, your efforts merely a token resistance against his strength and determination. “what the fuck are you talking about?” you demand, the accusation slipping out without thought.

he moves in closer, until there’s virtually no space left between you. his body is flush against yours, his breath now mere inches away from your face. his eye gleams in the dim light, studying you intently, an air of quiet satisfaction about him.

he doesn’t reply right away. instead, he brings his other hand up to your face, his thumb lightly tracing the line of your jaw. his touch is surprisingly gentle, almost tender, a stark contrast to his unyielding grip on your hip.

his maroon eye searches your face with a relentless intensity, as if he's trying to decipher something hidden deep within you. his thumb moves slowly, tracing a delicate, circular path on your skin, gradually moving upward until it brushes over your bottom lip. the touch is soft, almost gentle, but it carries a weight that makes your breath hitch.

there's a brief silence as he watches you, and then he speaks, his voice softer now but still laced with that underlying intensity. “you really don’t know?”

his words send another shiver down your spine, and the tension in the small bathroom becomes almost unbearable. you can feel it building between you, thickening the air as the reality of the situation crashes down on you.

anger flares up in response, burning away the fear that had momentarily paralyzed you. your brows knit together as you glare at him, your voice sharp with frustration and defiance. “no, suo, i fucking don’t know.”

his thumb pauses on your lip, and the smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth only fuels your anger. but there’s something else in his expression too—something that makes you feel like you’re on the edge of understanding, yet still in the dark.

you jerk your head away from his touch, but he doesn’t back off, his gaze still locked onto yours. the smirk fades slightly, replaced by a more serious look, as if your defiance has finally caught his attention in a way that matters. “then maybe,” he murmurs, his voice lowering even more, “it’s time you remembered.”

there's a pause, a moment where the silence in the bathroom seems to stretch out almost indefinitely. the only sound is the thumping bass from the club below and the sound of your own quickened breathing.

he studies you intently, as if seeing something hidden within you that you're not even aware of yourself. his smirk fades, replaced by a strange mixture of seriousness and something else—something almost like anticipation.

“maybe you need a reminder,” he repeat.

his words hang in the air for a moment, the implications of them becoming clearer with each passing second. his expression is intense, almost predatory, as he gazes down at you. his eye flickers between your eyes and your lips, as if trying to decide where to focus his attention. without warning, he moves his hand from your lip, instead reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your face. his touch is light but deliberate, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

the gesture is strangely intimate, his touch lingering against your skin. his fingers trail along your jaw and then down the side of your neck, sending another shiver through you. he leans in closer, his face so close now that you can feel his breath on your cheek. his voice is low, almost a whisper, as he speaks the next words. “close your eyes,” he murmurs, the command leaving no room for disobedience.

you hesitate for a brief moment, your mind swirling with a mix of fear, confusion, and a strange sort of anticipation. but his words, spoken in that low, commanding tone, leave little room for defiance.

slowly, almost reluctantly, you close your eyes, your world suddenly plunged into darkness. you’re acutely aware of his presence so close to you, the proximity making your stomach flutter with uncertainty.

the absence of sight seems to heighten the other sensations—the heat of his body against yours, the sound of your heart thudding in your chest, his scent, a mix of cologne and something else, something distinctly him. as your sight is taken away, your other senses seem to sharpen. the heat emanating from his body feels almost searing, the thump of your heart in your ears is almost deafening, and his scent wraps around you like a fog.

he’s silent for a moment, you can feel his eyes on you, even through your closed lids. after a few more seconds, he speaks again, his voice a low rumble against your skin. “tell me something, y/n,” he murmurs.

your heart feels like it’s lodged in your throat, each beat echoing in the tight space between you. swallowing hard, you manage to whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat. “what?”

your whisper hangs in the air, fragile and uncertain, as you wait for his response. the vulnerability in your voice doesn’t go unnoticed by him; you can feel it in the way his grip on you tightens ever so slightly, and in the way the energy between you shifts, becoming even more charged with the weight of whatever is about to be said.

his grip on your hip tightens, his fingers digging into the flesh just a little bit more. his other hand moves to your chin, tilting your head up slightly, forcing you to angle your face towards him. the silence stretches again, and then his low voice breaks it, his question spoken in a tone that's both commanding and oddly vulnerable, a stark contrast to his earlier demeanor.

“do you remember our first kiss?”

his question pierces through the charged silence, filling the small space between you with an almost tangible tension. the memory of that moment—your first kiss, all those years ago—floods back into your mind, and your heart stutters in your chest.

his thumb, still resting under your chin, moves in a slow, feather-light stroke along your bottom lip, the touch sending a jolt down your spine. his eye is fixed on your face, waiting for your response. the world seems to pause for a moment as the question hangs in the air. your mind whirls as memories surface unbidden.

you remember the softness of his lips, the heat of his body against yours, the way the world seemed to fade away as you lost yourselves in that one brief moment. it's a memory that holds so much power, so much emotion. but you’re wary, not quite sure what he's after with this question. your voice trembles slightly as you respond, “yes.”

his hand on your hip moves slightly, his fingers tracing small, absent patterns against your skin. his touch is strangely soothing, and yet it also serves to remind you of the physical reality of the situation—of his closeness, the pressure of his body against yours.

your answer seems to please him, as he lets out a small hum of satisfaction. his thumb continues its slow, rhythmic motion against your lip, as if claiming it in some way.

“good,” he murmurs, “i wanted to make sure.”

his gaze drifts from your eyes down to your lips, his eye flickering almost possessively over them. the tension between you ratchets up another notch—a simmering cocktail of memories, old feelings, and current confusion.

he leans in, closing the already small gap between you, his breath mingling with yours almost as if he’s tasting the air itself. his voice is a low, almost reverent murmur as he speaks again, “i’ve been thinking about that kiss, a lot recently.”

as he talks, his words brush against your skin like a gentle caress, sending another wave of shivers down your spine. his touch on your lip is still light and almost reverent, a stark contrast to the possessive grip on your hip. “and do you remember…,” he continues, his voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper now, “how it ended?”

his question hangs in the air like a challenge, his voice just barely above a whisper. the memory of how that kiss ended floods your mind again, the image hazy and uncertain after all this time, but still potent.

the air between you feels stifling, heavy with anticipation. his lips are just millimeters away from yours, his breath warm against your skin. his eye is fixated on your face, studying your every reaction.

he waits for your answer, his words lingering in the silence like a loaded gun. his voice whispers against your skin, each word carrying an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. the combination of his touch and the heat of his body against yours is almost overwhelming, but somehow you feel drawn in even closer, as if there’s some invisible pull between you that you can’t resist.

as he continues, his voice drops to a low murmur, the memory of that moment, of how it all ended, comes flooding back to you. “yes,“ you murmur back, your voice shaky. “i remember.” as you speak, his eye seems to narrow slightly, studying your face with an almost predatory intensity. there's a moment of silence, where the only sound is the thumping of your mingled heartbeats in the cramped space.

he leans in even closer, his lips now tantalizingly close to yours. his hand on your hip tightens, his grip no longer gentle but firm, a silent assertion of dominance. “tell me,” he commands, his voice barely above a whisper, “what happened next?” the air around you seems to grow even thinner, his proximity making it hard to breathe. his hand on your hip is a constant reminder of his control over the situation, his grip a silent warning not to defy him.

his lips are right there, so close you could almost taste them, yet still somehow out of reach. their heat seems to linger on your skin, a prelude to something more.

he repeats his demand, his voice a low rumble that resonates through your chest. “tell me what happened next.” the question pulls you from your fog, leaving you feeling both nervous and groggy, like you’re teetering on the edge of a dream and reality. your mind races, trying to piece together what he wants, but the haze of fear and the overwhelming presence of him makes it hard to think straight.

“you..” you manage to say, your voice shaky and uncertain. the words come out almost as a whisper, your nerves making it difficult to speak clearly. “you touching me and we...” his grip on your hip tightens slightly, and you can sense his frustration, but also a twisted sort of satisfaction. it’s like he’s enjoying this—the power he has over you, the way he can make you feel so small, so unsure.

he listens to your shaky words intently, his eye flickering between your eyes and your lips as you speak. his grip on you remains firm, his body pressing even closer against yours, as if he's desperate for any reaction from you. he seems to relish your nervous stammering, feeding off the sense of unease he's creating in you. it's almost as if he's testing you, seeing how far he can push you before you break.

when you don't continue, he prompts you again, his voice a low growl. “and then...?” your mind is foggy, overwhelmed by the heat of his body, the closeness of him, and the power he holds over you in this moment. you’re barely holding on, teetering between fear and something else—something that draws you closer to him, even when every rational part of you screams to run.

with a shaky breath, you finally find the words, your voice soft and groggy, almost as if you’re in a trance. “and then… we’re having sex, suo.”

the admission hangs in the air, your heart pounding in your throat as you wait for his reaction. the tension is almost unbearable, your senses overloaded by his proximity, his scent, the way his eye locks onto yours with a burning intensity. as your words hang in the air, you can feel his body tense against yours. his grip on your hip tightens even more, his fingers digging into the flesh with a possessive pressure. his breath is heavier now, and his eye widens a fraction as he processes what you’ve just told him.

he doesn’t respond for a moment, his voice coming out as a low, almost gravelly whisper. “say it again.”

“we fucked,” you repeat.

the words come out in a soft, almost breathless murmur, your voice still shaky from the tension between you. his eye darkened, his expression turning predatory. as you speak, his grip becomes even tighter, his fingers digging into your skin and holding you in place. his breath is hot against your skin, and his body tenses even more, as if he's barely holding back.

he leans in even closer, his lips almost touching your ear as he speaks again. his tone is low and almost dangerous, a mix of intensity and desire.

“do you remember how it felt?”

“no,” you manage to lie whisper, your voice harsher this time, filled with a mix of fear, anger, and uncertainty, “i don't remember.” he pauses, his eye narrowing as he studies your face, clearly displeased with your answer.

he releases his grip on your hip, his hand trailing up your body slowly, almost lazily. he stops at your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a loose but firm hold. he doesn’t apply any pressure, but it’s enough to make you keenly aware of his power over you.

he leans in, his lips almost touching your ear again, his voice a possessive growl. “that’s not the right answer.” the possessive tone in his voice ignites a spark of defiance within you. pushing him away with all the strength you can muster, you glare at him, your voice laced with anger and frustration. “oh, fuck you, suo!”

the words burst out of you, raw and unfiltered, as you struggle to regain your composure. the anger in your voice seems to catch him off guard, and for a moment, the intensity in his eyes flickers. “you can just come back into my life after eight years of no contact and act all touchy and possessive?” your voice is sharp, laced with indignation and a deep sense of betrayal. “who do you think you are, showing up like this and trying to control me?”

the words spill out, each one fueled by the confusion and anger of seeing him again after so long. you shake your head, trying to emphasize just how out of place and unwelcome his actions feel.

he bristles at your harsh words, his eye flickering with a hint of annoyance. but rather than retreat or apologize, he seems to just double down, his grip on your neck tightening just slightly, a warning glance in his eye. “watch your tone,” he growls, his voice deep and authoritative. “i didn't come all this way just to be disrespected like this.”

he studies your face, his expression is a mix of anger and something else, something almost feral in its intensity, “you may have forgotten me, but we once meant something to each other.”

you snort in response, your voice dripping with skepticism and irritation. “yeah, right.” the dismissive tone in your voice echoes the defiance you feel, a refusal to be swayed by his attempts to rekindle old connections or assert dominance. his intensity only fuels your resolve to stand your ground, even as the tension between you remains palpable.

he tightens his grip a bit more, his expression darkening as your defiant attitude continues. he's clearly not used to not getting his way, and your refusal to submit to his demands is only serving to rile him up further.

he leans in closer, his face now mere inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. “don't get cocky,” he sneers, his voice low and menacing. “you may have forgotten how it feels to be mine, but your body hasn't.” his words hit you like a bolt of electricity, a chilling reminder of your past relationship. your heart pounds in your chest, your mind racing as you try to process his implication.

he leans in closer still, his face almost touching yours, his voice now a low, possessive growl. “your body remembers, even if your mind doesn’t.” he pauses, his eye flickering over your body in a way that makes your skin crawl. “i can always remind you.” with his fingers still around your neck, the pressure just enough to keep you aware of his presence, you grit your teeth and mutter, “fuck you.”

his grip on your neck tightens, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to make you gasp. he leans in even closer, his face now directly in front of yours, his eye burning with anger.

“watch your mouth,” he hisses, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “i’m not some pushover you can disrespect like this. i will remind you who you belong to.” struggling to maintain your composure, you push against him with whatever strength you can muster, trying to create some space. “fuck off, suo!” you snap, your voice hoarse but determined, trying to assert yourself despite the intimidating closeness.

he falters for a moment, caught off guard by your attempt to push him back. but his surprise is short-lived as he quickly regains his composure, his grip on you only tightening further in response to your continued defiance.

“you never did know when to stop,“ he growls, his voice deep and frustrated. he takes a step closer, towering over you, his body pressing against yours again. “you always were a stubborn, unruly little brat.” he leans in, his mouth mere inches from your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “but i was also the only one who could make you submit."

his hand on your neck slides down slightly, tracing a possessive line along your collarbone as he continues in a low, dangerous tone, “and i still know all the ways to make you bend to my will.” just like that he roughly kisses you and as your lips meet, he takes immediate control, claiming your mouth with a fierce possession that leaves you breathless.

his hand on your neck tightens once more, holding you in place as he devours you, his tongue forcefully exploring your mouth as if trying to prove just how thoroughly he can dominate you with his touch alone. his other hand grips your hip again, pulling your body flush against his, his fingertips digging into your flesh in a way that sends chills down your spine.

he continues to kiss you hungrily, the intensity in his movements growing with every passing moment. his tongue tangles with yours, his mouth bruising your lips with a possessive fervor.

he pushes you back against the wall, pressing his body against yours, trapping you between the cold surface and his overheated frame. his grip on your neck and hip tightens even more, any attempt to break free becoming increasingly impossible as he pours all his pent-up hunger and desire into the kiss.

his body covers yours, his presence surrounding you completely, a reminder of the power he holds over you in this moment. the kiss continues, his tongue delving deeper into your mouth, his body moving against yours in a way that ignites a fire within you despite your efforts to resist.

he seems desperate, almost as if he's trying to claim every inch of you, to make you remember just how good it feels to be under his control. his grip on your hip and neck only becomes tighter, becoming almost borderline painful as he kisses you with a hunger that borders on frenzy.

he breaks away from the kiss, panting heavily, his chest heaving against yours. his maroon eyes burn with an intense lust as they lock onto yours, his expression smug yet filled with a raw need. “i've been waiting for this,” he murmurs huskily, his voice low and commanding.

his hands roam freely over your curves, tracing the outline of your breasts before slipping down to cup your ass firmly. he grinds his hardened member against your thigh, a clear indication of his arousal. “don't fight me, love. it only makes things more interesting.”

the combination of his words, touch, and proximity makes your head spin. your heart pounds in your chest, your body betraying your conflicted emotions as it responds to his touch involuntarily. he leans in again, his mouth near your ear, his breath hot against your skin. he murmurs in a low, possessive tone, “i know you're resisting, but deep down you remember how much you enjoyed submitting to me.”

he chuckles darkly at your silent struggles, feeling your body react to him despite yourself. he presses himself closer to you, letting you feel every inch of his solid muscle against your softness. “let go of your pride, darling,” he whispers seductively, nibbling on your earlobe.

his hand slides up your side, teasing the curve of your breast before pinching your nipple through the fabric of your clothing, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. you let out a soft moan and for a second your eyes rolled back inside your head as if it remembered the touch.

he smirks, pleased with your reaction. “that's it, my sweet. show me just how much you want this,” he teases your other nipple, alternating between gentle caresses and firm pinches. his other hand trails lower, dipping beneath the hem of your skirt to find the warmth between your thighs.

he groans approvingly, feeling your wetness through the thin material of your panties. he slips his finger beneath the elastic band of your panties, teasing the edge of your slit. he circles your clit slowly, watching your face contort with pleasure. “you're so wet for me already,” he taunts, his voice laced with satisfaction.

he dips his finger inside you, feeling your walls clench around him. “you're going to come undone for me tonight,” he promises, his voice dripping with confidence. “oh, god—” something caught your throat— his long, sleek finger caught the air in your throat and your nails dig an invisible hole on his biceps.

he chuckles darkly, enjoying the effect he has on you, “god can't help you now, sweetheart. it's just you and me.” he pumps his finger in and out of you, curling it slightly to hit that special spot inside. his thumb rubs circles on your clit, increasing pressure and speed until your hips buck against his hand involuntarily.

“that's right, baby. ride my fingers like you used to ride my cock,” he growls, biting down on your neck hard enough to leave a mark. his other hand gropes your breast roughly, tugging and twisting your nipple. he adds another finger to your slick entrance, stretching you further as he fucks you with his hand. his pace is relentless, driving you closer to the edge with each thrust.

“come for me, darling,” he commands, pinching your clit between his thumb and forefinger, “show me how much you crave my touch.”

he leans in to capture your mouth in a rough, dominating kiss, swallowing your cries of pleasure as your orgasm crashes over you. his fingers continue to move inside you, milking every last drop of ecstasy from your trembling body. “s-stop, fuck—” you cries between his lips. your trembling hands move to push his hands away weakly.

he ignores your weak protests, maintaining the same punishing rhythm as he drives you towards another peak, “shh, don't fight it, baby. let go and enjoy the pleasure I'm giving you.” his thumb flicks rapidly over your swollen clit while his fingers curl to stroke your g-spot. you whimper a soft air, “oh, hayato. . .” and he can feel your walls fluttering around him, signaling your impending release.

“that's it, come for me one more time,” he growls against your lips, “then maybe i'll give you what we both really want— my cock buried deep inside your tight little pussy.” just like your body longing and begging for him your legs shaking between his. “oh god, oh god,” you mumble between your another moans.

he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you, his thumb working overtime on your clit. he can feel your body tensing, your orgasm building to a crescendo. “let it happen, darling,” he urges, his voice low and hypnotic, “give in to the pleasure. surrender to me completely.”

with one final thrust and swirl of his fingers, he sends you hurtling over the edge once more. your body convulses in his arms, a high-pitched moan escaping your lips as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you. he holds you close, riding out your climax with you, savoring the feeling of your tight pussy clenching around his fingers. when the spasms finally subside, he gently withdraws his hand from your underwear, leaving you panting and dazed against the wall.

he brings his glistening fingers to his mouth, sucking your essence off them with a satisfied groan. “mmm, you taste even better than i remembered,” he purrs, his eyes gleaming with renewed hunger. he steps back, admiring the sight of you flushed and disheveled from your orgasms. “now that's what i call a proper welcome home,” he says with a satisfied smirk.

his gaze drops to the bulge straining against his trousers, a clear indication of his own arousal. “but it's not fair for me to get all the fun, is it?“ he muses aloud. “time for me to bury myself inside you where i belong,” he declares, with his free hand, he quickly unbuckles his belt and shoves his pants down just enough to free his throbbing cock. the thick shaft bobs heavily in front of him, the swollen head already leaking pre-cum.

your rise and fall gently, trying to catch your breath before throwing the maroon irises in front of you a nasty look, “fuck you,” you grumble under your breath. hating the effect he still have on you with every single blood inside your body, with every breath you take you swore for the last twenty-five of your life you hate him— trying to hate him.

he chuckles darkly, unfazed by your defiance. “fuck me? oh, darling, i plan to do far more than that,” his voice is laced with a dangerous promise as he steps closer, pressing his erect length against your thigh. “you may hate me, but your body doesn't lie,” he says, reaching out to trace a finger along the curve of your hip. ouch!

“it remembers how good it felt when i fucked you senseless.” his hand moves lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your panties to cup your ass firmly. “and it wants more,“ he concludes, pulling you flush against him. with a swift movement, he grabs your hips and pulls you flush against him more, the tip of his cock pressing against your soaked folds. you have to bitch your lips from letting you tear another moan.

“tell me you want me,” he demands, his eyes burning into yours.

your eyes shaking lightly. your hands make a fist, tightly as if you are trying to tear your skin with your nails alone. “i hate you,” you spat, this time, trying so hard to sound you mean every single word. he smirks, undeterred by your words. “that's it, say it louder. let me hear you curse me to my face.” he grips your hips tighter, positioning himself at your entrance.

without waiting for an answer, he thrusts forward, sinking into you inch by delicious inch. a guttural moan escapes him as he fills you completely, stretching your pussy around his girthy length.

“oh, fuck... you're still so tight,” he groans, starting to move inside you. each thrust is deep and powerful, designed to claim you utterly. your hands automatically looking for his broad shoulders to cling into like it's where you belong. “oh, fuck,“ you moan against his ear, throwing your head back.

he bites down on your shoulder, marking you as his again. “that's it, moan for me,” he encourages, his pace quickening. each thrust hits that sweet spot inside you, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

his hands roam over your curves, squeezing and kneading your flesh as if he's trying to imprint every inch of you onto his memory. “i never stopped thinking about this pussy,” he confesses, punctuating his words with a particularly deep penetration. his grip on your hips tightens, guiding you to meet his thrusts.

“you were mine before anyone else's, and you'll be mine again,” he vows, his voice filled with raw possessiveness. he takes advantage of your vulnerability, nipping at your exposed neck before moving down to lavish attention on your breasts. his teeth graze over your nipples, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

“does this feel familiar?” he asks, punctuating his question with a particularly deep thrust. “your body knows exactly what it needs— me inside you.” his hands roam freely over your curves, squeezing and kneading your flesh as if he owns you. and in this moment, he does. he keeps going, pistoning in and out of you at a brutal pace. his balls slap against your ass with each powerful thrust, filling the room with lewd sounds of their coupling.

“i remember everything about you, y/n,” he murmurs against your skin, tracing patterns on your back with his fingertips. “how you whimpered when I touched you here...” he rolls his thumb over your clit, applying just enough pressure to send sparks shooting up your spine. it's like he's pushing a button, know which button that's going to make the best sounds, and he's going to do that, ever and ever again.

“and how you cried out when i filled you like this,” he continues, driving his cock deeper into your soaking wet cunt. “god, you were such a fucking slut for my dick.” his grip on your hips tightens as he picks up the pace, pounding into you relentlessly.

“so tell me, baby, who's your favorite fucker?”

you can't process an appropriate answer but instead your chin rests against his shoulder, bouncing a little each time he thrusts into you and tightly holding to him, “so good..” you moan, “so f-fucking good.”

he smirks against your neck, loving the way you surrender to his touch. he grins wickedly, pleased by your response. “damn right it is,” he agrees, giving a particularly hard thrust for emphasis, “no one else will ever make you feel this way.”

one hand leaves your hip to tangle in your hair, tugging your head back to expose your throat. he leans in, running his tongue along the column of your neck before biting down sharply. the vibrates of your moaning and whimpering flattering against sukuna's lips. “that's because you belong to me,” he growls possessively, punctuating his claim with another series of deep, penetrating thrusts. “this pussy is mine. this body is mine. everything about you is mine.”

he pounds into you harder, faster, chasing both your climaxes now. the obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the air, mingling with your moans and his grunts of exertion. you pull your neck away from his lips to meet with suo maroon irises. your cup his cheeks, resting your forehead against his. “i'm yours,” you whimper. he can feel your breath fanning on his skin.

his maroon eyes darken with lustful intent at your admission. “good girl,” he praises, his voice rough with desire, “say it louder. make sure i believe you.” he thrusts into you with renewed vigor, his hips snapping against yours with a force that borders on painful. but there's no pain in his touch, only pleasure, pure and unadulterated.

“say it again,” he commands, pinning you against the wall with his weight. “admit that you need me, that you crave my touch more than anything else in this world.” as he speaks, his fingers find your clit once more, rubbing circles around the sensitive bud while his cock drives deeper into your dripping heat.

“i'm yours,” you murmur before you captures his lips in a searing kiss, pouring all your pent-up emotions into the embrace. your tongue delves into his mouth, tangling with his in a sensual dance as old as time itself.

he kisses you back fiercely, his tongue dueling with yours in a heated battle of dominance. as he ravages your mouth, he doesn’t slow down his thrusts, keeping up the relentless rhythm that has you teetering on the edge of release.

breaking off the kiss, he trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jawline, nipping and sucking at your skin. “that's it, let go,” he whispers against your earlobe. “come for me, darling. show me how much you love being fucked by your favorite fucker.” he bitting your jaw before pulling his face away slightly, watching you close your eyes.

“look at me,” he orders, his voice husky with arousal. when you meet his gaze, he captures your lips once more, kissing you deeply as his orgasm builds within him. with a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you, his cock pulsing as he spills his seed deep within your womb. at the same moment, he feels your walls clench around him, milking his cock for every last drop as you come undone in his arms.

he stays buried inside you, breathing heavily as he rides out the aftershocks of your climax. your body clings to his, milking every last drop of cum from his throbbing member. slowly, he withdraws from you, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. “there's nowhere else in the world i'd rather be,” he admits softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your swollen lips.

he lets you down on your feet with his arms still wrap around your waist. your warm hand gently caresses his chest, down to his washboard abs before landing on his still-hard cock. your delicate fingers wrap beautifully around his shaft.he lets out a low chuckle, feeling your small hands wrap around his hardened shaft. “still eager for more, huh?” he teases, his maroon eyes glinting with mischief.

allowing you to take control, he watches intently as you start stroking him, your delicate fingers exploring every inch of his length. “fuck, that feels good,” he groans, tilting his head back slightly to enjoy the sensation. but soon, his patience runs thin. with a firm grip on your waist, he guides you to stand up properly.

“now let's see how well you can handle being taken from behind,” he whispers huskily into your ear. suo brings you to the nearest sink, and positions you with your back facing him. he can see your face from the mirror in front of you two. he steps close behind you, his hard cock prodding insistently at your entrance. in the mirror's reflection, his maroon eyes lock onto yours, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“watch yourself,” he instructs, his voice low and commanding, “see how i'm going to take you, right here where anyone could walk in.” without further warning, he grips your hips and plunges into you with a single, powerful stroke. a guttural moan escapes him as your warmth envelops his shaft once more.

“you're so damn tight,” he growls, starting to move. each thrust sends ripples through your body, the force of his penetration making the sink tremble beneath your hands. he grins at the sight of your flushed face reflected in the mirror, the way your lips part slightly as you gasp for air. “oh, h-hayato— god!” you sink your head down when you feel his cock full inside you.

each thrust sends ripples through your body, your breasts bouncing enticingly with every impact. he smirks, loving the view of your bouncing tits and the way your body responds to his touch. “that's it, darling,” he encourages, his hands roaming over your curves. “show me how much you love having my cock inside you.”

he increases his pace, his hips snapping against yours with ruthless efficiency. the slap of flesh against flesh fills the room, mixing with your soft whimpers and his deep grunts. in the mirror, he watches you lose yourself to pleasure, your features contorting with each intense wave of orgasmic bliss. “look at me,” he demands, needing to see those beautiful eyes glazed over with lust and submission.

“n-no!” you stutter between your whimper and moan. your hands gripping tightly around the edge of the sink. your eyes tightly shut and your head sink further. he frowns slightly, not liking your refusal. grabbing a fistful of your hair, he yanks your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze in the mirror.

“i said look at me,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument. “i want to see the moment you come apart completely.” his other hand snakes around your body to toy with your nipple, rolling the stiff peak between his fingers. at the same time, he alters his angle of penetration, aiming directly for that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

“yes, just like that,” he praises, feeling your inner muscles flutter around his invading length. “let go for me, baby. give me everything.” tears stream down your face as suo grabs a fistful of your hair, forcing you to look at him. the tears ruining your mascara. “f-faster,” you murmur.

he snickers at your plea, the sound muffled by the wet sounds of his hips slamming into yours. “faster? you think you can handle even more?” he taunts, a devilish glint in his maroon eyes. increasing his pace to an almost punishing rhythm, he revels in the sight of your body shaking under his assault. each powerful thrust hits that sweet spot inside you, driving you closer and closer to the brink of insanity.

the mirror fogged up from your heavy breathing, creating a steamy backdrop for the erotic spectacle unfolding before them. and in the midst of it all, he can't help but admire the way your body clings to his, the way your walls squeeze down on his cock with each merciless plunge.

“fucking perfect,” he murmurs approvingly, leaning in to nip at the tender skin of your neck. “oh, god, i-i— please don't stop,” you cried. your hand flying around before it lands on suo's hair. your hand desperately grabbing his hair for your support.

he chuckles darkly, loving the way your body writhes against his. “not stopping anytime soon, sweetheart,” he assures you, nipping at your skin with a hunger that matches the ferocity of his movements. with one hand tangled in your hair, he pulls your head back further, exposing the delicate column of your throat to his voracious appetite. his teeth graze along your skin, marking you as his in a primitive show of ownership.

each thrust becomes a promise, a vow of the endless pleasure he intends to give— and take— from you. he can already imagine the marks that will decorate your body, a silent testament to the night’s debauchery. “scream for me,” he demands, his voice laced with raw need. “let everyone know whose cunt is being fucked senseless.”

he redoubles his efforts, the sound of skin slapping against skin growing louder with each passing second. “that's it, scream for me,” he encourages, his voice a guttural whisper against your ear. his hand slides down from your hair, grasping your hip firmly to guide you against his thrusts. the angle shifts, allowing him to hit that sweet spot inside you with even greater precision. you can hear the moans spilling from your lips, echoing off the walls of the bathroom.

looking into the mirror, he takes in the sight of your flushed face, your eyes half-lidded with pleasure. the way your breasts bounce with each impact, nipples hard and begging for attention. it's a feast for his eyes, fueling his desire to claim you fully.

“fucking gorgeous,” he mutters, reaching up to tweak a nipple between his fingers. “i'm— coming,” you mutter as you look at suo from the mirror in front of you. he smirks, watching as your body tenses up, ready to surrender to the overwhelming waves of pleasure. “that's it, let it all out,” he encourages, his own climax looming dangerously close.

with a few more powerful thrusts, he drives you over the edge, milking your orgasm until every last drop of your essence coats his throbbing cock. your cries fill the room, mingling with the lewd sounds of flesh meeting flesh. as you come down from your high, he continues to pound into you relentlessly, chasing his own release. “not done yet,” he growls, his maroon eyes locked onto yours in the mirror.

feeling your pussy clench around him once again, he gives a final, triumphant thrust, his seed spurting hotly inside you. he leans against you, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. “fuck, that was incredible," he murmurs, his words still coming out in pants.

slowly, he pulls out of you, his cum leaking out of your spent pussy. he gives your ass a firm smack, his handprint reddening your skin. “you took my cock well, didn't you?” his hand moves lower, circling your clit teasingly. “but we're not done yet,” he warns, a wicked grin playing on his lips.

he steps back, releasing you from his grasp but keeping his hungry gaze locked on yours. “get on your knees,” he orders, his voice thick with lust. he waits impatiently for you to comply, his cock already starting to harden again at the thought of tasting your arousal. once you're kneeling before him, he grips the base of his shaft, giving it a few strokes to prime himself.

“open wide,” he commands, his maroon eyes blazing with a dark, primal hunger. as you part your lips, he guides his tip to your entrance, coating your tongue with his pre-cum. “mmm, delicious,” he purrs, his hips rocking forward to push deeper into your mouth.

he sets a steady rhythm, fucking your face with long, slow thrusts. the wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your mouth fill the room, accompanied by your muffled moans and his low groans of pleasure. he groans, enjoying the warm wetness of your mouth enveloping his cock. “that's it, suck me off,” he encourages, his hands tangling in your hair to guide you.

he watches through half-lidded eyes as you bob your head, taking him deeper with each movement. the sight of your lips stretched tight around his girth sends a thrill of pleasure coursing through his veins. “you like this, don't you?” he teases, pulling away just enough to watch his cock slide out of your mouth with a pop. “loving the taste of my cum on your tongue.”

your hands moving upward, reaching for his hands to hold while your head moves in and out through his cock. he lets out a low chuckle, amused by your desperate attempts to anchor yourself while servicing him. “such a needy little thing, aren't you?” he taunts, tightening his grip on your hair.

emboldened by your submission, he starts to pick up speed, fucking your mouth with reckless abandon. the wet slap of his thighs against your chin and the obscene suction of your lips around his cock fill the air. “you're going to make me cum again if you keep this up,” he warns, his voice strained with pleasure.

but there's no denying the telltale twitch in his balls, signaling his impending release. he grins down at you, his maroon eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “that's right, take it all,” he urges, feeling his climax building at the base of his spine.

with a few more forceful thrusts, he reaches his peak, his seed shooting forth in hot jets that flood your mouth. he holds you still, making sure you swallow every drop, marking you internally as much as externally.

as the spasms subside, he slowly pulls free from your lips, a string of saliva connecting them for a moment before breaking. “good girl,” he praises, stroking your cheek gently with the back of his hand. you look up at him, eyes wide open with your lips glistening from his cum. he stares down at you, admiring the way your lips glisten with his cum. a sense of possessiveness washes over him, knowing that you've taken so much of him inside you.

he helps to stand properly before giving your forehead a kiss gently. despite the intense passion they just shared, his touch is gentle now, almost reverent. it's as if he's worshipping you with his hands, tracing the lines of your body as if committing them to memory.

“you're so beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning in to capture your lips in a tender kiss. there's no hunger in this kiss, only a profound sense of connection, of two souls intertwined.he deepens the kiss, savoring the taste of his own essence on your lips. When he finally breaks away, he gazes into your eyes, his expression softening. “i could get used to this,” he admits, a hint of vulnerability creeping into his usually confident demeanor.

leaning back, he takes in the sight of your flushed cheeks and swollen lips, a visual reminder of their carnal encounter. “let's clean up, shall we?” he suggests, reaching for the tissue nearby to wipe the sweat from his brow.

as he starts to clean himself up, you can't help but feel a mix of emotions swirling within you. there's a tenderness in his touch and voice that contrasts with the possessive, dominant behavior he displayed moments ago.

it's... confusing, to say the least. the way he switches between these two sides of himself, the mix of vulnerability and confidence, leaves you feeling off balance, unsure of what to expect next. as he continues to attend to himself, you find yourself watching him a bit longer than perhaps you should.

he wraps your shirt around your shoulders, his fingers lingering on your skin as he does up the buttons of your shirt. his actions are deliberate, almost tender, a stark contrast to the rough passion of moments ago.

as he fastens your bra, his thumbs brush against the sensitive undersides of your breasts, sending a shiver down your spine. “remember when we first met?” he asks, a wistful note in his voice. “i never imagined our paths would cross again, let alone lead us here.”

he pauses, looking at you with an intensity that makes your heart flutter, “but I'm glad fate brought us together, because being with you feels like...coming home.”

his words and tender gestures have an unexpected effect on you. your heart pounds in your chest as his fingers graze your skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake. the contrast between his dominating and tender behavior is almost dizzying. it's like you're seeing two sides of him at once, and you're not sure which one is real. you swallow hard, trying to steady your voice as you reply, your words almost catching in your throat. “i... i never thought I'd see you again, either.”

he finally finishes buttoning your shirt, his hands tracing down the front of the fabric, his fingertips lingering over your chest before he takes a step back. he studies you for a moment, a soft, almost thoughtful expression on his face. he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch achingly gentle. "you're even more beautiful than i remembered," he murmurs, his words sincere and raw.

“and now that i have you back, i'm never letting you go again,” he vows, his tone leaving no room for doubt. cupping your face in his hands, he tilts your head up to meet his gaze. “we've both changed since then, grown in ways neither of us could have anticipated. but one thing remains constant— the way you make me feel alive.”

he presses his forehead against yours, his eyes slipping shut as he inhales deeply, as if breathing in your very essence. “stay with me tonight,” he pleads softly, his voice raw with emotion. “let me show you how much you mean to me.”

his words make your heart leap in your chest. there's a tenderness to his tone and his touch that feels almost alien to you, given the dominant and possessive behaviors he's displayed up until now.

you find yourself melting under his gentle touch, his plea echoing in your ears. your thoughts race, your mind torn between desire and uncertainty. a soft sigh escapes your lips as you finally find your voice. “i don't know, suo. this is all so... sudden. i never expected to see you again, let alone like this...”

his expression falters for a moment, his shoulders slumping slightly as he absorbs your words. his fingers trace lightly across your cheek, his touch betraying a hint of vulnerability in that gesture.

he takes a step back, a small space opening between you. he looks at you for a moment, his eye searching your face as if searching for something. after a few tense seconds, he speaks again, his voice softer than before, “i understand if you need time to process everything. but i meant what i said. i want you in my life again, and i'll do anything to make that happen.”

he pauses, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “just... promise me you'll think about it, will you? give us a chance, see where this goes. because i can't deny this connection between us, and i know you feel it too.” the vulnerability in his voice and his body language are so different from his usual confident demeanor. it's almost... endearing, in a way. it's not something you'd expect from someone as intense and dominating as him, and it throws you off balance even more.

“okay..” you nod.

his expression immediately brightens up at your response, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. he steps closer again, closing the gap between you. his hands find their way back to your hips, pulling you gently against his body. he looks down at you, his eye tender and searching as he studies your face.

[humaling]

Silver Glow of Moonlight.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: finnick finds comfort in your arms after waking up from a nightmare. (based on a req!)

warnings: hurt/comfort, heavily mentions of prostitutions!! the usual hunger games

word count: 3.7k

You and Finnick go back a long way, your lives once running parallel like boats tied to the same dock. Both children of fishermen, both raised on the same windswept shores, and both products of the same weather-beaten district school. It was inevitable, really—how the two of you ended up as friends, bonded over sunburnt afternoons and saltwater in your hair.

But that friendship, like most things touched by the Capitol, didn’t survive for long. When Finnick won the 65th Hunger Games at just fourteen, it felt like the boy who used to yank you out of your house just to see who could catch the biggest fish didn’t come back. Or maybe he did, but not in one piece. The Capitol cheered for their bronze-haired darling while you watched the light drain from someone you once knew. The arena didn’t just kill twenty-three tributes that year—it buried Finnick too, just in a different way.

After that, he shut you out completely. Wouldn’t talk to you, wouldn’t even look at you. It was as if whatever thread tied you to him had been cut clean through. You drifted apart like a boat slipping quietly from its moorings, vanishing into open water.

And strangely enough, it didn’t destroy you the way you thought it might. Maybe it was because, deep down, you’d already mourned him the second his name was drawn. Because how could a boy who spent his days spearfishing in the shallows and racing you along the beach possibly survive the carnage waiting in that arena? You’d made peace with losing him long before the cannon sounded.

But tides are strange things. They go out, yes—but sometimes, they come back in. And by the time you turned seventeen, Finnick had returned to your life like the sea reclaiming what it once lost.

You remember that day in piercing detail. The way the air seemed to split open as your name was pulled from the reaping bowl. The stunned silence that followed. The sand clinging to your feet as you staggered toward the stage, every step heavy with dread. The look on Finnick’s face as he stood among the crowd, pale and sick, like someone had reached inside his chest and yanked something vital out. You remember your mother’s sobs, wild and raw, and your father’s arms straining to hold her back as Peacekeepers pulled them away.

Everything after blurred together into something distant and warped, like trying to recall a nightmare through fog. But even through all that, there were moments you remember with painful clarity—like the way Finnick seemed to breathe life back into your fading memories. He was everywhere in those first days, relentless in his efforts to prepare you, to give you even the slimmest chance. Advice poured out of him in frantic waves, strategy after strategy until your mind felt like it might split. Mags had to physically drag him away at times, gently reminding him that even soldiers need rest.

And then came the morning of your departure. The sky was wide and painfully blue, the sun casting long streaks of gold across the rooftops of the Tribute Center. A hovercraft hummed quietly, waiting just beyond the edge of the platform. Peacekeepers stood nearby, silent and stiff. You remember your heart pounding so loud it nearly drowned out the sound of your name being called. And Finnick—he was there, waiting for you beside the metal steps, his expression strained and tight, like he was barely holding himself together.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you—really looked at you—with something like desperation burning behind his eyes. And when he finally spoke, it wasn’t the soft reassurance you expected. It was firm. Fierce. He told you that if you wanted to survive, you couldn’t just try. There was no room for hesitation or half-measures. You had to fight. You had to want it so badly it burned through every bone in your body. He told you he’d do everything he could to protect you—but only if you swore, right then and there, that you wouldn’t give up.

And you did. You promised him, with dry lips and shaking hands, that you would survive.

You kept that promise. You made it back. Crowned victor of the 68th Hunger Games, still gasping for air, still blinking away the blood and the lights and the thunder of Capitol applause. Still too young, still too stunned, still foolish enough to think that survival meant freedom.

But Finnick knew better. He’d seen how Snow worked—how he waited, patient as a snake in the grass, until cracks began to form. And despite everything Finnick had done to shield you, Snow found his way in. All it took was one carefully delivered threat, one whispered promise of death, and the walls Finnick had built around you crumbled. Just like that, Snow reached you. And once he had you, he didn’t let go.

Snow exploited you in ways you can barely bring yourself to say, the kind that digs into your bones and never really leaves. But the one that broke you completely came the day he asked—no, ordered—you to attend to a special client of his. You should’ve known better. Should’ve said something to Finnick. Should’ve run, screamed, fought—but it was too late. The damage was done. And there was no undoing it.

You never told Finnick. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you couldn’t. You were too ashamed. Too furious with yourself for being so stupid, so blind. How could you not see the signs? How could you not understand what Snow really meant with his polished words and polite smile? Maybe he was right. Maybe you were too naive for this world. Too soft. Too foolish.

And so you kept quiet. You endured. Night after night, you were passed around like a prized possession, warming beds that smelled of wine and power and violence. The pain they gave you wasn’t always physical, but it lingered deeper than any bruise ever could. Your clients didn’t just take their pleasure—they stripped you of everything: your pride, your voice, your sense of self. Until you were left staring blankly at the ceiling above rich satin sheets, unmoving, numb, praying to whatever gods might be listening that they would take you in your sleep and be done with it.

When Finnick found out, it wasn’t because you told him. He wasn’t supposed to know. Not yet—not ever, if you had your way. But Finnick had always been too perceptive for his own good. He knew something was off the second you stepped off the train after a three-month stay in the Capitol. That length of time, that kind of assignment—he didn’t need to ask. He’d been there before. He knew what it meant.

He didn’t push. He never asked directly. But he watched, closely. You couldn’t take a breath without feeling the weight of his gaze. He hovered like a ghost—quiet, relentless. He knew. Even if you never said it, he knew.

It all unraveled the day he caught you off guard.

You thought he was gone, finally distracted or pulled away—but he wasn’t. Finnick had come back, maybe to ask if you’d eaten, maybe just to see your face again. He hadn’t meant to barge in. But he did.

And there you were—half-dressed, your shirt slipping off your shoulder, exposing skin that should have never seen the light. His expression shifted instantly, from surprise to something darker. His eyes dropped, locking onto the marks scattered across your body like stains on porcelain.

“Who did this to you?” His voice was quiet, controlled, but laced with a rage that made the room feel colder. He stepped forward slowly, eyes scanning each bruise, some still raw and purple, others fading yellow like dying stars. His hands hovered near you but never touched—until you flinched.

That was what did it. That single, involuntary recoil. The way you pulled away from him, like he might hurt you too. It shattered something in him. You could see it on his face—the heartbreak, the betrayal, the helplessness.

You tried to speak, but the words tangled in your throat and collapsed into a sob. The dam broke without warning. Your knees hit the wooden floor with a harsh thud, and all at once the grief came pouring out, shaking your body with the kind of cry that made your chest burn. Finnick dropped beside you without a second thought, gathering you into his arms, careful, gentle, as if you might break beneath his touch. He held you close without pressing too hard, arms curled around you like he could shield you from every memory.

That night, a silent understanding formed in the spaces between each whispered truth. You told him everything. Every bitter detail. Every horror that came after your victory tour. There was no point in holding anything back anymore—what dignity did you have left, when it had already been stolen from you by hands that touched and claimed you like property?

Finnick didn’t flinch. Instead, he told you his truth too, peeling away the mask he wore so effortlessly. And it floored you—because you never expected it. Never imagined that Finnick, with his charm and bright Capitol smile, was carrying the same weight. But he was. He always had been. You cried for him too, the way he cried for you, and the two of you stayed there on the cold floorboards, tangled together, broken and bleeding and finally seen.

As time passed, so did the tide. It always pulled deeper, sometimes farther than you thought it ever would—but it always returned to the shore. That’s how you came to understand your relationship with Finnick. A constant ebb and flow, shaped by trust and the quiet vulnerability you shared in the hollow of sleepless nights, when the nightmares clung so tightly to your chest that you couldn’t bear to close your eyes.

You and Finnick moved like one. Attached at the hip—where he went, you followed, and where you stumbled, he steadied you. Always watching each other’s backs, always circling just close enough to keep the Capitol guessing. It wasn’t just habit—it was survival. And it worked. Most of the Capitol’s elite tired of your closeness, irritated by the way you hovered over one another like a pair of stubborn shadows. But some—most, in fact—found it thrilling. They took pleasure in watching you both, fascinated by the way you moved in rhythm, in step, as if you were made from the same breath. There was a kind of beauty in it, they said. A kind of chemistry. And that only made the offers more frequent, more invasive.

There were nights when one of you came back from a meeting quieter than usual—eyes glassy, shoulders rigid, mouth set in that too-still line. Neither of you ever had to ask. The other just knew.

Sometimes, it was Finnick who would come in, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack. He’d drop his coat onto the floor without a word, his hands trembling just enough for you to notice. You wouldn’t ask what happened. You’d just rise from the edge of the bed and walk over to him, pulling his hands into yours, guiding him to sit. You’d wash the glitter off his face with a damp cloth, even if it wasn’t yours to clean, murmuring small things—pointless things—just to fill the silence. He wouldn’t speak, not at first. He’d just watch you, his gaze softening like waves retreating from the shore. And when he finally lay down beside you, he’d press his forehead to your shoulder and whisper, “I’m okay,” like it wasn’t a lie.

Other times, it was you. You’d return to your shared suite on unsteady legs, the Capitol perfume still clinging to your skin like rot. Finnick would be waiting—he was always waiting—and the moment you stepped inside, his expression would change. He never said your name. He didn’t have to. He just pulled you into his arms before the mask slipped off your face. He held you through the shaking, through the tears you refused to let fall until the door was closed behind you. He never asked you to talk, but he’d stay up all night if you needed him to. Sometimes you just lay there in silence, your head on his chest, counting each breath like it might steady the ache inside you.

There were moments in public, too—subtle things that no one seemed to notice unless they were watching closely. When a client reached too far, too fast, Finnick’s hand would already be at your lower back, gently guiding you away under the pretense of a dance. When someone whispered something cruel in Finnick’s ear, your fingers would brush his knuckles, anchoring him before he could react. Sometimes it was a glance across the room. A nod. A hand on the knee under a long tablecloth. Little things that said: I’m here. I see you. I won’t let them break you.

And they tried. Oh, they tried.

But the Capitol never really understood that you weren’t just two victors thrown together by convenience. You were tethered—by pain, by shared nightmares, by promises whispered into the dark and sealed in blood. You didn’t just survive together. You endured. You healed, in the only ways you could.

Sometimes, healing looked like Finnick drawing a warm bath for you and sitting just outside the tub with his back turned, humming some old tune from home until your breathing evened out. Sometimes it looked like you helping him wash his hair, your fingers gentle against his scalp while he sat half-awake, too tired to speak but grateful beyond words. Sometimes it was curling up together in silence, his thumb tracing the scar along your collarbone, your hand pressed over the steady beat of his heart.

It was never perfect but it was real. And in the world you were forced to live in, that was the only thing that ever felt like home.

It had been a while since you and Finnick shared a bed. The nightmares weren’t as relentless as they used to be—not since you both returned to District 4 two months ago. Slowly, quietly, you’d begun slipping back into the dull rhythms of everyday life. No more scrambling for weapons in the dark. No more waking in a cold sweat after a night with a client. Things were a bit calmer now, still fragile, but no longer constantly unraveling. And that peace gave you both room to breathe, to exist separately. Nights like this had become more common—alone, but not lonely.

You knew Finnick was just a few doors down, staying in the room by the end of the hallway. He liked sleeping near the window, where the ocean was visible from the moment he opened his eyes. You, on the other hand, stayed near the stairs—instinct, mostly. In case something went wrong. In case someone came. That paranoia never really left you. You weren’t sure it ever would. Even now, in the safety of your district, knowing that no one could reach you here, the dread lingered. Because how could it not, when you lived with a president who preferred to gut people slowly—with favors and secrets instead of blades?

You were halfway lost in thought when the soft creak of your door pulled you back. Your head snapped up on instinct, breath caught in your throat, heart thudding.

But it was only Finnick.

Relief bloomed in your chest the moment you saw him, his figure framed in the moonlight like a ghost coming home. You hadn’t heard his footsteps in the hall, which made your pulse stutter in that split second of confusion. He’d always been quiet, but tonight he was silent in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Finnick?” Your voice came out low and hoarse, rough from hours spent saying nothing, staring at the ceiling, sinking into memory.

“Hi,” he murmured, and the word cracked a little at the edges. Tired. Strained. Something wasn’t right.

You squinted through the dim light to get a better look. He stood just inside your doorway, shoulders curled inward like he was trying to make himself smaller. His hands fidgeted with the doorknob behind him, and his weight shifted restlessly from foot to foot. His head hung low, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“Finnick,” you said again, sitting up, concern sharpening your tone.

That’s when his eyes finally lifted to yours, and you saw it.

The wild panic still swimming behind them. The dazed, unfocused look that came after a nightmare—the kind that clung to him long after he woke. The moonlight caught on his cheek, and you saw the dried salt lines trailing down from his eyes.

You didn’t hesitate. You reached out your hand.

He didn’t move at first. Just looked at you like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. Like he might break whatever fragile peace the two of you were keeping tonight. But when you wiggled your fingers again, urging him closer, he caved.

He moved quickly after that—long, purposeful strides across the room. The bed dipped beneath his weight as he slid in beside you without a word. The comforter shifted as he pulled it over his body, fitting against you like he never left. His head found its place on your chest, just over your heart, and you let your arm wrap around his shoulders. Your fingers found their rhythm—slow, soothing circles against his skin. His breath hitched once, then settled.

And in that quiet, where only the beating of your heart filled the room, he let himself fall apart in your arms without saying a single word.

You feel the rise and fall of Finnick’s chest against your side, the way he breathes through his nose slowly, as if he’s trying to calm a storm that’s already passed but left wreckage behind. His fingers curl slightly into your shirt, holding just enough to feel anchored, but not enough to cling. You don’t speak at first, letting the silence settle around you like fog rolling in from the sea.

Eventually, he shifts. Just barely. His voice is soft, muffled against your skin.

“I hate when it feels real,” he murmurs.

You don’t need to ask what he means. You’ve been there, too—caught in those dreams where the Capitol drags you back into its velvet cage and paints your smile in blood.

“What was it this time?” you ask gently, keeping your hand moving, never stopping.

He pauses, like the words are stuck in his throat. Then, slowly, “You weren’t here.”

You blink, surprised, but you don’t say anything yet. He keeps talking, voice growing quieter with each word.

“They took you somewhere. Somewhere I couldn’t get to. I kept looking, but every hallway led back to that stupid white room with the glass floors. I could hear you screaming, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t move.”

You press your hand a little firmer against his shoulder, grounding him. “I’m here,” you whisper. “I didn’t go anywhere.”

Finnick lets out a shaky breath, his hand fisting gently in the fabric of your shirt.

“I know. I just—” He swallows. “It felt like it did when I thought I lost you. After your first client.”

You close your eyes for a moment. That memory, heavy and cold, settles in your chest like a stone. There are things that don’t need to be said aloud anymore. Not between the two of you. They live in the quiet between heartbeats, in the way your hand doesn’t stop moving, in the way Finnick presses himself closer to you like he needs proof you’re not going to vanish the moment he falls asleep again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you tell him. “And if they try to take me again, they’ll have to go through you first.”

That earns the faintest huff from him, something caught between a laugh and a scoff.

“They’d have better luck wrestling a shark,” he mumbles.

You smile faintly, tilting your head so your chin rests atop his hair. “That’s the spirit.”

There’s another pause, then his voice, quiet again: “Promise me.”

Your hand stills for a moment. Then you start again, even slower, more deliberate.

“I promise,” you say. “But only if you promise too.”

Finnick shifts, just enough to look up at you. His sea-green eyes are dull, tired, but filled with something deeper—something heavy and real. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he doesn’t need to.

His fingers gently squeeze your side.

You feel him begin to loosen, the tension easing from his body piece by piece, like waves pulling back from the shore. His breathing evens out against your chest, his arm settling around your waist more heavily now, no longer braced like he’s ready to fight his way out of the dream.

“I used to think the worst part was the pain,” he murmurs after a long pause, his voice slurred slightly with fatigue. “But it’s not. It’s the quiet. The quiet after.”

You hum softly, fingers brushing through his salt-tangled hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp the way you know soothes him best. “The quiet makes it real.”

Finnick nods faintly, barely moving. “It’s when I remember the names.”

Your hand pauses, then continues. “You don’t have to say them tonight.”

“I know,” he mumbles. “But they’re loud sometimes.”

You don’t answer. There’s no fix for this, no magic words that’ll unmake what’s already been done. All you can do is offer your body as shelter for the storm he carries. You press a soft kiss into his hair.

“You’re safe, Finnick. I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Then, barely audible, a whisper shaped by exhaustion:

“I like your heartbeat.”

You blink, lips parting, but no words come. He’s already sinking, eyelids fluttering once, then again, before they stay shut for good. His breath warms your skin in slow, even intervals. The weight of his body becomes heavier, less tense, completely at ease.

In the silver glow of moonlight, his features soften. The lines between his brows fade. His lips, slightly parted, twitch with the remnants of something dreamlike—something quieter than nightmares. Something gentler. Maybe your heartbeat, maybe not.

You don’t dare move. You let him stay curled against you, counting the rise and fall of his chest and the way his hair tickles your collarbone.

And as the quiet finally settles into comfort instead of dread, you find yourself whispering the words you didn’t get to say earlier.

“I like yours too.”

[fanficsandstuffgod]

✮ ⋆ ˚｡ Wallet 𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

japan!schlatt x fem!reader

@fancy-fleur-blog here u go pookie

We were halfway through a night out in Tokyo — me and a couple mates, weaving through the backstreets with canned chu-hi in hand, making dumb jokes and pointing at vending machines like we’d never seen one before. It was one of those warm, electric nights where the city feels like it's got a pulse.

That’s when I saw it — a little blue coin pouch lying near the curb outside a 7-Eleven. Looked kind of beat-up, but I picked it up anyway, figuring maybe someone had just dropped it on their way out. Curiosity got the better of me, so I gave it a look.

Cards, receipts, some loose change… and a name.

Jschlatt.

I paused. Stared at it for a second. Nah, couldn’t be. Not that Jschlatt, right?

Except… it looked exactly like the wallet he showed in that Japan vlog a few days ago — down to the dumb little cow keychain. I pulled out my phone and started skimming through the video like a madman. There it was. Same exact one.

I just kind of stood there like, what the hell do I even do with this? And for whatever reason — blame the alcohol or just the absurdity of it all — I took a photo, DMed him on Instagram, and said, “Hey, found your wallet in Tokyo. Here’s where I’m at.”

Didn’t expect a reply. Figured it’d get lost in a sea of messages. But then, less than a minute later:

“Thank fucking god. I’m on my way.”

I stared at my phone like it’d just spoken.

About twenty minutes later, he shows up. Hoodie, baseball cap, bit taller in person. Honestly, he looked like he'd just run halfway across the city. He walks up, sees me holding the wallet, and lets out the most relieved laugh.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he says, and claps a hand on my shoulder like we’ve known each other for years. “Drinks on me.”

So we end up at this little izakaya nearby — tucked away, warm lighting, quiet chatter in the air. We sit down, order sake and grilled skewers, and he’s just… a guy. Funny, sharp, chill as hell. Not putting on a voice, not doing a bit. Just talking about how he nearly had a breakdown thinking he'd lost every card he owned in a foreign country.

--

The conversation eventually drifted from lost wallets to more normal stuff — daily routines, pets, even family. Normally, I wouldn’t open up that easily. But then again, I don’t usually end up grabbing drinks with Jschlatt in the middle of Tokyo, either.

“You’ve got a cat?” he asked, scrolling through my Instagram like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I nodded, smiling. “Three, actually — and a dog.” I lit up a bit. I love talking about my pets. “That grey one there is Gandalf,” I said, pointing to a photo with all of them piled on the couch. “That ginger one’s Galileo — like the scientist. He’s a ranga and freaks out whenever I sing Bohemian Rhapsody. And that little black-and-white guy? That’s Fat Louie. Named after the cat in The Princess Diaries. He’s a guts — always trying to steal everyone’s br—”

I cut myself off mid-sentence, realizing I was rambling. Schlatt had this look — not annoyed, just… entertained. His lips curled in a crooked smirk, eyes kind of soft.

“Uh, yeah. And the dog’s Levi. Had him for years,” I mumbled, suddenly shy again.

He let out a warm chuckle and nodded. “That’s cute. You’re a big animal person, then?”

“Yeah,” I said, leaning back a little. “My ex used to get mad at me for bringing animals home off the street.”

He looked up from my phone, eyebrows knitting together. “Mad? Why?”

I blinked, surprised by the question. “Uh... ’cause he didn’t wanna deal with vet bills and food and all that?” I tilted my head, like it was obvious.

Schlatt scoffed lightly and shook his head. “I’d be lucky to have that problem. ‘Too many animals’ sounds like a win to me.”

That kind of stuck with me. We kept talking after that — about his cats, weird rescue stories, the time he almost adopted a dog on impulse in Texas. It was easy, light, and real.

Eventually, he glanced at his phone and sighed. “Right. I gotta go — flight in the morning.” He stood up slowly, gathering his stuff with a reluctant shrug.

I stayed seated, giving him a small wave. “Nice meeting you,” I said with a half-smile.

He hesitated, then turned back, rubbing the back of his neck like he was thinking it over.

“Hey, look…” He paused, eyes flicking up to mine. “Can I grab your number? You’re really chill. Wouldn’t mind hanging out again — under, uh… different circumstances.”

He chuckled a bit at the end, but he meant it. And I couldn’t help but grin.