#waking (ten years of flames) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

loveesiren · 2 months ago

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𝖢𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝖬𝗒 𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 (𝖯𝗍. 8)

Choi Seunghyun x fem!reader x Kwon Jiyong | Masterlist

a/n: As always, I'm using Jiyong and Seunghyun as characters. I'm not in any way shape or form suggesting that they'd act this way in real life.

synopsis: Feelings are hurt, grief is a strange thing, we take it out in weird ways. But Seunghyun and Y/n just want their friend to wake up.

warnings: dark i guess, hospital, car accident, rough slightly unwanted sex (borderline grape I guess but not graphic), angst, lots of feels, drunk editing, MDNI 18+, if you'd like a summary without reading, DM me

wc: 4.3k+

The crash was horrific. Jiyong hadn’t seen the semi barreling through the intersection until it was too late. There was a sickening crunch of metal meeting metal, then the world turned upside down—literally. His car flipped, once, twice, three times, the screech of twisting steel and shattering glass echoing through the night. The engine ignited on the final roll, flames licking hungrily along the crumpled hood, black smoke curling into the air like a wild fire.

By the time you and Seunghyun had made it outside it was pure chaos. Sirens howled. Lights flashed. A crowd had gathered, necks craned, camera phones out, some already recording. But none of it registered. All you saw was the burning wreckage—and the stranger. A man covered in soot, hands trembling, dragging Jiyong’s limp body across the pavement just seconds before the car exploded behind him, sending a burst of heat and debris into the air. That man, whoever he was, had saved his life.

Your legs buckled at the sight.

The glare from the ambulance flood lights seared into your eyes, making it hard to focus. Police shouted over radios, trying to push back the growing crowd, and the paparazzi—fucking vultures—had somehow shown up already, shouting questions, snapping photos. It was too much. Your lungs seized. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. You wanted to run, to scream, to disappear.

Jiyong's body—so pale, so bloody, his face barely recognizable—was carefully loaded into the back of the ambulance. You couldn’t stop crying. The tears came like a dam breaking, soaking your face, your shirt, your trembling hands. Seunghyun pulled you into his side, one arm wrapping around you tightly as if trying to shield you from the nightmare unfolding. His face was buried in your hair, his own sobs shaking both of you as you stood there, helpless, watching the man you both loved so much disappear behind those white ambulance doors.

The hospital waiting area felt like the backrooms.

Too bright. Too sterile. Too quiet — except for the occasional ring of a phone at the reception desk or the rhythmic clacking of keys from someone behind the counter. But even those sounds felt muted, distant, like the world was operating at half-speed while all of you sat frozen in a grief that hadn’t even fully arrived yet.

You sat curled up on the stiff plastic chair, knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped around your shins like they could somehow keep you from unraveling completely. Seunghyun was beside you, close enough to feel his presence but not touching. Neither of you could. There was too much space between you now, and none of it had to do with physical distance.

Across from you, Daesung stared blankly at the floor, his fingers twitching against his leg. Taeyang kept rubbing his hands together, like he could pray the panic away. Seungri looked like he’d aged ten years in the last hour, chewing on the edge of his thumb, phone clutched tightly in his other hand though he hadn’t looked at it in a while. Not really.

They were all waiting. Hoping. Dreading.

Jiyong’s manager sat silently in the far corner, head bowed, lips pressed into a tight line. A few YG staffers dotted the waiting room, whispering among themselves, but their presence felt like white noise. No one was really speaking. What could they possibly say?

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at anyone. Your vision swam, not from tears — not yet — but from the pressure of holding them back. You blinked furiously, refusing to let them fall. Not here. Not now. Not in front of them.

Because this was your fault.

Every single agonizing minute that passed, you reminded yourself of that.

He’d been leaving your apartment. After your fight. After you'd shattered him with words you couldn’t take back. You could still hear the slam of the door. You could still feel the weight of his anger, his heartbreak, pressing down on your chest.

You buried your face in your arms. It hurt to breathe.

Beside you, Seunghyun leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were bone white. He hadn’t spoken since arriving at the hospital. Hadn’t moved much either. But his mind was racing.

It was his fault too.

He should’ve taken Jiyong’s keys. He should’ve told him to stay the night. He should’ve been a better friend — his best friend. But instead, he let him walk out of that bar. Walk out of your apartment. Stumbling and furious, still drunk, still hurting.

And now they were all sitting here, waiting to find out if Jiyong would wake up at all.

Seunghyun glanced at you from the corner of his eye — your small, shaking form beside him, silent tears finally sliding down your cheeks.

He wanted to reach for you. Wanted to hold you and tell you everything was going to be okay.

But it wouldn’t have been true.

And the truth was — neither of you knew who you were grieving harder for:

Jiyong…

Or the pieces of yourselves that had broken beyond repair.

The sterile hush of the hospital waiting room shattered as the doors creaked open and the doctor stepped out, clipboard in hand, his expression unreadable.

Jiyong’s manager was on his feet before anyone else could even register the movement.

“What’s going on?” he asked, urgency sharpening his voice.

“We need to speak to his family,” the doctor replied, scanning the room with a professional detachment that made your stomach twist.

“His family is on their way,” his manager said quickly, already stepping forward. “But I’m his manager. I’ve been listed on his emergency contacts. We can speak, let’s go talk.” He said, voice eager.

The doctor hesitated for a moment, then gave a tight nod. Without another word, he turned and let himself be led down the hall, disappearing behind the same doors Jiyong had vanished through over an hour ago.

The silence left in their wake was heavier than anything that came before it.

Taeyang sat forward, rubbing his hands over his face before looking at Seunghyun, eyes narrowed with confusion and fear.

“So… what the hell happened?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Didn’t you guys go out tonight?”

Every nerve in your body lit up like a warning flare.

You couldn’t breathe. Your chest rose and fell in rapid bursts. Your palms were slick with sweat. You could feel the stares of the other boys — of everyone — even if they weren’t looking directly at you. The pressure was suffocating. The truth was crawling its way to the surface, clawing through the cracks like smoke before a fire.

Seunghyun inhaled slowly. His jaw tightened. You felt his hand come to rest on your knee, grounding you for just a second. But it wasn’t comfort. It was confirmation.

“He was drunk,” Seunghyun said quietly, his voice low and rough.

That was it. Just those three words.

Taeyang flinched slightly, and Daesung swore under his breath.

“He was drunk,” Seunghyun repeated, more to himself now, like he was trying to make sense of it, trying to say it enough times to believe it. “And stupid.”

You bit down hard on your lip, hard enough to taste blood. Tears stung the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You couldn’t. Not yet.

Because even if Seunghyun was technically right, it wasn’t the whole story. Jiyong had been drunk, yes. And reckless. But he hadn’t crashed just because of the alcohol in his veins.

He had crashed because of you.

Because he had stormed out of your apartment with your voice still echoing in his head — every bitter word, every rejection, every cruel truth you hadn't meant to come out the way it did. He’d left with a cracked-open heart and nowhere to put the pieces.

You had taken away the one thing he didn’t even realize he wanted until it was already gone.

A child.

A future.

A family.

And that was what had been driving him faster than he should have been. That was what blurred his vision more than the whiskey ever could. That was what made him miss the light. What made him not see the semi barreling through the far too busy intersection outside your apartment.

Yes, Jiyong had been drunk.

But he had also been hurting.

The doctors, the lawyers, the managers — they’d sort it all out. They’d write it up in reports and argue it in meetings. There would be contracts and coverage and headlines. They’d fix it up for the public.

But none of that changed the truth.

He had been speeding away from your front door with a black hole in his chest, crushed beneath the weight of the love he couldn't keep, and the future he didn’t get to fight for.

And now all any of you could do was wait.

Wait for news.

Wait for forgiveness.

Wait for a miracle.

You stood up without saying a word. No one tried to stop you. No one even looked up. Maybe they understood, or maybe they just didn’t know how to speak anymore. Either way, you were grateful. You needed the air. Needed the distance. Needed a break from the guilt pressing down on your chest.

Outside, the night was cool and still, and the moment the sliding ER doors shut behind you, it was like someone turned the volume down on the world. The hospital buzz faded, replaced by the soft hum of passing cars and the gentle breeze rustling the trees nearby.

You lit your cigarette with shaking fingers, bringing it to your lips like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. The smoke filled your lungs, acrid and warm, and for just a second, you could almost pretend none of this was real. Almost.

You were halfway through your cigarette when you heard the doors behind you hiss open again.

You didn’t turn around. Not at first. You just exhaled slowly, hoping—praying—it wasn’t anyone. That you could just be alone with your guilt for a little while longer.

But then you saw him out of the corner of your eye.

Seunghyun.

He looked nothing like the man you knew.

His shoulders were hunched, his expression hollow, like someone had scooped the life out of him and left the shell behind. His hands were in his pockets. His eyes were red-rimmed, though you weren’t sure if it was from crying or just exhaustion. Or maybe both.

You silently held out your cigarette pack and the lighter.

He took one wordlessly, and sat down beside you on the low stone wall near the hospital entrance. The click of the lighter was the only sound between you as he lit up, inhaling deep like he needed it more than air.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. You just stared up at the night sky, the stars shining far too brightly for how dark the world felt right now.

You wanted to reach for his hand. You wanted to press your palm against his, to offer some kind of comfort, even if you didn’t deserve to give it. But you didn’t move.

“Seunghyun, I—” you started, voice thin and raw.

But he didn’t let you finish.

“You should go home,” he said, cutting you off with a quiet firmness that hurt more than if he’d yelled.

You looked down at your shoes, swallowing hard. “I-I don’t want to go back there…” you muttered, barely audible.

The words carried too much weight.

Your apartment. The place where Jiyong had stood broken and shaking, where the worst things had been said. Where you’d sent him out into the night with a wound he hadn’t been able to outrun.

You couldn’t go back to that.

Seunghyun sighed, and the sound was so heavy it made your chest tighten all over again. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his keys and holding them out to you.

“Here,” he said. “Go to my place.”

You hesitated. “I—”

“I don’t want you here,” he said, voice sharper now. Not yelling. Just... tired. Defeated. Final.

The words sliced through you like glass. You flinched, your hand recoiling from the keys even though you knew he wasn’t wrong.

“I want to make sure—”

“I’ll call if there’s an update,” he said, already turning his gaze away. “Just...go.”

You stared at him, your vision going blurry with tears. But you knew better than to argue. Not now. Not with him. Not with everything so fragile and raw.

You nodded, swallowing the sob threatening to climb your throat.

You called an Uber and didn’t look back.

Seunghyun’s apartment welcomed you like a ghost. Everything was familiar — the scent of his cologne still clinging to the air, the soft hum of the fridge, the faint echo of laughter that only existed in your memory now.

You walked slowly through the space, your fingers trailing over the back of the couch, the counter, the hallway wall — like touching these things would somehow bring you back to a time when this place felt like home. When he felt like home.

You reached the bedroom and stripped out of your clothes with a kind of numb autopilot. You opened his drawer and pulled out one of his oversized t-shirts — the one he always wore on lazy Sunday mornings.

You slipped it over your head, the fabric brushing your skin with a familiar comfort, and for a moment, it felt like you could still feel his arms around you.

But it wasn’t real.

You climbed into his bed, curling into his side of the bed, breathing in the remnants of him like they were oxygen.

And then it hit you.

All of it.

The crash.

The guilt.

The fact that Jiyong might never open his eyes again.

The fact that Seunghyun was done with you.

The fact that you may have lost everything.

A choking sob ripped from your throat as you curled into yourself, burying your face into his pillow.

Your body shook with quiet, helpless grief.

Tonight had changed everything.

And there was no going back.

The loud slam of the front door jolted you awake. Your entire body tensed, your heart hammering in your chest as your mind scrambled to make sense of where you were.

Then it hit you. Seunghyun’s house.

You sat up slowly, blinking through the haze of sleep. The room was dim, lit only by the morning sun peaking through the blinds, casting pale shadows across the walls. You strained to hear footsteps, movement — anything — but the house had gone quiet again.

It had to be him. He must’ve come home from the hospital.

You waited, every second dragging out painfully as dread curled in your stomach. You counted the minutes in your head, clinging to the silence like it might give you an answer.

After what felt like forever, you heard the soft creak of the bedroom door.

Seunghyun stepped in.

He barely looked at you.

His eyes skimmed over your presence in his bed like you were furniture, like you weren’t someone he had once called “baby,” someone he had once held so carefully.

Without a word, he walked past you and shut the bathroom door behind him.

You sat frozen, still beneath the blankets, unsure what to do. Your skin pricked with nerves. Did he want you here? Did he even remember that he’d told you to come? Or had that been guilt talking?

The weight of your thoughts crushed you. You laid back down, curling onto your side, arms wrapped tightly around your core. Your heart felt like it might crack open. You whispered a quiet prayer into the silence, not for yourself, but for Jiyong.

Please let him be okay.

Fifteen agonizing minutes passed before the bathroom door opened again. You glanced over your shoulder as Seunghyun walked back into the room, dressed in nothing but his boxers. He climbed into bed beside you wordlessly and grabbed the remote, flicking on the TV. An old sitcom started to play — something bright, cheerful, completely out of place against the oppressive weight in the room.

You chewed your bottom lip, uncertain. The air between you was too thick with unspoken grief and regret. Still, you tried.

“Seunghyun…” you said softly.

No response.

He stared at the screen, his face expressionless.

You tried again, your voice cracking with hesitation. “Is… is there any update? On Ji?”

He took a slow breath through his nose. The pause before he answered made your chest tighten.

“He’s out of surgery,” he finally said. His voice was flat, tired. “Hasn’t woken up yet.”

You felt the sting of tears in your eyes again, but blinked them back quickly. You didn’t deserve to cry. Not after everything.

“Is he going to be okay?” you asked, barely able to form the words.

“I-I don’t know, Y/n,” he said, and for the first time since he got home, there was emotion behind his voice. Sadness. Defeat. “His family’s with him. They told us to go home…rest.”

You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. A long silence passed before you worked up the nerve to ask, “D-Do you want me to leave?”

The question hung in the air like a loaded gun.

He was quiet for a long time, and just when you were sure he wasn’t going to answer, he whispered, “No.”

You were stunned.

You didn’t know what he meant. You didn’t know if it was love, or guilt, or just the unbearable weight of being alone right now. But you didn’t argue. You didn’t say another word.

You sat in silence beside him, the two of you watching the flicker of people laughing on a screen neither of you were really seeing.

Thirty minutes passed like that. Maybe longer.

Then, without warning, his hand moved. Slowly. Deliberately.

It slid across the bed and settled on your thigh. Warm. Heavy. Familiar yet foreign.

His fingers crept higher, brushing the edge of your panties, and your breath caught in your throat. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up — tension coiled in your belly, heat blooming where his fingers hovered.

You turned toward him instinctively, crawling over his hips, straddling him.

Your lips met in a rush of desperation and pain. He didn’t pull back. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, deeper. One slid down your back, gripping your ass roughly. His nails dug in. Then came the sharp crack of his palm landing on your cheek.

You whimpered into his mouth.

And that sound — that soft, broken sound — snapped something in him.

He flipped you beneath him with a strength that startled you, not even bothering to undress fully before pushing his boxers down just enough to free himself. He didn’t pause, didn’t ask, didn’t look at you. He pushed your panties to the side.

You didn’t even have time to prepare before he shoved into you.

You cried out, the stretch almost painful. Your nails dug into his shoulders, trying to ground yourself, but he didn’t slow down. Didn’t soften.

He thrust into you hard, fast, his pace punishing. You felt the bed frame creak under the force of it, your breath catching as his hand wrapped around your throat.

“Seunghyun…” you whimpered, your voice strangled.

He leaned close, grunting in your ear, his fingers tightening.

You could feel it now — this wasn’t intimacy. This wasn’t love.

It was anger.

Grief.

Trauma.

“Was he better than me?” he whispered, his voice venomous, hips snapping forward harder.

You gasped at the sting, tears springing to your eyes.

“Who fucks you better, huh?”

“Seunghyun!” you screamed, shoving at his chest. “You’re hurting me!”

He froze for a split second.

You pushed again, harder this time, and he rolled off of you, chest heaving as the realization of what just happened hit him like a freight train.

He stared at you — really saw you now — your eyes red, your body trembling, clutching the sheets tightly around you like a shield.

The darkness in his eyes vanished, replaced by horror.

“Shit,” he whispered, sitting up and dragging both hands through his hair. “Shit, Y/n… I’m—I’m so sorry.”

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t even look at him.

You choked back a sob, stumbling out of bed and rushing to the bathroom. You locked the door behind you, pressing your back to it, sliding to the cold tile floor.

And there, in the silence…you broke.

“Y/n, please…” Seunghyun’s voice came through the door, broken and muffled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear to god I didn’t…”

You sat on the cold tile floor, your knees hugged to your chest, arms trembling as your fingers dug into your skin. The sobs shook through you violently, unstoppable, as the night played over and over in your head like a film reel you couldn't turn off.

Everything was broken.

Jiyong. Seunghyun.You.

The man you loved had just used you as an outlet for his pain — not a partner, not someone to hold, but someone to unload on. You felt every thrust like an accusation. Every movement screamed at you: You did this. You destroyed us. You ruined everything.

But it wasn’t just anger. It was grief. It was guilt. It was heartbreak on both ends, a tangle of too many things neither of you had the tools to process.

“I’m sorry,” Seunghyun choked out again. You could hear the weight in his voice, the kind of sorrow that buckled you at the knees. “Please, can we just talk? I can’t breathe without knowing you’re okay…”

And still, even with how scared you were… your heart ached for him.

You loved him. So fucking much.

Maybe that was the worst part — that even after what had just happened, a part of you still wanted to comfort him. To reach for him. To fix what was already in ruins.

Maybe you deserved it.

Maybe you didn’t.

You shifted, hands trembling as you unlocked the bathroom door and slowly cracked it open.

He was sitting right outside, legs folded beneath him, arms resting on his knees. He looked… small. Tired. Wrecked. He’d changed into sweats and an old, worn t-shirt, the one he usually slept in when you stayed over. His eyes were red, tear tracks still glistening on his cheeks.

You tugged your borrowed shirt down, trying to cover yourself, suddenly painfully aware of your body. His gaze flicked to you and quickly away, like even he couldn’t look at what he’d done.

Without a word, he grabbed the blanket off the bed and handed it to you. You took it, wrapping it tightly around yourself, grateful for the shield between you.

You sat beside him, leaning back against the wall, your shoulders just barely brushing. The silence was suffocating, but you weren’t ready to break it.

“I’m really sorry, Y/n,” Seunghyun whispered, voice hoarse with emotion. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You swallowed, staring blankly at the floor. “Yeah. I did.”

“No.” His voice snapped sharper now, filled with conviction. “No, you didn’t.”

He turned to you then, really turned, his eyes bloodshot and wide. “I took everything I was feeling and dumped it on you. I used you. That’s not love. That’s not who I want to be. That’s not who I am.”

You opened your mouth, but all that came out was a shaky breath.

“I caused all of this,” you finally said, your voice so small it was barely audible.

He sighed and dropped his face into his hands. “I don’t even know how to start this conversation.”

“I don’t think it’s the time to have it,” you whispered.

He nodded slowly. “You’re right.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy. Wounded.

You stared ahead, unsure if you were waiting for something or if there was simply nothing left to say. Until finally…

“D-Did you tell everyone the whole story?” you asked, heart pounding in your chest.

He shook his head, slow and deliberate. “No. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I want Jiyong to wake up first,” he said, his voice cracking at the name. “I want him to be okay. I just… I need him to be okay so bad, Y/n. He’s my best friend.”

And then he crumbled.

He collapsed into your lap and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as the sobs came. Violent. Uncontrolled.

You held him without thinking. Your hands tangled in his hair, your lips pressed to the crown of his head. And then you were crying too. The two of you sobbing into each other, curled up on the bedroom floor like children who had just lost their favorite toy.

You cried for Jiyong.

For yourselves.

For the pieces of this mess you didn’t know how to put back together.

An hour passed like that. Eventually, the tears dried, leaving nothing but swollen eyes and silent exhaustion.

“Seunghyun,” you whispered, brushing the hair from his forehead. “Have you slept?”

He sniffled and shook his head. “Not really.”

“You need rest,” you said gently.

He nodded, eyes fluttering. “Will you… rub my back?”

His voice cracked again, soft and wounded, like a little boy asking his mother for comfort. It nearly broke you all over again.

You smiled through the ache. Remembering the last few months how you coaxed him to sleep that way. “Yeah. I will.”

You helped him into bed, pulling the blankets over both of you as he curled onto his side. You slid in behind him, your fingers trailing lightly across his bare back. Drawing soft shapes like you used to. Slow, soothing motions to ease him into rest.

His breathing began to slow. His body finally relaxed.

And you stayed there, in the quiet, drawing circles into his skin and wondering if either of you would ever feel whole again.

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dexxtrosee · 1 month ago

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Neverending battle

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader

TW: mentions of canon character death, mass casualty event, grief, PTSD, lockdowns

Robby's sitting outside on the steps when you get home.

You reel back slightly, unsure. He has his head between his hands, taking deep breaths with his eyes closed. He's not dirty, still wearing the same cargo pants and black scrub top he left with in the morning. The face full of grief isn’t new either.

There's added weight to his shoulders though, you can see it. It’s almost like he’s doing an effort to stay upright against a crushing weight pushing him downwards, unsure of if he even wants to anymore.

You try your best to get closer without making a sound, slow steps and controlled breathing. His hands clench slightly.

"Jake's girlfriend died on me today."

You freeze.

"Remember I told you I'd give him the tickets so he could go with the girl he told us about? Her name was Leah," his voice breaks when he says her name, "I got to see her alive and happy through a call, and a few hours later I was covered in her blood and she was dead right in the middle of the ER."

You had seen the news, had called him a hundred times before it got through and Dana had answered. He talked to you five, ten seconds maybe, just to tell you to call Jake, to tell you he loved you, that he'd get home late. A watery chuckle was what he got back, and a 'be safe'. They had both sounded wrecked in that controlled way you knew so well, Robby had mastered it ages ago.

Which is why you don’t really know what to do with what’s pouring out of him right now. He hasn't moved, hasn't looked up at you, talking to the floor with his backpack by his side. He never tells you anything, never talks about what eats him alive and wakes you up when he starts crying at midnight.

He can talk about the funny, quirky cases, not with any other details but the fun ones. The girl who broke his arm trying to see how far she could jump, the boy who had a condom stuck inside, the teacher who had an accident in class and had been sneezing glitter for two days.

A month ago he got home laughing his ass off because a bunch of teenagers had gotten to the Pitt in a blind panic from their tongues being blue without "apparent reason", fearing the worst.

They just got high off his asses with a blue brownie and didn't remember, he kept saying, tears streaming down his face from laughing too much. It had made you so happy to see him like that, so carefree and finding something nice at work for once.

The man sat in front of you is a whole different person.

Your mind unhelpully supplies that Leah must have been around those teenagers' age.

"I broke inside the ped's room after Jake told me it was my fault, a-and it is, right? It is. Over a hundred people saved and I let my- I let Jake's girlfriend die."

Irrational anger flames inside your chest.

He's just a boy, you know.

He didn’t see Robby five years ago, though. Didn't spend months having to see him through the car window only, with dark circles around his eyes and thinner than ever. He has no clue about the first time he came back home and woke you up with his retching inside the bathroom, or the way he got paranoic for days and cleaned every single surface again and again. The blind panic that would show up on his face when you so much as sneezed, how he bought packs of facemasks that haven’t run out to this day.

But he’s just a boy, you know. And you know that you would hate anyone too if they were somehow even remotely capable of saving Robby and he died anyway, no matter how crazy it would be. Grief isn’t rational.

"I don't think we're gonna be seeing Jake anytime soon, babe. Sorry."

And he says it just like that, like that boy hasn’t been the shine in his eyes for years.

You sit down next to him, pulling one of his hands away from his head and clutching it between yours. He lets you, but doesn’t move otherwise.

"I think just us two will be fine for a while."

Not like you have any option, but still, he chuckles. "You think?"

Shrugging, you bury yourself into his side, ignoring how tight his entire body feels. You wonder if, this time, it was Jack the one who had to go up and talk. It makes you pull him closer.

"You sayin' I'm not fun enough for you now? Want me to go around pulling odd shit again, like when we first met?"

Finally, he turns slowly and kisses the top of your head. His body trembles slightly, adrenaline rush wearing off. You don’t dare mention it.

"As if I'd need anything else."

You smile.

You'll pressure him into going to therapy tomorrow, again. You're not sure if you should be relieved or worried sick at the fact that your chances at winning seem better this time around, not like the hundred times before.

"Whatever you need, Robinavitch."

You stay outside until his shaking calms down, and let him cry himself to sleep with his head on your chest.

In the morning, he finally agrees.

#michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby #dr robby x reader #michael robby robinavitch #micheal robinavitch x reader #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby x you #dr robinavitch #michael robby robinavitch x reader #this is kind of sad but i tried my best to show hope lol

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slttygeto · 5 months ago

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༉‧₊˚. episode 08: lost in the fire.

preview: " . . . Without a second glance, he flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his foot, his voice low and taunting. “I don’t feel guilt, doll.”

“I…” you cannot put into words how you feel, it feels as though you had swallowed your tongue and any smart retort you had prepared is thrown out of the window. Shuji notices the change in your expression, how you went from being incredibly affected by his words to nothing all of a sudden. There’s an emptiness behind your eyes as you nod at him. “You’re right.”

And then you were gone. ."

word count: 5,3k

content warning: nsfw warning! heavy smut, choking, biting, n!pple sucking, unprotected s/x, not enough foreplay, jealousy.

༉‧₊˚. note: happy new years :) starting 2025 with a new chapter! thank you to my amazing best friend @aurelianamu for being my beta reader and helping point out mistakes and things that needed serious editing! i am still on a hiatus, but enjoy reading. thank you!

༉‧₊˚. reblog + comment!

➜ MASTERLIST

Hanma openly admits his vocabulary isn’t exactly expansive, chalking it up to his teenage self choosing cigarettes over books, biker gangs over libraries and nasty fights over going to school. Only that he knows a couple of words, they’re still insufficient when he is facing this hurricane of emotions and fails to locate the heart of it. He can’t pull the plug on something that’s blurry, so he sits in his car and looks out of his window. The vehicle trembles in sync with the rhythm of his restless foot.

A tattooed hand goes up to his face, and he slides down his blouse cuff to stare at the watch adorning his wrist; 10:32PM. You had to be awake, right?

One would question why he couldn’t simply send you a message, and the truth is far more complicated than that suggestion. He can’t message you when he was the one who told you he doesn’t fuck you on your period. You were offended by his tone more than what he was implying, and told him and he quotes ‘to go fuck himself and never come back again’.

Now, this wasn’t the first time that the two of you had a petty argument, the earliest one Hanma can remember was of him saying he didn’t want to eat your homemade food because he thought soup was boring, and you had glared at him the whole night until he apologized with his head between your thighs. Or when you tried to insinuate that he was so much softer than you had thought, the night ended with tears streaming down your face as you gagged and choked on his cock.

The two of you didn’t know what communication was, sex seemed to be the solution to everything. Well, except for this time.

You were understandably hormonal when you texted him, asking if he could drop by and hang out with you for a couple of hours at the beginning of November. And him being an asshole, he made some poor joke about how ‘he doesn’t fuck women on their periods because they’ll get attached’ and the rest is history.

Hanma doesn’t think he fucked up that badly, but that wouldn’t explain the fifth cigarette he throws out of his car window as he glares daggers at your balcony door. You can’t keep ignoring him forever, it’s been ten days.

He mutters a sharp “fuck” under his breath as he swings the car door open, stepping out and locking it with a press of his key fob. His strides are long and confident as he reaches into the pocket of his suit pants for another cigarette. Shielding the flame with his hand, he lights it, the glow briefly illuminating his face before he tucks the cigarette between his index and middle finger. He ascends the stairs, smoke curling in his wake as he eyes the apartment doors one by one. Ironically, the one thing he had memorized beside the feeling of your hallway, was the smell of homemade food that emerged from beneath your doorway, a scent which was forever engraved at the forefront of his mind.

A familiar wooden door greets Hanma as he steps into the dimly lit hallway, and he braces himself for how many times he is going to knock to get you to open the door for him. The memory of you whisper-yelling at him to just get in flashes before his eyes and an amused smirk finds its way up his lips, but it’s immediately wiped off when the door suddenly swings open. Surprised, he takes a step back with furrowed eyebrows, hand reaching towards his gun holster out of instinct.

Then he hears it, the sound of high heels clicking against the tiles.

You step out of your apartment with your back facing Hanma, allowing him to scan your outfit for a brief moment. It was cold outside, so you were wearing an oversized, fluffy and warm jacket on top of what he believes to be a short dress, and the black stockings you had chosen for the night bring more attention to your legs. To match the aesthetic of the outfit, you chose to wear your knee high, black leather high heeled boots, adding a couple centimeters to your height. And to finish off the look, you had styled your hair in a way that Hanma could only describe as intoxicating. The perfume you were wearing was dizzying, and it only worsens when you turn around and Hanma sees you with a full face of makeup. The right amount of glitter, the sharp eyeliner, the mascara giving your face that doe-eyed look and finally, that lip combo.

Where the hell were you headed to?

The good thing about working in corporate jobs was the amount of birthday celebrations to look out to. You had at least two birthdays each month, and November was no exception. But to ensure that not every winter birthday is celebrated inside the company, a co-worker took it upon themselves to invite everyone to a club, and who were you to turn down the offer?

You hated being holed up in your apartment for too long, it made you feel claustrophobic and anxious, and you were getting sick of your balcony and the same boring view. The moment you step out, you get a whiff of cigarette smell and instantly, you realize who was behind you. Your movements are slow and careful as you lock your door, fix the scarf that’s wrapped around your neck to keep you warm then–you see him.

Hanma doesn’t miss the way your eyebrows twitch when you lock eyes with him, he can’t deny that the slight purse to your lips makes the coil in his stomach tighten, then your frown deepens.

“Smoking’s not allowed in the hallway,” you point out towards the cigarette bud hanging between his fingers.

“Where are you going?” he completely dismisses your statement, eyes scanning your outfit from head to toe for what feels like the hundredth time. He knows exactly what hides beneath those layers of clothing, he’s touched and felt and groped it so many times already–then why does it bother him that you’re dressed so prettily for an occasion?

You’re already fed up with him, your high heels clicking against the tiles as you walk past him and Hanma almost groans when he gets a whiff of your perfume. Fuck, why did he have to be so stupid?

“Whatever, don’t stay here for too long or else they’ll kick you out.” You announce as you call for the elevator, pressing the button as you put your keys in your handbag.

The tall man is quickly standing behind you. He knows why you’re ignoring him, but he doesn’t think it entirely justifies not answering him. “Did you not hear me?”

You scoff. “You’re saying that?”

“It’s different, I’m asking where you’re going–”

“And now I’m asking you to mind your own business?” you hear a ding and step onto the elevator, Hanma right behind you. “I’m a grown ass woman.”

“Never seen your grown ass outside at night.” How blunt.

“Oh right, because in the last two months when you’ve known me and rarely ever visited may I add, you’ve never seen me go outside after 8PM?”

You were bitter, that’s understandable, but that doesn’t explain completely avoiding his question, does it? He was only asking about your whereabouts so that he knows where to expect to see you!

And perhaps even follow you there.

Hanma bites his tongue at your words. He would never admit that you were right, or that he messed up by completely ignoring your phone calls and messages because you had told him that you were on your period. However, everyone makes mistakes and it’s what makes us human…

…or however that saying goes.

The elevator starts to go down, his golden eyes alternate between scanning the number shown in bold colors indicating the floor number and the screen of your phone. You were sending a text in a group chat, he could see the name of it–something about your company, and next to it was the word ‘birthday party!’. He’s thankful that he’s being sneaky enough to be able to look at what you were typing, however that doesn’t last when you finally notice that he has grown a little too quiet. You hide your phone in your chest.

“Can you not?” you hiss, voice laced with venom as you shoot him a glare over your shoulder.

“A colleague’s birthday?”

“What are you, twelve?” you furrow your eyebrows as you turn to face him fully. Even with high heels, you don’t reach his full height and you hate it. You hate that you are looking up at him, at his handsome face which you didn’t see for a full week, and you absolutely despise the way he is staring at you.

His eyes were devouring you, forcing you to think of anything but how you’ve made them roll to the back of his head countless times. You refuse to stare at his bulging arms, or how his hair was slightly disheveled from running a hand through it. Was he frustrated by his own actions? You hope he was, you hope he fisted his cock pathetically to the thought of you, that his whines were so loud it echoes in his empty apartment. You pray that a mission interrupted his alone time, and he had to finish off some guy he didn’t like with painful blue balls.

And you fervently and desperately hope that he cannot read your true thoughts.

“Add sixteen years to that,” he replies while bringing the cigarette to his lips, taking a whiff from the stick. He pulls his hand away, smirking when he notices the slight shift in your expression and it worsens when he blows smoke on your face.

“Stop that! I don’t want to smell like cigarettes when I get in the car!”

“Oh?” he tilts his head to the side, golden eyes locked with yours as he searches for another clue. “So you need a car to get there?”

“I would be crazy if I walked outside dressed like this.” you ignore his intense stare, masking your nervousness with annoyance as you pull out your phone again.

“Who’s driving you there?”

“None of your damn business.”

“An uber.” The elevator finally dings and you hurriedly step out of the cubicle, trying to get away from him as far as possible.

“Oh! We got ourselves a detective here!” you exclaim jokingly, the sound of high heels clicking against the tiles echoing in the empty hallway. “You should work for the FBI, has anyone ever told you that?”

Hanma ignores your comments, his strides long and purposeful as he walks right behind you. “You keep clutching your purse, it’s open so you can make sure that your credit card is there and your forgetful ass didn’t actually miss anything. You’ll stop getting anxious when you get into the car and pay the driver–”

“Stop that!” You finally turn around to stare at him, and the tall man has to stop himself from scooping you into his arms and fucking you against the nearest wall. You puff out your chest like a balloon ready to burst, a fragile show of dominance and anger, but you were clearly fed up and you couldn’t handle hearing his voice anymore.

“You think you can read me easily, you think using your little criminal tricks on me will get you off the hook, it doesn’t.” you get even closer to the man, a manicured finger poking at his chest with each syllable rolling off your tongue. “You think you’re the only one who can read me? Well, I’ll tell you what’s in front of me right now.”

Hanma remains unnervingly quiet, so you continue.

"I see a man who couldn’t keep his word if his life depended on it. Someone who drowns his guilt in cigarette smoke because facing it is too much to bear. A man so shaken by the idea of me living my life without catering to him that he’ll go as far as to ruin it for me, hoping to force a reaction out of me. Well, guess what? You won’t. So enjoy your misery and your frustration, because tonight? You won’t be getting anything from me"

The only sounds breaking the stillness of the moment were the occasional hum of passing cars outside the building, their distant echoes a sharp contrast to the suffocating quiet of the hallway. The air around you felt heavy as you struggled to catch your breath, your face was in flames. Your gaze flickered wildly over Shuji’s expression, desperate to find even the slightest crack, some hint that your words had gotten to him, that they had landed where they intended to.

But all you were met with was silence, dragging on until a scoff cut through the air and you felt your chest tightening.

Without a second glance, he flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his foot, his voice low and taunting. “I don’t feel guilt, doll.”

And then you were gone.

He doesn’t try to follow you, the sound of your high heels clicking against the concrete becomes a distant sound the farther you walk away and he stands near the entrance of the building with his hands buried in his pockets.

It was time to work.

—

“Where were you? We were looking for you!”

“Sorry! My cat threw up on the carpet and I had to clean it real quick,” you say with a wave of hands, looking around the crowded area with bright eyes. “Seems like the birthday girl is having fun!”

You see a flash of red hair on the dance floor, and chuckle when you notice the way she seemed to effortlessly become the center of attention. People were cheering her on, clapping and asking the DJ to change the song just to match her energy. Meanwhile, you decide to take off your coat and place it on the chair that a coworker had reserved for you.

You weren’t the type to go clubbing, years of being constantly guarded by your brothers had left you tense and uneasy under the flashing lights, but you envied those who did it so effortlessly. They wouldn’t look as awkward as you do.

That is until you feel a pair of eyes following your every move, and you are forced to look at them.

It was a coworker, someone you had grown comfortable around because of his kind gestures. He would offer to help you carry papers around even if you were going to take the elevator, and when you ran out of water or your favorite drink in the fridge, he would be the first to request a restock for you. He was a gentleman, one that didn’t know how to hide his attraction towards you.

And you didn’t seem to mind it, a woman could appreciate being treated nicely once in a while.

“Not going to join them?” He gestures towards the rest of your colleagues who seemed to be enjoying their time on the dance floor. You chuckle as you shake your head, leaning back in your seat.

“Dancing is not my thing,”

The man, whose name is Tomoya, takes this as an open invitation to sit across from you. He puts his elbows on the table as he leans forward, clearly invested in the conversation.

“Why? It’s just moving your body to the beat.”

You press your lips as you hum, leaning towards the brown haired man as you respond.“Hmmm, I’m not sure if I like that.”

“How about this, if I can change your mind, you–” he pauses as he points his finger at you, eyes glimmering with mischief. “--go on a date with me.”

You scoff, raising an eyebrow at him. “A date?”

“Yup.”

How do you explain this to a man you hardly speak to at work? How do you tell him that your life is already entangled with someone else–someone too deeply involved in your world to simply cut loose? The idea of going on a date with Tomoya doesn’t seem so bad, but the thought of facing Hanma, of telling him about the possibility that you want to end whatever it is you have, makes you hold your head in your hands.

“We’ll see.”

You’ll deal with it later.

The rhythm of the music reverberates through the air as you find yourself on the dance floor with your colleague, Tomoya, who seems to be enjoying himself far more than you. The bass is heavy, the lights flicker like a heartbeat, and for a moment, you can almost forget your reservations. His encouragement draws a timid smile from you, and despite your clumsy attempts to follow his lead, you eventually surrender to the music. The tension in your shoulders eases as your movements become less forced, and soon enough, you find yourself laughing and moving your body to the beat.

You walk through the crowd to greet the birthday girl, your grin bright and contagious as you ask if she’s having fun. Before long, Tomoya succeeds to reclaim your attention. His lips move, but it’s hard to hear anything with the loud music.

“What?” you call out, cupping your ear for emphasis.

With a smile, he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “I said, you look beautiful.”

Goosebumps rise on your skin at his words, and your face heats up. Your laughter quiets down as you shyly glance away, scanning the room for an escape from his intense gaze. That’s when you see him. A familiar figure near the bar freezes you in place. Your chest tightens, the world blurring as you focus on the tall man leaning casually against the counter.

“Are you okay?” Tomoya’s voice snaps you back, but your response is dismissive.

“Yeah, yeah,” you pat his shoulder with a forced smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Your steps quicken as you drag your feet through the crowd, each stride bringing more dread. Please don’t be him. Please. But as you approach him, there’s no denying it. That sharp grin, the cigarette dangling between his fingers–it’s him. Your hand finds his shoulder before you can stop yourself, and when he turns, you’re met with those golden eyes that seem to silently mock your surprise.

“Well, what a coincidence, doll,” Hanma drawls, his voice dripping with amusement. “Do you need something?”

“Excuse me,” you snap, your hand gripping his forearm as you pull him to his feet. “We need to talk.”

“Oh absolutely,” he smirks, letting you drag him past the sea of curious eyes. He seems far too entertained for your liking, his laughter barely contained as you shove open the door to the women’s bathroom.

The startled gasps and shrieks from the women inside only add to the dread you were feeling. You glance around apologetically, muttering a quick, “Sorry,” as they scurry out, a few of them shooting you knowing looks.

“Relationship emergency?” one asks before disappearing out the door.

“I don’t know,” you mutter, locking the door behind you.

“Are you insane?” you whirl around, glaring at Hanma as he leans casually against the sinks, an infuriating smirk painted across his face. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Why? Did I ruin your little moment out there?” His tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it that makes your throat tighten and your mouth go dry. “Mad that I stopped you from almost fucking him?”

“Don’t you even start–”

“Or what?” His voice drops, low and dangerous, as he pushes off the sink and begins to close the distance between the two of you. The confidence in his stride makes your knees feel like jelly, and you’re suddenly hyper aware of the way he towers over you so easily. “Tell me, doll, is this why you didn’t want to tell me where you were going tonight? Were you afraid I’d show up and fuck up your little date with that fucker?”

“Don’t call him that,” you retort, though your voice wavers under his suffocating stare.

His eyebrows raise, mock surprise etched across his face. “Oh? Defending him now, are we?”

“I’m not defending him!” you argue, though the crack in your voice betrays you. Shit, you were a nervous mess. “He didn’t do anything to deserve your anger.”

Hanma chuckles, low and menacing. “Anger? Oh, doll, I’m not angry. Not with him, anyway.” His steps falter when he’s inches away from you, his body caging you against the door. “Because we both know he doesn’t mean shit to you, right?”

Your silence speaks louder than words, and the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs. “It’d crush him, wouldn’t it? If he knew why you’re so hesitant to go on a date with him.”

“I never said–” Your breath catches as his hand cups your jaw, tilting your face upward.

“So you do want to go on a date with him?” His golden eyes burn into yours, searching for something, though his grin never falters.

You gulp, your voice barely above a whisper. “...maybe.”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip, and you can’t stop the way your lips part instinctively. “You’re a liar,” he coos, his tone dripping with mock pity.

“Am not–”

A gasp is ripped from your body when you feel his knee push past your thigh, landing perfectly on your clothed cunt as he presses you further against the wall.

“Let’s try again,” he purrs, pressing his lips against your ear. “Do you want to go on a date with him?”

Your lips tremble as you throw your head back, and Shuji’s hand lands perfectly on your throat. He feels a piece of jewelry there, but he ignores it as he squeezes your neck gently, drawing a quiet moan out of you.

“I…” you start, unable to keep your eyes open as you feel your body burn up. The effect he had on you, the way it felt effortless to make a mess of you felt unfair. You gulp as you try to morph the lust in your gaze into anger. “I do.”

A pair of lips crash against yours almost immediately, and Hanma quickly catches as your knees give out on you at the impact. You would be lying if you said you didn’t miss this–his lips, how roughly he handled your body whilst making sure that nothing hurt you, because you craved it more than anything else. So you kiss him, fervently moving your lips against his as your hands claw at his shoulders and back. You felt like a flower starved of sunlight, withering in the absence of warmth and connection.

Hanma couldn’t offer either, but his touch was enough to fill the void.

He pats your butt and you jump, wrapping your legs around his waist before sitting you on the sink. The marble is cold, sending a sharp chill against your skin but it quickly fades away when Hanma’s lips travel down your neck, then your exposed chest where your perfume hits his nostrils the hardest.

The tall man stands there, inhaling deeply as your scent washes over his senses, his eyes closing as he surrenders to its intoxicating pull. He notices the necklace, how it seems to be stuck to your skin even if it doesn’t match your attire and something coils in his stomach.

Without second thought, he sinks his teeth on the skin of your boob, a loud gasp ripping from your throat as your hand finds his hair.

“Not there–” You try to reason with him, but he doesn’t listen. Instead, he sinks his teeth into a different spot, watching as you throw your head back, your back arching in response, a wave of pleasure taking over.

If he could, he would tear that piece of jewelry from your body.

“Shuji,” the sound of his name slipping from your lips is a melodic drawl, intoxicating him like no drug ever could. An animalistic growl rumbles from the back of his throat as he pulls down the top of your dress, revealing your boobs. The cold air makes goosebumps rise on your skin, and your nipples instantly harden under the attention given to them.

He fervently licks and sucks on the buds, shoving his hands under your dress. You are lost in the pleasure, fingers digging in his scalp as he gently bites on your left nipple, his hand groping the other breast.

Then you hear a tearing sound, followed by a sudden chill, making you shiver as the coldness creeps in.

“Oh my god!” you scream in horror, instinctively trying to close your legs as you eye the ripped stockings. “Those were expensive you fucking asshole!”

“Fuck that,” your heart stills when you see him lean down, biting your inner thighs and salivating at the sight of your black thong. “I’ve got money.”

“Y-You’re not buying me a-anyth–ah!” you try to cover your mouth when you feel his head get shoved between your thighs, a wet tongue pressing against the fabric of your thong. And then, you hear a dark chuckle.

“You smell so fucking good. Did all that fighting turn you on?” he pulls away, his fingers playing with the straps of your thong. “Or did you fuck around hoping that I’d fuck the attitude out of ya?”

Stubborn yet looking for a good fuck, you respond breathlessly.“No.”

“No?” he tilts his head, a mocking expression on his face as he purses his lips. “So you don’t want me to fuck you?”

He sees you look down at your own lap, and bursts out laughing as he finally removes the fabric off of your body. “Ah, you’re so fucking adorable,” he moves away from the sink and starts to unbuckle his belt. You sit up on the sink to admire him as he frees his hardened cock, stroking it a couple of times before standing between your thighs. He notices your starstruck gaze, and a low chuckle rumbles from the back of his throat, as if amused by the effect he has on you.

“Cockdrunk already?”

“Shut up.” You pull him in for a kiss, your hand traveling down to line up his tip with your entrance. He parts his lips, but then you feel him smile against your mouth. You open your eyes to meet his gaze.

He watches with an amused grin as your jaw goes slack the moment he pushes himself inside, but it quickly fades away when the wetness of your pussy washes over his senses and he has to take a moment to ground himself.

He can’t cum too quickly, that would be pathetic.

Hanma doesn’t take long before starting to fuck you, slow and calculated thrusts quickly turn into hurried and sloppy ones when your pussy clamps down on him with each kiss he presses to your pulse. He feels his self control slipping through the cracks of his mind, and when he finally looks at your face again, he is reminded of why the two of you were fucking in the women’s bathroom.

With a clenched jaw and flared nostrils, his hand travels to the back of your head and he yanks it back.

“Thought we had an agreement doll,” he hisses through gritted teeth, barely able to keep his eyes open as he grips your hair. “I thought you knew that you couldn’t pull shit like that with me. But I bet you like it, huh? You love testing my limits–ah fuck!” you clamp down on him again when he hits that one spot that makes your eyes roll, the added friction of his crotch against your clit sending shivers down your spine as you arch your back.

“Oh my god!” you cry out, the burning in your scalp mixing with pleasure.

Hanma leans forward, pressing his lips against your cheek as he growls. “Answer me.”

Tears well in your eyes, overwhelmed by the sheer presence of him. He was everywhere–inside of you, touching you–and now it felt as though he was trying to invade your very thoughts. “Fuck, fuck Shuji please don’t stop, please–”

He continues to fuck you at the same angle, licking his fingers to rub your clit in messy circles.“You like getting on my nerves, don’t ya? Makes it more fun for me to fuck you stupid.”

“Oh!” You gasp at the stimulation, eyes widening as you try to look down at where the two of you meet. “Oh, right there!”

“I asked you a fucking question.”He spits out venomously, his grip tightening around your head, forcing your forehead to press against his as he holds you in place.

“Yes!” You cry out, not caring about how fucked out you must look. “Yes, yes I do! I love it, oh my god please don’t stop fucking me, please–”

“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought–come on baby girl, get filthy with me.” Hanma grins triumphantly, but the pleasure starts to wash over him. “Make a mess on me, pretty girl. Use my cock, you know how to do that.”

He leans back, watching as you pathetically try to move your hips back and forth. After a few failed attempts, you break down in front of him.

“I c-can’t, I can’t!” You sob, your hips trembling and shaky. Hanma’s gaze locks onto yours, his dark eyes fixated on the tears streaming down your cheeks–the sight of you so fragile beneath him is enough to send him over the edge. “Please, please fuck me Shuji.”

“Fuck–” His hand wraps around your throat, fingers grazing your necklace as he captures it in the same motion, and then his hips find that same delicious pace. His fingers find your clit again, rubbing in the same dizzying motion that made you the loudest earlier, but instead he hears nothing.

You suddenly fall quiet as your body arches away from him and Hanma watches in awe as your hand shakily grips his forearm. The bathroom is filled with wet sounds of skin to skin, and then he feels something wet on his pants and a loud gasp painfully rips from the back of your throat.

“Oh shit!” His proud laughter dies down on his tongue as your pussy clenches on him, burying his face in your chest. He reaches his own orgasm after a couple of strokes, biting down on your shoulder to muffle his own noises.

The two of you sit there in silence, with mostly you trying to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. You had never cum that hard before, not with a man at least, and your face burns with the realization that you squirted on him.

“Oh no, how am I going to clean that?” you don’t even notice that Shuji’s pants are soiled as well, his cock still nestled in your pussy.

“I don't pay cleaners so I can grab a mop myself.”

“What?” you furrow your eyebrows as you stare at him. “What do you mean?”

“Did I not tell ya?”

“Huh?”

His voice dips lower as his grin stretches wider, “I own this club, doll.”

2025 © all works belong to @slttygeto. do not repost, translate or steal any of my works.

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hannieween · 11 months ago

Text

chaser | heartbreaker series | c.sc

Breakups are tough. For years, you had to push your feelings down to try and move on. But now, you were back again with Choi Seungcheol, rekindling the ardent flame of your love, and lost promises.

✧ pairing: choi seungcheol x female reader ✧ genre: angst, fluff, smut (18+) ✧ aus: bar owner seungcheol, ex seungcheol, secret relationship ✧ word count: 15.8k

→ previous chapters – read more

› smut warnings under the cut

✧ warnings: smut with plot, dubcon (slight somnophilia), daddy kink, dom seungcheol, sub reader, reader is on birth control, big dick seungcheol, multiple sex scenes (these two are unstoppable), literal love making, pussy eating, morning sex, unprotected p in v sex, creampies, overstimming, rough fucking, manhandling, dirty talk, edging, seungcheol is kind of a menace, creampies, aftercare, pillowtalk, exhibitionism: groping in the workspace, quickie in the workspace. pet names: love, baby, angel (hers) daddy, babe (his) ✧ author's note: this is very long overdue, i kept putting it off and on because i wasn't feeling it and honestly, the city lights series is kind of a hyperfixation of mine so... yeah hehe. i hope you like this!! (❁´◡`❁) ✧ disclaimer: minors dni this post is intended for 18+ readers. please have your age stated in your description and try not to look like a bot please 🙂

part iv

It was more than just a dream.

You remember everything quite well. It was one of those games in which you were certain that Seungcheol could get anything he wanted only by his determination.

Seungcheol was sweaty. His long black hair stuck to the back of his neck and his forehead. He grabbed the hem of the red jersey he wore, lifted it up, to clean the sweat on his upper lip, revealing his abdomen in the process.

You remember overhearing the chattering and muffled giggles from the girls sitting behind you on the bleachers. You didn't bother to look back, or to even try and listen to what they were saying. Because all eyes were on him.

Seungcheol was the team captain, top of his class. And he was hot as fuck. So that made him inadvertently popular around the campus.

It also didn't help that he was putting on a show. It was late at night but the misty summer breeze didn't help to alleviate the heat that had him covered in sweat, plus the exercise he got from running on the field.

He would let his head hang back a little as he crossed the field with a slow, exhausted walk, recovering with hard and deep breaths before jumping on a sprint. Sometimes, whenever he was just on standby, he would grab his shirt by the hem and lift it upwards, fanning some air to his sweaty tummy.

Slowly, you felt the dream slip away from you as wakefulness started to kick in. You tried to hold on to the faint slivers of your dream, to the memory of Seungcheol's gummy smile, running to you, victorious.

You were fully awake now, but you had to force yourself to remember. He lifted you in his arms, spinning you around, laughing at the squeal you made. It was his last game as a university student. And he had won, just as he always did.

"You won, baby," he told you.

"I didn't, you did," you smiled at him, encircling his neck with your arms.

"You gave me luck," he said, as he always did.

The sunlight poured through the tall windows and onto the large bed, until slowly as the morning rolled in, you felt its warm soaking on your skin, pouring slowly onto your exposed arm and chest, and then onto your face.

Upon blinking you realized that you had shed some tears in your sleep.

A heavy arm slid on your waist and circled your torso with a pleased sigh, pulling you so his front was pressed to your back. The warmth radiating from his body was unlike the sunlight creeping onto your bodies. It was snuggly and familiar.

Seungcheol hummed softly, half asleep but conscious enough to plant a kiss in your hair, nuzzling his face with another soft sigh. The arm wrapped around you moved again, his hand sliding to the centre of your tummy.

You were still trying to come to terms that you were back to reality, barely aware of what Seungcheol was up to when with a small grunt, he moved his body on top of yours, littering your chest with kisses, trailing down to your tummy.

In seconds, his hands were angling your thighs open for him, kissing your lower tummy, making you arch your back to get more of his open kisses, the slight brush of his wet lips against your inner thighs making you open your eyes.

You brought up a hand to gather your tears, feeling a bit puzzled as the other hand found his head nuzzled between your languid thighs, when his teeth grazed your skin softly, bringing out a groggy moan from you.

Your hands quickly grabbed the sides of his head. "Babe?" you rasped. "Cheol, what are you doing?"

His mouth was already sliding on your mound with sweet, wet kisses, trailing down to lick and softly bite your pussy lips, bringing you back to life in a second.

"Baby, oh god, yes," you mewled, body jolting on the bed, you pulled back the bedsheets, uncovering your body, Seungcheol between your thighs as he slowly began to push his mouth between your folds, kissing you openly.

You arched your back instinctively, letting out a raspy moan as his tongue laved generously at the arousal already pooling at your entrance.

Your mind fragmented between the dream and reality. Your ex-boyfriend's hair was long, but now it was dyed in a pale blond. As you propped yourself up on one elbow, you saw his upper back, stockier than you remembered it.

But there was no denying that no matter how long it had passed, Seungcheol still knew you like the back of his hand. He pushed a hand on your lower tummy, very close to your mound, leaving the top of it exposed, your swollen clit to the mercy of his tongue.

Seungcheol paused, casting a loving look at you before diving right back into your pussy, letting out a raspy hum like a man starved, his free hand creeping up to your chest, finding your breast to give a gentle squeeze with his fingers, a thumb brushing over your nipple.

"Cheol," you called softly, fingers grazing his scalp as you held onto his hair. "Just like that, daddy, please."

He groaned in response, moving his tongue in swift side to side movements on your clit, his hand pressing harder on your lower tummy, the feeling in your cunt intensifying.

"Oh god!" you gasped when his fingers pinched your nipple and tugged at it, caressing your boob with his fingers just to hear more of the noises you made.

He trapped your puffy clit between his lips, pulling at it, causing smacking noises as he continued to do it repeatedly, humming in your pussy, the sound vibrating in your sensitive bud.

"Cheol," you mewled, closing your eyes to the pleasure burning in your body. "God, daddy, I'm close," you whispered.

He wrapped his lips around your clit, immediately starting to suckle at it, the slurping sounding loudly in between your lewd whimpers and sharp gasps.

You used the hand clenching on his hair to press him down your cunt almost as a reflex before your head lolled back, pleasure consuming your body quickly, tingling in your face and making you cry out his name.

As your orgasm flooded inside your body, Seungcheol continued teasing your clit with his mouth, waiting for you to relax into your high. His big eyes darted a look up at you, but his mouth didn't relent.

"Mmn, Cheol," you called in a breathy tone, being that you were a languid mess. "So good."

His tongue pressed flatly on your core again, drinking in your arousal with a pleased and raspy moan.

Seungcheol didn't say anything, pressing kisses on your pussy lips before detaching his mouth from it, pulling his body back so he stood on his knees.

The bed covers and the sheets fell from his back. Your eyes roamed all over his body, wholly naked in between your thighs. His milky white skin bathed by the morning sunlight contrasting beautifully with the dark backdrop of his bedroom.

You would never get enough of such a sight. His body was perfect, his broad chest and beefy and strong arms that held you throughout the night, his meaty thighs, his long and thick cock, standing fully hard now. Seungcheol was perfect.

Seungcheol noticed your eyes on him, giving you a smile that could heal every wound, every ache you have ever felt. Your heart jolted in your chest, you loved him so much still that you could sob.

"You're okay there, baby?" he asked softly. There was a light frown on his face, probably noticing the tears brimming in your eyes.

You nodded, leaning your back into the mattress and you extended a hand to him. "I need you. Right now, Cheol."

Seungcheol trusted you. He knew that if you were not okay, you would speak out. But that didn't ease the frown. He moved his body on top of you, his big arms framing your head, his face leaning closer to yours.

"Are you sure? Am I doing something wrong?" he whispered with genuine worry lacing his tone.

You used the proximity to his face to press feathery kisses on his lips. "No, I'm sure," you whispered. "Don't stop, please, Cheol."

The corner of his lips quirked up slightly, but he didn't reply verbally. He moved one arm from the side to your head, sneaking it between your body and his to grab his cock, guiding it to your core.

"Look at me, angel," he breathed, nudging his cockhead in your entrance.

If you could lose yourself in those sweet, but dark eyes, you would. As he started pushing in, you felt the muscles of your face go lax, making your mouth part.

Seungcheol mimicked your expression, his full lips parting as he sheathed himself inside you slowly, a quiet, strangled groan coiling in his throat, making his Adam's apple bob.

His eyebrows knitted when his hips met your own, making him sigh deeply, his cock fully inside you now, his arm returned to frame your head and you realized that you had pushed your eyebrows inward too.

Your hands held onto his strong shoulders, then your fingernails dug deeply into the hard muscle on his back, making him moan as he dragged his thick cock back and pushed it right into your tight and warm walls.

"God," he breathed, his eyelids fluttering when he closed them briefly.

The experience of being with him after so long of being apart was nearly mind-shattering for a second. You never wanted something more than being with him like this, the nights spent dreaming with memories of him... and now you were there. It was real.

"Seungcheol?" you called, your voice tiny, but quivering slightly.

"Yes, baby?" he rasped, hips rolling slowly on top of yours, moving his cock inside you at a deliciously good pace.

You shivered slightly when his fingers grazed your scalp, twisting gently in the locks of your hair.

"Baby? What's wrong?" he asked softly, his brow furrowed again when your eyes finally let your tears go.

You moved one hand from his back, meeting his cheek. A tiny sob broke inside you when Seungcheol leaned his face against the palm of your hand. The movement was almost instinctive, as though his body remembered all of the times he did that in the past.

"I love you," you whispered.

For a moment, it seemed that the world had stopped, because your heart had. It had been years since you uttered those words to anyone, and the last person to hear those words coming from you was him.

His dark eyes glinted with some emotion, reading the features of your face swiftly. His frown had relaxed the moment he heard you utter those words to him.

"I love you," he whispered back, gulped hard and dropped his forehead on top of yours with a moany sigh. "I love you. I love you."

You sobbed, your other hand finding his other cheek so you were cupping his face fully now, lips meeting in tender and brief kisses as he kept moving his hips in deep and slow thrusts.

"Cheol," you sighed, instinctively pushing your knees back angling your hips for him to push his own against yours, his cock reaching deeper in this new position.

"I'm here, baby," he whispered, and then with a sharp intake of breath, added: "I never stopped loving you."

"Neither did I," you breathed.

Seungcheol let out a sound between a raspy moan and sighed as he crushed his mouth with yours, kissing you deeply, as if trying to convey all of the I love yous he didn't get to say when you left.

His chest pressed flush against yours as he rolled his hips on yours. "You are my everything," he muttered, though his voice broke halfway through the sentence.

You knew him well enough to know that he struggled with saying what his heart felt. So hearing that caused a powerful shudder in you. "You are too, Seungcheol," you whispered, swallowing your tears. "Always have been."

"I missed you so much," he continued, as if in a maddened frenzy, pushing his hips slowly and urgently, his pace pushing your body in the sheets slightly, if it were now for his arms framing your head.

"I missed you too," you breathed, running your fingers through his hair to then link them on his nape. "Everyday, all the time."

"God, baby," he whispered, squeezing his eyelids shut for a second. "Angel, I'm close."

You only nodded with your head, not caring anymore about coming for a second time, you just wanted to feel him, to hear his raspy moans and sighs, to be this close to him.

However, Seungcheol thought differently. "I want you to come again," he said, hooking one of your legs on his shoulder expertly, and then the other.

Your eyes brimmed with tears of pleasure as he pushed his cock inside you but deeper this time, eliciting a long and raw moan from you from the change. Your hands tightened the grip on his hard biceps as his hips plowed on you.

"God, " you mewled as your head sank back on the pillow, writhing under his body. "Please, please, Cheol, don't stop, please."

"That's it, angel," he praised, sighing a pleased smile that wrinkled the corners of his eyes. But then, you could see his own orgasm overtaking him, his dark eyes glazing over the overwhelming pleasure, his lower lip quivering slightly as he let out a guttural moan but his eyes never left your face, watching your face as you came around him. "That's it, baby. Come for me."

As if on command, you felt pleasure blooming inside you, waves of bliss washing and sizzling from under your skin. The feeling so strong that you had to squeeze your eyes for a second, seeing stars in the sudden darkness. "Fuck," you mouthed, being overcome by ecstasy. "Cheol, babe," you mewled.

"I'm here," he whispered. "Look at me, baby," he pleaded in a louder, raspy tone.

When you opened your eyes, you saw his lips parting, his eyes glistening, his nose wrinkled a little bit before he grunted with his mouth slightly opened. "God, baby," he groaned, pushing his hips against you sloppily, his cock clamped by your pulsating warmth, tipping him over too.

You moved your hand to cup his cheek, locking eyes with him as he came. There was a sense of satisfaction filling your chest when he too, looked overwhelmed by pleasure. He sucked in a breath, and a grunt left his mouth next, thrusting his cum inside you slowly and forcefully, until he stopped, breathless.

Your hand slided on his cheek, running the pad of your thumb on his lower lip as you kept your gaze on the features of his face, smiling at him when he did the same, moving one hand clumsily to caress your face.

"Hi, baby," he sighed heavily, his red lips stretching in a wide smile.

"Hi, Cheol," you giggled, his gaze softening when he heard your laugh.

"Are you okay, love?" he asked then, his eyes roaming over the features of your face, reading you expertly.

"Yeah, I'm okay, babe," you gave him a nod with your head.

"Are you sure?" he insisted, his hand on your cheek slipped beneath your head, leaning over to leave a kiss on your forehead.

"I was just feeling a little sentimental," you mumbled, pushing his long blond hair back, using the pads of your fingers to caress his face. "I dreamt of you, that's all," you explained, now toying with the earrings adorning his earlobe.

"Oh, yeah?" he whispered with a sweet, endearing looking grin. "What did you dream about that got you tearing up, baby?"

"Remember your last match in uni?" you ventured to ask, pausing for him to give you a short nod with his head. "That's it, I guess it was more like a memory than a dream."

"And that was the reason you were crying, baby?" his tone was sweet, his dark, glistening eyes still outlining your features. He grinned when you nodded at him again. "Really? Why?"

"I'm–I just miss you," you whispered nervously, choking up with the memory of him in his university days, when your relationship was blooming and you felt like nothing could tear you down, as long as you were with him.

"I'm here, baby," he leaned over, bumping the tip of his nose with yours before he pressed his smiling lips on yours, grazing them before he locked yours in a brief, warm kiss. "Not going anywhere."

You giggled. "Neither will I," you mumbled with a shaky voice, feeling like you were threading down a dangerous path with that sentence.

"I'm not letting you go either way," he replied, his tone had dropped to a raspy low one.

"Promise?"

"I promise," he replied with certainty. "I meant what I said, I'm ready for us," he said and you pretty much understood that he was calling back to the big discussion you had when you finalized your relationship with him.

"I'm ready too," you said, choking up again at the memory of that night.

"I know," he smirked.

After all, he knew you better than anyone in the world.

He propped his hands on the pillows to peel his body off yours, thus pulling out of your sopping wet walls, with a tired grunt. "Come here," he whispered when he climbed off the bed.

You obediently crawled to the edge of the bed, where he promptly lifted you up, bridal style. "You know I can walk there," you smiled at the proud look on his face.

"And you know that you don't have to, baby," he replied, the tips of his ears turning red. "Don't pretend you don't like it."

That made you giggle giddily. "You may have a point there, Cheol," you shrugged slightly.

Seungcheol set you down on the bathroom floor, turning his back on you to reach out to turn the shower on. You looked around the room, aimlessly.

"What?" he asked, his eyebrow cocking up slightly when he read your face.

"Can you... give me a minute, please?" you asked meekly.

"Seriously?" he started with a breathy laugh. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I'm serious!" you replied in kind.

"Why are you being shy about that?" he asked bewilderedly. "I've seen you pee before. Like thousands of times."

You scrunched up your face in a grimace. "Please, babe. I don't know if I can hold it anymore."

His laugh bounced on the walls of the polished bathroom. "Okay, okay!" he replied, still giggling himself silly.

But he did not turn and walk out of the bathroom, instead, he just simply hopped in the shower, closing the glass door and moving to stand under the shower head.

"Babe!" you squealed, eliciting another goofy laugh from him.

"What, I'm not watching!" he protested. "My eyes are closed!"

You sat on the toilet, biting your lower lip in concentration, feeling your brow furrow and you let out a big sigh.

Seungcheol heard that. "Baby, just go," he sneaked a look through the glass door of the shower, hair completely wet and pushed back, his naked, gorgeous body glistening wet.

"I can't if you're watching me," you said shyly, a smile breaking the concentration written in your face.

"Why? You've done it in front of me before," he shrugged and returned to stand under the stream of water. "Countless times."

"Yeah but..." you sighed again, but now in relief as you finally could relieve yourself.

Seungcheol smiled when you stepped into the shower floor afterwards, moving so you could stand beneath the showerhead. "What were you saying?"

"Nothing," you pressed your lips into a smile. "You're right, I was just feeling shy."

"It's okay baby. I get it," he shrugged, his eyes set on the movements of your body as you started rubbing your shampoo on your scalp.

"I guess we have been away from each other for so long that it's hard to get myself back to how we were before."

The honesty in your words was so blunt that it hit you only after you had already uttered them. Time froze for a second and you blinked the water from your lashes to sneak a look to his face.

He looked solemn, nodding slowly but you noticed the sad glint in his eyes, dimming the natural spark in them. "I understand," he muttered, but you noticed right away that he felt rejected. "I don't want you to feel pressured into doing stuff that we used to do like before. We can take it step by step. Mark new boundaries."

And with that, he stepped out of the shower, leaving you to continue showering in your own space.

Seungcheol was so quick to jump back to the relationship that he did not share the same burden that you carried. It was stupid, but you still felt like you had a lot to atone. And that stopped you from jumping with him.

You felt bad, but not only because of the dejectedness your words caused Seungcheol to feel. You felt bad for all of the time that you lost while being away from him. You felt bad for not being able to pick up where you left off with him.

And you wanted to change that, consequences be damned.

Kim Mingyu missed his shift for the second time the following day.

He sent a text early in the morning in the group chat, telling Seungcheol he had family matters to tend to.

But Seungcheol knew Mingyu well enough to tell when he was bullshitting.

"He's not doing great at the moment," Wonwoo informed his boss as they were setting up before open hours.

"I'll talk to him," Seungcheol stated with decisiveness, drawing a curious glance from you.

"Sure, boss?" Wonwoo asked. "I can do it. He's been avoiding everyone."

Wonwoo brought a hand to his nape, scratching aimlessly as he appeared to consider something over a moment. "On second thought..." he paused, then brought a lithe finger to push up the frames sitting on the nose of his bridge. "I think it's a good idea. You should talk to him, boss. Maybe he'll listen to you."

Seungcheol gave no verbal reply. He just nodded his pale blond head and disappeared behind the kitchen doors.

"Is Mingyu alright, though?" you asked curiously as you wiped a glass jar with a dishcloth.

"Absolutely not," Wonwoo confessed with a hollow laugh. "He's been a mess. He doesn't leave his room."

Wonwoo was worried, you could tell from the way the muscles above his eyebrows dipped slightly.

"And you think Seungcheol talking to him is a good idea?" you wondered, a genuine curiosity reverberating in your tone.

Wonwoo sent a side glance at you. The tall man was standing beside you, now that you were overtaking Mingyu's position for the day. It was a very slow day though, but Seungcheol had asked for you to cover.

"Boss might not be the most tactful guy I know," Wonwoo muttered between his teeth, sending casual glances to the kitchen doors. "But he definitely has more experience than me around... this stuff."

You stilled for a fraction of a second before resuming to clean the next jar. "What do you mean?" you pressed, trying to sound as unknowingly as you could.

"Mmn, let's just say that I've never been through a breakup like this," he put in with a nonchalant tone. "But boss has."

Your heart skipped a beat, sending a painful spasm in your chest. "Oh," you blinked. "I didn't know that."

It appeared as though Wonwoo believed your lie, pressing his lips into a tight line as he nodded slowly. "I met him after it happened, but it apparently shocked everyone that knew him and his ex. We have some friends in common, so that's how I heard of it."

"Sounds like a big breakup," you smiled stiffly.

"Yeah, I mean," Wonwoo cocked his head towards the very big neon sign on the wall behind the bartop that read Heartbreaker in red letters.

You filled your tummy with a big breath to suppress the guilt trying to set right in. "That explains some things," you sighed awkwardly.

"I've only heard stories," Wonwoo said with a low tone, still sending cautious glances at the kitchen door. "Boss has never actually said nothing about it. Well, to be honest, he rarely ever tells nothing about himself. He's all work."

"Really?" your voice shot up slightly.

Wonwoo's gaze panned over to where you stood behind the bartop. "Really. I've known him for two years already, he's never said a thing," he told you casually. "But I met him through a friend who knows him from a while back so, word got around that he was left broken pretty badly."

You had expected to hear something like this, but not from Wonwoo, not from someone that was not aware that it was you who broke his heart. The guilt consumed you like a fiery discomfort settling on the pit of your stomach, but with a gulp of air, you tried your best to compose yourself.

It was too late, Wonwoo had his head tilted to one side, his eyes analyzing your face. He didn't budge like you did, when Seungcheol came back to the general area.

"Everything alright?" Seungcheol asked, noticing the very evident interruption in the conversation.

"Everything alright, boss," Wonwoo replied without deterring his eyes from your face, a second passed and then he turned to Seungcheol. "Are you handling the tables tonight, then?"

"It's a slow day, so I might help you out here and there," he looked around, a frown on his face. "Where is the new kid? Chan."

Wonwoo shook his head. "He only comes on the weekends."

"Right," Seungcheol scrunched up his nose, palming the lacquered bartop with his hand. "Well, then I'm going to be handling the tables tonight. And maybe we should think of hiring more people starting next month."

He pressed his lips into a line before walking to the door that led to the back of the bar and disappeared.

"What is your deal with him, anyway?" Wonwoo asked abruptly, grabbing a box of beers to place in an organized rows inside the fridges.

"I just... want to understand why he is like this," you explained, though your words were uncertain, making your tone sound hollow.

"It was worse when I met him," he muttered, stretching his arm into the fridge to obsessively place the bottles into neat rows. "Like you said, he is not that bad now. And to be fair, he hasn't been nearly as bad to you as he was to Mings when he was the newbie."

You realized that the bottles were organized by the brewing style as well. "I see," you replied unconvincingly.

Wonwoo closed the door of the fridge for a moment, wiping his hands with a dry cloth as he took some reluctant steps towards you. "In fact, he's gotten a lot better lately. It wasn't until you arrived here that he got all pissy again."

"Is that so?" you asked, trying to keep a blank face, but you were pretty sure that he had you all figured out already.

"That's so," Wonwoo said, his voice dropping to a mere whisper, the corner of his mouth curved up slightly.

You and your stupid mouth.

You knew there was no issue with Seungcheol if Wonwoo and Mingyu knew about your shared past. He has told you time and time again that you could trust the two bartenders because he trusts them both with his life.

The truth was, you were scared. You didn't want to bear witness to Wonwoo or Mingyu treating you differently if they knew you were partially the reason why their boss had this reputation of being a jerk.

But it was clear that Wonwoo, being the detective that he was, had already noticed your very difficult to hide attraction to Seungcheol. That, on top with your brief interrogation might be two things to put together, thus uncovering you as the evil ex that left him badly broken.

"Maybe he likes you," he shrugged, clicking his tongue and sucking in a slow breath.

"Wonwoo!" you reprimanded in an scandalous fashion, dropping your hands at your sides and you felt the muscles of your eyes stretch wildly. "You can't know that!"

Jeon Wonwoo laughed, the bridge of his nose wrinkling in the process so he had to push his glasses back up with the tip of his finger. "I mean, that's the only explanation in my mind. Why would he get this pissy? Maybe he finds a certain attraction for you but can't really express it, you know? He's a difficult man when it comes to that stuff."

"What do you mean?" you tilted your head to one side, pretending to be completely clueless.

"He uh..." he shot a look to the door that led to the backrooms. And being certain that the coast was clear, he continued, he even leaned back against the door of the fridge. "I shouldn't be telling you this, but I am also intrigued, so, whatever," he shrugged. "He dated someone briefly not long ago, cut it off shortly after, worst week of my life."

A sharp pain crossed your heart like a lightning bolt, making the muscles of your face freeze. "Of your life?" you tried smiling but it came out as a stiff recoil of your facial features. "Seems a bit much, doesn't it?"

"I'm not saying that to make it about myself, I get how it sounds but," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "The man was pissed off all the time."

"Well, maybe it just didn't work out like he expected," you muttered, pretending to be cleaning the surface of the bartop thoroughly, but your heart was pounding a mile per second, each pump hurting your chest, robbing you of air.

A thought crossed the back of your mind: the way Seungcheol comfortably threw the comment of you dating other people, having sex with other people during the time you were abroad. He assumed that you also moved on, because he had too.

Wonwoo muttered something under his breath that sounded like: "It makes me wonder," but did not proceed to tell you more. And you did not push.

Because you were trying with all of your might to appear uninterested. Even if Wonwoo was apparently open to the idea to talk about your boss behind his back, you were completely unequipped to take this new information with a blank face.

"So have you found a place to stay?" Wonwoo asked some minutes after.

You understood that the question came from a place of genuine interest and not just because he wanted to change the subject of conversation. "Yeah, I'm staying with someone," you pressed your lips in a tight smile when your voice broke at the last word.

"Oh, that's good to hear," he muttered, resuming to place the beer bottles neatly on the shelves of the fridge. "So you do have friends after all."

"What is that supposed to mean now?" you laughed and you noticed him raise his eyes above the rim of his glasses to take a look at your smile.

He smiled too. "You said you didn't have friends, if I remember correctly," he muttered with an awkwardness about his manner.

"You don't," you chuckled. "I never said that. I do have friends... just not that many."

"Imaginary friends don't count."

"He's not imaginary, he's very real!" you protested with a high-keen tone.

"He?" he huffed with a small grin. "So it's just one friend."

"Yeah," you sighed shamefully, your tone dropping to a tiny one. "Just one."

"Well, consider me and Mings as friends," he closed the fridge, swinging the cloth over his shoulder. "So it's plural now. Friends."

Friends.

Something warm and cozy filled your chest. It felt nice, it felt right.

"I usually don't drink on mondays," Yoon Jeonghan stated, looking down at the table as the large jug of pale beer was set in the middle along with your food.

"You're gonna," you replied to him, pouring him and yourself a glass.

"Damn, you do need it," his eyes widened and his jaw dropped in a wide smile.

"I do," you sighed, chugging the half of your glass before stopping to breathe. "I don't think I can do this sober."

He chuckled with his mouth wide open. "Fair enough," he lifted his glass and drank, throwing you a curious glance.

"What?" you inquired.

He let out a breath after chugging half of his glass to be on par with you. "Nothing, it's just... I never thought I would see you again, y'know?"

"I could say the same," you admitted.

"Before you start explaining and I really do want to hear your version of this, let me put you in my perspective," he spoke fast, and you could tell he was nervous because he was bouncing on his seat like a little kid.

"Okay," you conceded, though it was unnecessary because this was Jeonghan, he was going to have his way.

He set his palms down on the restaurant table. "One night you were telling me that you were dropping all of your plans of getting your master's degree and the next day, you were gone."

You blinked and nodded, understanding how the situation looked for him.

He continued. "I had to find out from your crazy ass parents that you were gone."

"Seungcheol didn't tell you?" you had to ask, feeling shy to interrupt him.

He shook his black haired head. "He didn't speak to me or to anyone I know for a month. He hid from everyone, to this day, I don't know where he went," he paused and you saw that he was still upset about it. "I showed up to your parents' and had to ask what the hell was happening 'cause you were out of reach and Seungcheol didn't answer his phone," his gaze fell out of focus, lost in the memory. "When I saw him again, he was packing up his stuff, moving to another apartment."

"God, I'm so sorry, Han," you muttered, dropping your gaze in utter shame.

"And then, you know what your parents say?" he pushed his hair back from his forehead, getting angrier at the mention of your parents. "They told me that you were not coming back. They acted like it was funny that I was looking for you. They told me you were continuing your studies and god knows where you were coming back."

You nodded slowly, biting your lower lip.

"So you do know about that. Great," he sat back and drank the remaining half of his glass. "Care to take it from there?"

"That's why I'm not on speaking terms with my parents," you begun to explain. "They wanted me married to some old guy by the time I received my master's diploma."

"Let me tell you this before you continue," he placed a hand softly on your forearm. "Your parents are the worst people I've ever met in my life."

"I know," you nodded again, hearing that from your closest friends wasn't exactly a new thing but you wondered for how long Jeonghan held that back.

"Shittiest parents in the world," he went on, throwing his hand away.

"Damn, okay," you laughed.

"Sorry," he chuckled again. "Got carried off."

You had to pause upon hearing his laugh, it sent a warm, fuzzy feeling inside you almost in an instant. Much as if your best friend's laugh was the kind of medicine you were missing for so long.

"Where was I?" you frowned. "Ah, yes—my parents married me off to some dude to form another political alliance and I didn't proceed so that's why I got cut off and been living alone since then."

Jeonghan blinked. "Jesus," he muttered. "You actually got married?"

"God, no," you shook your head violently. "They made me sign a binding contract saying that I'd marry anyone they selected for me. I broke the contract, paid a lawyer and everything."

"Jesus," he hissed again, dropping his chopsticks to his plate. "That's insane. Does Cheol know about that?"

You shook your head again and poured more beer in his glass and then yours, avoiding his gaze.

"Fuck, that's crazy," he muttered again, ruffling his fluffy black hair irately. "Your family is fucking crazy."

"I knoooow," you whispered, feeling the alcohol take its effect slowly, making your cheeks hot. "That's not the end of it, though."

"There's more?" his eyes widened in alarm. "You were right, I can't do this sober either."

Jeonghan chugged some more beer and you waited for him to stop swallowing it because you've known him to spit out his drink if he hears something shocking or worthy of a laugh.

"Because I had to pay a bunch of legal fees, and the PhD and everything I kind of started blowing off my savings and used my stipend to survive but, it wasn't enough so–"

"You ended up in Cheol's bar," he inferred.

"That's right," you nodded.

"And you didn't see him?" he asked with a frown. "He practically lives there."

"All the hiring process was handled by Wonwoo," you pressed your lips in a fine line. "I didn't see Seungcheol until it was my first day at the job."

He set his empty glass down on the table with a blank expression on his face. "You have the most terrible luck on earth, let me tell you that."

You started laughing—not out of joy. It was almost a crazed laugh, probably fuelled by coming clean and the two glasses of beer that you already downed.

"I know, I know," you wiped off a tear from your maniacal laugh.

"So what are you planning on doing now?" he asked, intrigued by your drunken laugh and honesty. "With Seungcheol."

You sent him an inquisitive look. "He told you something."

He sighed heavily and set aside his chopsticks again. "He didn't. But I'm not dumb and I know you two fuckers better than anyone else in the world."

Jeonghan was right, he was quick on reading you as well as Seungcheol.

"So are you back together?" he inquired.

You nodded.

"Do you still love him? After all this time?"

"I do," you frowned. "You know I didn't want to leave, right?"

"He told me something like that," he nodded. "Even if he didn't say a lot."

"Jeonghan," you placed a hand on top of his, drawing his gaze to yours. "I'm sorry for leaving with no explanation. I know I could've done things differently, and I'm sorry for not trying back then."

"You were dumb, I know. But I also know that you'll make things right," he pressed his lips in a comfy smile. "Everything's forgiven."

You smiled at that and he pulled you into a side hug and rubbed the back of your head briefly.

"You can start setting things straight by paying the bill," he laughed. "I'm kidding, 'mkidding!"

He laughed at the cold stare you sent him.

"Right, you're broke now so I should be treating you," he chuckled again.

"I'm not broke," you countered, toying with the hem of your shirt. "Well, just a bit."

"You'll be fine," he said soothingly.

"And how are you?" you asked, casting a glance upon the man you swore you'd be best friends with your whole life.

"I am alright," he shrugged, his eyes lost on the table below his arms. But you knew him like you knew yourself. He was avoidant, he didn't open up unless he was insisted to.

"I've seen that your company has grown a lot," you smiled with both hurt and pride. Pride for Jeonghan coming this far, hurt for not being there for him.

"Yeah, I've been doing well," he smiled shyly as he usually did, avoiding your gaze with a long blink of his eyes.

"Do you..." you inhaled deeply, and your pause was long enough for Jeonghan to search your eyes again. "Do you have someone special in your life now? Has someone finally worked up into Yoon Jeonghan's heart?"

Jeonghan looked hurt for a second before shaking his head. "Nah," he let out a characteristic low chuckle. "I gave up on that shit a while ago."

"Seriously?" you tried to give him a grin, but it failed when you saw that he did not respond to your expression well.

Jeonghan planted his elbow on the table to prop his head on his fist, the other hand pushing his plate aside. "If you knew how my fucking love life looks like right now," he laughed bitterly. "I don't know if this is the kind of conversation you want to have after years of not seeing each other."

Your heart deflated in your chest, causing some slight pain as you tried to recuperate yourself fast. "Tell me," you prompted. "I want to know everything I missed."

Jeonghan's eyes read your face, a downturned smile on his face as he pondered on your request.

"Jeonghan," you started, sliding a hand on the table to grab his own. "I haven't seen you in two years, or heard from you. I wanna know anything you have to tell me..."

He let out a deep sigh. "Okay," he conceded. "Although my life is not as crazy as yours, it has been a little... chaotic this past month."

"Pfft," you huffed. "I think it'll take a big, big scandalous thing to shock me."

Your best friend paused for a second, still reading your face with his big brown eyes before letting out with a shameful smile trying to break the features of his face. "Wow, you really missed out on so much," he realized for a second, now mustering some boldness before blurting: "I'm in love with my best friend's girlfriend."

For a second, you believed he might be trying to pull a prank on you. After all, you knew him as someone that likes to be a bit of a jester, to get the biggest reaction from you, in particular.

So you just stared him down in disbelief. "Be serious, Jeonghan."

"I'm being completely serious," he blinked slowly, the downturn smile turning into something sad, shameful even. "We might or might not have had sex a week ago."

"What?" you gasped, looking at the tables surrounding the one where you and Jeonghan sat. "Shouldn't you—shouldn't you tell your friend about this?"

"I don't have to tell him," he shrugged again, seemingly upon remembering something. "He knows about it. He knows everything. He was there too. Watched the whole thing."

"Hannie," your eyes were widened in bewilderment. "What the fuck?"

Jeonghan nodded, releasing a tired sigh that told you how emotionally worn he actually was. "He knows I love her. She doesn't," he bristled in pain, you noticed, the way that he blinked pausedly and the joints of his arms stiffened. "But I'm alright," he choked out, his fingers fidgeting with the edges of the table. "I will be fine."

"God, Jeonghan," you sighed, covering your mouth with a hand.

Jeonghan looked at you as if he were enjoying your reaction. "Is my love life more complicated than yours now?"

"Well..." you sucked in a breath in pause. "Would you believe me if I told you that I don't think so? What are you going to do now, Han?"

"I don't know," he laughed. "Try and forget about her. Try to make amends with my friend. Move on. Keep myself busy with work."

Your heart crushed when Jeonghan's gaze dropped to his lap, he breathed in through his nose, chest swelling slowly and you instantly knew that your best friend was hurting inside.

"Oh, Hannie," you sighed again, feeling his pain, knowing what he was going through perfectly.

"I'm alright," he insisted, but his pointed finger was scratching at an invisible spot on the table now. "I'll be fine. They'll be fine. Someday I'll be at their wedding and this will all be a thing to fucking laugh at."

You heard the hollow tone in his voice, the way his gaze darkened when it got lost in the void at his lap.

Your heart sank.

You were well aware of how that felt like. For many nights you wondered about Seungcheol when you were far away. With a tight pain in your heart you wondered if he had moved on. You wondered if he had fallen in love with someone else.

You wondered if he loved you still.

"Hey," you whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It'll get better for you, Hannie. You'll be okay."

Jeonghan smiled, his knuckles still pushing his cheek in, making his smile twist. "I know," he muttered, meeting your hand with his own. "At least I have you back."

"And I have you," you smiled at him, and that made his gaze soften.

"Is it weird to be back with Seungcheol?" he asked, setting an elbow on the table to prop his head on his hand. "I mean, after all this time, you surely are not the same people. He's changed, and my guess is that you have changed too."

Jeonghan was right about that. Seungcheol had changed so much that sometimes you missed the spark you used to see in his eyes two years ago. The spark was there still, but it was rare to see now,

"It's weird, yeah. We are definitely not the same, and I think that the breakup made me more guarded, in a way. And as for Seungcheol..." you sighed, driving your gaze away from Jeonghan's face. "I think he is trying hard to get back to what he had before... but I don't know why I can't."

"Do you think that being away changed you?" he pouted slightly, his lower lip protruding out. "I mean, you two were very dependent on each other. And then you just weren't. That changes people."

You nodded in agreement. "It broke me to leave him behind," you whispered, taking your time to breathe in slowly to not break into tears. "You're right, I was really dependent on him, for years. And then I was single and in a totally different place. I had to relearn things about myself and I changed. I don't know if I can be the same as I was before."

"You don't have to," he shrugged, cocking his head further, still propped in one hand. "Seungcheol loves you. And yeah, he has changed a lot too, but I don't think that matters for you two."

"What do you mean?" you asked dumbly.

"I mean, you two are weird," he smiled shyly, showing his beautiful set of white teeth. "The kind that just clicks together, you know?"

"He wants me to move in with him," you blurted after some seconds of silence between you, only interrupted by the busy buzzing of the restaurant on a monday night.

"What do you want to do?" he asked with genuine curiosity, identifying that this was the thing troubling your mind the most.

"I don't know," you sighed. "I don't want to move too fast but. I like living alone, but I also want to be with him. I want to rebuild my life back with him but... I don't want to make a mistake again."

"Look," Jeonghan straightened up, setting his hands on the table again and leaned towards you looking at you straight in your eyes. "Fuck what anyone thinks, don't even listen to what I think if that's what you want. But, Seungcheol still loves you, even after all of the shit you put him through, he loves you. And wants to be with you. What more could you want?"

You remained silent, as you did not have any answers for that.

So he continued. "If I had an opportunity like that, I would take it. In a heartbeat."

"Jeonghan..." your chest deflated, but you instantly understood that this was painful to him, and he was dead serious about it.

"Sorry," he shook his head slightly and then smiled awkwardly at you. "Don't take my advice if you don't want to, again. I just think that you are thinking way too much about something that you want."

"Yeah, I might be," you sighed.

Jeonghan sighed, but you could see that he was gearing up to change the subject, leaning back on the seat to reach inside the pocket of his jeans, drawing out his wallet.

"Next time is on you," he nodded his head at you before calling for the bill.

"This is fancy," you giggled as you slided on the creamy colored seats of his BMW. "I like it."

"You know what," he huffed, tip of his tongue gliding between his lips. "I thought you would, when I bought it."

"You're lying," you gasped. "Really?"

"Yeah," he smiled. "I remembered you told me you liked this model. I got it a year ago."

"It's really nice," you smiled, looking around the leather seats. It smelled new.

Jeonghan winked at you, giving you a smile right before he ignited the engine, the soft purr of it making the features of your face change into awe.

"Nice," you repeated.

"Hehe."

He grabbed his vape pen from the cup holder, drawing a big gulp of smoke which he slowly exhaled from his nose.

"Oh, I see you quit alright," you chastised, enjoying the way a pang of guilt crossed his face, making him smile and chuckle goofily.

"Ah, but I did quit. For a time," he said as he turned the wheel, you noticed he quickly took the route to Seungcheol's, no questions asked. "But then you left, Cheol stopped speaking to me and it was either gambling or smoking. So I decided to quit gambling for good."

"That is a terrible excuse, Jeonghan," you giggled, negating with your head in disapproval. "But I'm glad you're not gambling anymore. I suppose that's progress."

"Yeah, but I run a gambling house, with your boyfriend," he tilted his head to one side, leaning his elbow on the middle console so he could rub the tips of his fingers on his chin. "Is he your ex, still? Or are you guys like, calling each other girlfriend and boyfriend again?"

"Huh," you huffed and tilted your head to. "I actually don't know. We haven't talked about it yet."

"Well, what do you two do, then?" he asked, shooting you a look and then quickly put: "No, no, you know what, don't answer that."

"What?" you blurted.

"I know you two only fucked once and decided to get back together, so don't even attempt to tell me that you aired out all of the shit you went through."

"We do talk, Jeonghan!" you squealed, trying to sound as outraged as you could. "We had a serious talk when we saw each other again."

The car came to a stop slowly before the red lights, which illuminated Jeonghan's face as he stared you down for a long second.

"Ok, we did fuck," you conceded after he narrowed his eyes at you. "But we also talked, Hannie."

"Oh, right," he giggled briefly. "So I'm taking you to your ex's place, then."

"Yeah, we're a mess," you nodded with a flat tone.

In the back of your mind, the memories of a healthy relationship floated in the vague background. Seungcheol and you just clicked, like Jeonghan said. Yes, you were codependent on each other, but at that time, neither of you cared.

It was a great relationship, with more highs than lows. More promises than deceptions. Seungcheol was your first love, and he was very much determined to be your last. And as soon as you saw how sure he was about you, you started to reciprocate. You missed that.

Now that you were changed, you wondered if you would handle everything differently. Because it was a very loving relationship. But the big fallacy was that he turned into your whole world.

Until the day that he was not.

"Hey," Jeonghan noticed your silent divagation, sending you looks in quick succession. "You'll work it out. Don't worry about it," he offered you a smile, pressing his lips together. "At least you didn't sleep with your best friend's girlfriend, right?"

"Jeonghan," you immediately gave him a look. "Self-deprecation is not your best look."

"Yeah, yeah," he dismissed with some hurt pride. "But you can't deny that it helps."

Seungcheol gave you a copy of his fob key, which you used right before stepping inside the elevator, where as soon as you were confined in its walls, started to think of the pleasant encounter with your former best friend.

You were sure that you could pick up your friendship with Jeonghan straight away, and now after being with him and catching up, you felt stupid for ever thinking that he would turn his back on you.

Thank you for today, Hannie. Felt nice to catch up. You wrote him before the elevator reached the second to last floor of the building with a soft ding.

You pay for next time! He replied as you walked out and into the hallway, making you smile at the phone screen when he added. Joking. But I also enjoyed it. Missed you.

You reached the door and stopped for a second to remember the passcode. Typing the numbers of your anniversary date felt somehow mind-splitting, much as if going back to the days when that date was the best day of every year for four years of your life.

"Babe?" you called as you crossed the door, catching some noise in the distance.

Seungcheol was walking down the hall as you peeked inside. "Hey, baby," he sighed with a pleased smile, bending down on his knees a little as he spread his arms wide.

You squealed briefly when he lifted you up from the floor, wrapping your body with his strong and beefy arms. "Hi there," you cooed, cupping his face with your hands.

"How did it go?" he asked, his eyes outlining the features of your face and then he showed you a broad smile. "Did you drink beer?"

"Oh, do I smell?" you tried to recoil, but Seungcheol leaned his face to press a kiss on your lips.

"Yeah," he giggled goofily, lowering your body back to the floor. But his hands quickly moved to grab your face. "Give me more of that," he muttered when you hummed against his kisses. "Kiss me."

"Let me go rinse first," you used your hands on his chest to push him, but unsurprisingly, he did not even budge.

"I don't care about that," you felt his lips stretch against yours in a smile. "Kiss me more."

"Seungcheol," you whined, but his hands were already helping his lips to bring you to submission. One hand gently placed beneath your chin and the other one circling to your lower back, pulling you closer to his warm body. "Mmn."

"How did it go?" he asked with a honeyed tone, pressing his lips repeatedly against yours capturing your lower lip between his, humming as he appeared to become more and more addicted to kissing you

"It was fine," you replied dryly, focused on getting more of his lips, his hands were sliding to your waist, fingers pinching the fabric of your pretty blouse to hike it up, so his hands could touch your skin now. "Cheol," you muttered between his lips.

"Yes," he replied, his hands gripping the sides of your waist, fingertips digging gently on your skin, using his grip to bring you close to him, his front pressed to your own.

"Can we–," a shaky sigh left your mouth when in a sudden move he bent down on his knees again, lifting your feet up and set you down on the nearest countertop of the kitchen.

"Yes, angel?" he egged you on, lifting his gaze to find your face, and he took a second to outline the features of your face with his starry eyes.

"Can we talk?" you muttered meekly, being eye to eye with him now you could return the gesture and trace the beautiful line of his cupid's bow with your eyes.

"Of course," he blinked, and in a second his entire demeanor switched to a more serious one. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," you sighed with a smile, biting your lower lip as you searched in your head for the right words to say.

Seungcheol pushed his thick eyebrows up. "Well, what do you want to talk about?"

You decided that there was no perfect way to speak your mind. Besides that, you trusted Seungcheol and you did not need to say things lightly with him.

"Did you date someone recently?" you asked, and wished your tone had sounded more certain. Instead, it sounded shaky, and tiny.

Seungcheol bristled initially, his eyes dimming and going over the features of your face swiftly. His lower lip trembled and you knew instantly that he was about to say something but stopped himself. He nodded. "Yes, I did. Three months ago," he choked out, but you knew he was being honest.

"I just wanted to know. You know, he haven't caught up with our lives recently," you explained and saw his features change and soften when he also noticed your tone quiver.

Your ex boyfriend leaned his head to one side, but did not deter his gaze from your face. "I didn't mention it because it was a brief thing. I didn't think that it would matter."

"You sure?" you mumbled, bringing up a hand to pinch his chin and his eyelids fluttered at your touch. "You know, I don't want us to jump into something if you still have some things to heal."

Seungcheol grabbed the hand that was still on his chin and pressed his lips on your fingers. "No, I know, baby. It just didn't work."

"Can I ask why?" you whispered, heart thumping wildly against your chest.

Seungcheol shrugged. "She wanted more," he closed his eyes for a second. "And I couldn't give it to her."

Your mouth parted but then you stopped yourself before you could prod more.

He noticed and decided to answer your unspoken question. "I just didn't feel it," he whispered. "I tried, but it wasn't honest. So I broke it off."

"Oh, Seungcheol," you breathed, heart deflating painfully and your eyes watered. "I'm sorry," you said solemnly.

"No, baby, this isn't your fault," he replied, his eyes had started to glisten slightly, but he kept them zeroed on your face. "I tried to move on from what you and I had, I healed and forgave you. This is different, the reason why it didn't work out with her has nothing to do with us."

"Really?" you asked but quickly put: "I just want to know that we're doing this right this time."

"We are, baby," he muttered warmly, head tilting to catch your gaze. "Is there something else you need to know?"

"No, I don't think so," you gathered your tears with the pads of your finger as you sniffled quietly. "I dated other people too. Didn't work either. I couldn't do it."

Seungcheol smiled, wrinkles appearing on the corners of his eyes. "Baby, you don't need to tell me any details, it's okay," he whispered, pressing his hands on your thighs, rubbing small circles to soothe you. "I assumed as much, and I'm glad that you did."

"Why?" you whispered.

"Because it tells me that you also tried to move on," he shrugged slightly, gulping hard and that told you that this was as difficult for him as it was for you. "Besides, you were in a different country, completely alone. I'm glad that you tried to seek company."

You nodded slowly, coming to terms with the fact that even though you and Seungcheol have changed, there was still something so strong pulling you together. It was not a love fueled by memories alone.

"Is there something you want to know?" you reverted the question back to him.

He shook his head briefly. "No, baby. Not right now," he paused and then, "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm okay," you pressed your lips in a small smile. "I'm just feeling a little emotional, that's all," you whispered.

"Did Jeonghan say something?" he asked, but the light frown on his face told you that he thought this to be highly unlikely.

You shook your head no. "Wonwoo told me," you sniffled and tried to hide a guilty smile. "I might've prodded a little bit more and found out something I wasn't ready to hear," you confessed, batting a shameful look at him.

Seungcheol leaned his head to the side even further. "Baby," he started in a reproachful manner. "Why didn't you just ask me?"

"There are some things I'm scared to ask you," you replied meekly.

"Is my dating life something you were scared to know more of?" he pushed his eyebrows, his lips pouting: "Why?"

"It may sound silly to you, but it feels weird to know that you were with someone else not long ago," you shrugged.

"It doesn't," he corrected, straightening up slightly, but his hands were planted still at the sides of your thighs, on the kitchen countertop. "If the tables were flipped, I too would feel something," he said with full certainty. "That's why I'm not asking about your past partners. I don't want to know more. I'm content with knowing that you weren't completely alone."

"I wasn't," you whispered, gaze losing focus over his shoulder, in your mind you recalled the times you felt utterly alone and lost. "Sometimes I felt like I was, but I made some friendships. Short-lived."

"I'm sorry," he whispered too, calling your eyes to his.

"Don't worry about it," you blurted, lip quivering uncontrollably when in a flashing thought, the weight of your guilt and regret crashed down on you.

"Come on, let's get to bed, okay?" he muttered softly, grabbing your hands after you nodded at him. "Here," he helped you down from the counter and kept one of your hands in his own as you made your way to his bedroom.

A somber feeling had fallen between you and Seungcheol. You did not need to ask, you knew that his mind was reeling, you knew that being deep in thought also meant that he had started to plan ahead.

So you waited. In silence, you changed into pyjamas, and did your bedtime routine as normal, keeping an eye on him randomly, trying not to make it obvious that you were aware that he was overthinking.

But maybe, you thought, he knew that too.

When you slid beneath the bed-sheets, he had already made it to his side of the bed, sheets and covers up to his waist, chest exposed and bare.

Immediately, as you laid your body down on the mattress, he outstretched an arm sliding it under you and curled it, so he was now wrapping you into a side hug, egging you to rest your head on his chest.

"You're okay, babe?" you asked timidly, eyeing him up and down to get anything that might tell you about his mood.

"I'm just thinking," Seungcheol replied gently.

"Oh," you paused. "What about?"

"About us," he sighed and took a hand to run his fingers through his blond hair. "I want to put your mind at ease. I don't want this to overwhelm you."

You lifted your head from his chest to look at his face fully. Seungcheol sent you a glance, waiting for your answer.

"I–," gulping hard, you stammered: "I j-just, this is happening fast but I want this, Cheol."

However, your response seemed to do the contrary for him. He looked conflicted for a split second, his frown deepening slightly, making a couple of lines show between his eyebrows. But then, he lifted one hand and pinched your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, making his gaze soften.

"Is there something else you're thinking?" you whispered, knowing that look on his face.

Seungcheol never spoke his deeper thoughts unless prompted. He was a man that kept his emotions safe, only voicing them out when the moment was appropriate.

He removed his fingers from your chin to push your hair and tucked it on one of your ears, the pressure of his fingers on the crook behind your ear making your skin tingle.

"Sometimes I wished that you found someone," he mumbled with a sleepy sigh. "Even if it hurt me to think that I'd never see you again, I never wanted you to be lonely."

Your heart contracted so painfully that you instinctively had to blink your pain away. "I wished that for you too," you replied through a shaky sob. "I wished for someone to treat you well, to love you."

"I had that, baby," he whispered, seemingly unable to speak any louder. "Probably not with a partner, but I kept close to my family."

"Did you ever try to find someone?" you prodded with more confidence now, but you still held your breath.

"No," he breathed, blinking pausedly. "I wanted to heal, to focus on my goals, so I put a pause on that."

You nodded slowly, but you could not yank your gaze from his big and dark eyes.

"You?" he asked after a few seconds.

"Yeah, I did," you replied with a shrinking feeling in your heart, making your voice sound tiny.

Seungcheol only stared at you for a long second, and you could almost hear the gears of his brain turning. You prepared for him to ask more, you thought of all the possible questions, and all the possible answers, lies and truths that you could give him.

After all, you did not want him to know how much you actually hurt while you were away. Even if you were buried with school work, there was an unbearable ache gripping your heart tightly every day, for months.

You tried everything to yank him out of your life like a thorn in your chest. From burying yourself with school-work, to partying every weekend, to seeking comfort in other partners.

"And did... you meet someone?" he finally asked, his tone sounded steady, but his rapid breathing betrayed him.

"I–," you choked out, clearing your voice you tried again: "I didn't," you replied with honesty. "They were all good people but I was the one that didn't make it work. After some time, I stopped dating."

The truth was, you were hurting. And you took that hurt everywhere you went, and sadly, you turned into something you never thought you would become and started hurting people.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, shifting his face on his pillow, as if nuzzling it slightly to remove the discomfort you knew he felt inside. Because you felt it too.

"Me too," you pressed your lips in a smile. "I was dumb, burdened with pain and guilt. I know that now."

"We both did things in the past," he said with some languor from his long day. "What matters is what we do from now on, right?"

"Right," you nodded once.

"I want to do right by you," he said, mustering some energy to look straight into your eyes. "I want us to grow together."

"That sounds good, Seungcheol," you whispered, tone quivering slightly. "I want that too."

"Are you sure?" he uttered, sounding so small that your heart faltered painfully. "

"I'm sure," you decided. "This is just a little hard for me," you confessed, ignoring the wild vibration in your chest.

"I know," he blinked slowly, his tone soft and breathy as he took in a deep breath, saying: "You have been hiding inside a shell for two years. I get it because I feel it too."

"I'm scared, Seungcheol," you conceded, and he nodded with his head.

"I'm scared too," he whispered. "But I want to help you, I want to be with you. I'm all in for you."

With a sigh, you closed the space between you on the bed, and Seungcheol was already wrapping you with both of his arms.

"We could take this step by step," he whispered after a long second of silence. The tips of his fingers had begun to trace shapeless lines on your arm. "Whatever you want to do, if you want to go fast or slow, I can do it. Just say the word, and I'm in."

"I just want to be with you right now. I don't want to think," you replied with a whisper, realizing that it had been some days since your last dive into searching for an apartment, or a room where you could move your stuff into.

You have grown comfortable with this for the past few days. Even though there was an anxiety about living with Seungcheol after everything that went down with you. You realized that you wanted more nights like this, sleeping soundly in his arms.

"I know, baby. But at some point, we need to come to a solution. I can wait but I also want reassurance."

You shifted once again to take a look at his face, beneath all the tiredness and conflict, he looked sincere.

"I'll give you time, baby."

You gave him a small smile. "Thank you, babe."

Maybe Jeonghan was right. Your thoughts were getting in your way.

"Move aside," you whined holding a heavy tray loaded with clean jars.

"Na-ah, you know the conditions," Jeon Wonwoo shook his head slowly, crossing his arms on his chest.

"Fuck your conditions, Wonwoo. This is heavy!" you squealed dramatically.

"I've seen you carry twice the weight of that," he pointed a finger to the tray in your arms.

"Ah, it's slipping off, come on!" you gasped, your arms about to give out.

"Tsk, you–," Wonwoo chuckled briefly but came to your aid quickly, grabbing the tray from your arms before you dropped it to the ground.

"You know what," Seungcheol announced, breaking the stare down contest between you and Wonwoo. "I'll handle the bar, since you two can't seem to stop fighting."

You turned on your feet to find Seungcheol going under the bartop, his hair ruffling slightly before he pushed it back with a large hand. "You'll have the tables tonight, okay?" he told Wonwoo.

"Me?" the recused arched his eyebrows, a finger pointing at his chest.

"Yes, you, Jeon Wonwoo," he snapped, nodding his head once sharply at the tables. "And you, stop distracting him."

"S-sorry boss," you stammered awkwardly, raising your eyes to find his big dark ones. You knew that the scolding was not as heavy handed just by the way that he sounded, he tried to mask a smirk by running the tip of his tongue on his upper teeth.

"Go," he ordered impatiently. "We'll open when you're ready," Seungcheol informed him as he passed by.

"You didn't have to be an asshole," you whispered, eyes raised to find his.

"Why not, it's fun to be the asshole the guys paint me as sometimes," he shrugged, now smiling deviously as he lowered his gaze to your body. "Besides, you can't blame me for wanting to be beside you."

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment. "Y-you did that just so you could be close to me?" you shook your head swiftly, snapping into realization. "Really?"

"Like I said," he took a step back, squaring his shoulders when he noticed Wonwoo glancing towards you and Seungcheol. "It'll be fun," he mumbled, trying to be subtle but you did not miss the way that one of the corners of his mouth curved up slightly.

"Right," you muttered, feeling flustered already.

Working with Seungcheol must be difficult, you imagined that it must be difficult to stay away or to not look his way every time he passes by. He is incredibly attractive, every movement he performed was eye-catching.

Now, him being your ex only added to this level of frustration that you felt already.

Seungcheol smirked at you after you huffed loudly.

He had been teasing you at every chance he could get. Every time he passed behind you, his hand somehow found your ass, patting it slightly—or hard. Depending on the given chance.

He also sent you suggestive glances, when he had the chance to and knowing no one was looking his way, he would lean back against the countertop and check you out, crossing his arms and tilting his head to one side.

"Boss," you hissed, eyes flaring at him alarmingly. "Behave."

Seungcheol chuckled, the sound of his laughter traveling across the bar, drawing some curious eyes to him.

"Okay, okay," he muttered and turned to take one of the orders that the printer had just sent.

Seungcheol had decided to wear some tight black denim jeans that hugged his ass just right. And every time he walked off, you just had to sneak a discrete look.

That gave you some pause. At that moment, you concocted a small plan to retaliate. If he thought that he could tease you all he wanted in the workspace, then you could too.

So firing back, you took every single opportunity you had to brush shoulders with him, sparking his curiosity at first. He just arched one eyebrow at you, but did not catch your intentions to draw his attention to you.

That was, until you started to do some more suggestive things, such as shooting looks at him, placing a hand on his back every time you had to reach for something from his side of the bar. Sometimes you would let your hand fall languidly, bumping with his ass.

"Stop it now," he whispered the third time you did this.

"Stop what, boss?" you inquired, batting your eyelashes at him.

"Whatever it is you think you're doing," he huffed, but a smile appeared on his lips.

"I'm not doing anything," you replied, making him frown slightly at you.

"Right," he cocked his head sideways.

"Maybe you're imagining things, baby," you mumbled, smiling sweetly at him before leaning against the countertop of the bar, nearly bending over completely.

A sly smirk appeared on his face, crossing his arms once again to lean against the countertop to check you out freely and for a second you thought he was being way too obvious.

But no, it appeared that you were in your own world. Everyone else kept busy with their tasks, and the guests did not even pay a second look towards Seungcheol or you this time.

This was fun, you decided.

". . . and that, according to him, is a Freudian slip, but I think he is just making things up," you rambled aimlessly for minutes, now fully aware that Seungcheol was not completely in the conversation anymore, no matter how much you tried to drive his attention back to what you were talking about before.

"Mm-mmph," he nodded, pushing his eyebrows up ever so slightly. "Right."

"Boss?" you called with some caution, but a small smile curved your lips. "Focus."

You leaned back against the countertop, facing him as he enclosed the space between you in a disclosed manner, your thigh brushing his.

"You started this," he said, gripping the edge of the countertop with both hands, he ran his tongue on his front teeth, eyes set on the rest of the establishment behind you.

"Started what?" you crossed your arms by your tummy, hands on your elbows.

"The teasing, the name calling, I can go on and on," he replied with a tight jaw, still not looking at you.

"Please do," you challenged with a confident smirk. "To me it sounds like I didn't do much."

"Oh no, yeah, you're still doing it," one eyebrow cocked up and now his eyes zeroed on your face. "Bending over the counter, wearing those fucking shorts," he let out a huff and clicked his tongue.

"I didn't start anything, you did," you shrugged, a smile on your face, seeing how conflicted Seungcheol was.

"Mmn," he hummed in faux contempt, nodding his blond head slowly and finished pushing the tip of his tongue on the inside of his cheek with a smacking sound.

And then, with the stealth that you have known him to own, he fished out for one of your hands, guiding it to his crotch. Your eyes shot up, but you attempted to make absolutely no move. Limbs froze, all except the hand on the hardened bulge beneath his black denim jeans.

Seungcheol, it seemed, had frozen too after releasing his grip on your hand, knowing full well that you would take your chance and palm his growing erection over the fabric of his clothes.

His eyebrow jumped up slightly when your fingers found the outline of his cock, making an up and down motion, losing some discretion.

It had been a while since you had done something so daring as groping in public, and something told you that this was the case for Seungcheol too. His chest had begun to rise and fall agitatedly, eyes set on the surroundings in caution.

"Fuck it," he breathed, dropping his hands from the edge of the countertop, stepping back from it, and from you. Your hand fell off his crotch, and your gaze flew to find his flustered face. Seungcheol ruffled his blond hair with one hand, eyebrows pushed up. "See me in the storeroom," he muttered as he walked off from you.

You knew you were in trouble.

"Cover me?" you asked Wonwoo who was passing through the emptied tables and found you frozen behind the bartop.

"Sure," he nodded, a frown appearing on his face. "Everything alright?" he asked as he went around the bar and stood beside you swiftly.

"Yeah, I gotta–," you cut yourself off when you could not think of a good enough excuse. "I'll be back in five!"

Wonwoo pressed his lips in a line, looking bewildered. "Suuure."

You dashed through the backdoor, pushing it open with a force you were not sure where it came from. But you were certain that the exhilaration coursing through you made you stupid enough to stop considering that you were at your workspace.

But yet again, it seemed that Seungcheol did not care either.

As soon as you started turning the doorknob, it was yanked from the inside, a hand grabbing your wrist and thrusting you against his body. In one swift move, Seungcheol had closed the door behind you and pushed you back against it.

"What're you–," you were quickly shut with a hard kiss on your lips, that soon turned heated, desperate.

"We'll have to do this quick," he hissed against your lips, and just when you were about to ask, you felt his fingers searching the hem of your shorts, finding the button to undo it with a hard tug. "Turn around."

Facing the door now, your fingers hooked on the waistband of your shorts and panties, pushing them down for him to finish moving them down just below your ass.

"Good girl," Seungcheol whispered and you heard the metal clinking of his belt, the sound letting you know his following movements. So you instantly arched your back, angling yourself for him and planting your hands flat on the door in front of you for support.

"Seungcheol," your fingertips tried digging into the hard wood when you felt a hand on your hip, pad of his thumb pressing on the soft skin of your glute. "Hurry."

"Shh," he giggled quietly, and you turned your head to look over your shoulder at him.

Seungcheol noticed your eyes on him, and held your gaze for a second before grabbing his throbbing cock in one hand, first around the bulbous, dripping in precum cockhead, pointer finger lifted up to search for your wet folds so he could guide his cock right inside you.

You pressed your forehead against the door, squeezing your eyes shut. "Fuck, daddy," you whined softly, ever so quietly you think for a second he wouldn't hear it over the loud music out in the bar. "Fuck, fuck," you grit your teeth when he started to ease himself inside you, the girth of his cock stretching your wet walls open, making you stifle a sigh at the delicious bite.

"God, baby, you take it so well," he praised in your ear, dragging his cock out, and then pushing in slowly at first. "So good for me."

You let out a puffy breath as his other hand encircled your waist right before he retracted his hips, and then pushed them with fast thrusts. The pace was now calculated, and fast, nearly brutal, you knew you had to make this good for him.

"Quiet," he rasped when you sighed a moan out, fingertips raking on the door in front of you now, trying to apply as much pressure to avoid bumping your head against it.

"It feels good," you replied with a whiny tone.

"Do you want me to make you come?" he asked and sighed a smile when you nodded with your head yes in frantic movements. "Arch your back for me, baby."

You instantly bent forward, angling your ass for him, his hand moved to the small of your back, applying pressure and gripping your hip with his other hand before he started plowing on you.

"Fuck," you gritted out, squeezing your eyes shut so hard you saw stars and colors. "Daddy, don't stop, please," you whined when his cock reached a very sensitive spot deep inside you with his hard and fast thrusts.

"That's it, baby," he sighed and let out a tiny groan. "Do you want me to pull out?"

His hand slid from your lower back, pushing your tank top up your back but stopped instantly when you shook your head no.

"I want you to come first," he whispered but with some urgency. The sound of him swallowing a raspy moan sent a frenzied shudder down your spine. "Come for me, baby."

One of your hands travelled down between your legs, finding your throbbing clit with your fingertips and immediately started rubbing fast swirls around it, crying out helplessly as pleasure bloomed from your pussy to your limbs.

"Good fucking girl," he growled when you succumbed to your fast orgasm. "F-fuck," he forced out using his hands on your hips to fuck you into him, sliding your throbbing walls on his cock slowly as he came with you.

He pushed his front flush against your ass with a long exhale. "Fuck," he groaned. "Don't move, baby. I'm pulling out."

You shuddered hard when you felt him slip out of you and your hand immediately slid between your legs to cup the warm cum dripping out of you.

"Here," he said, offering you a paper towel. "I should go out before the boys find us like this."

"Yeah," you laughed shamefully.

His eyes read your face swiftly. "Why are you laughing?"

"It would be funny," you muttered offhandedly, cleaning your hand.

"No. I'd never live that off with those two," he tilted his head to one side. "Besides, I thought you didn't want them to know."

"I'll take care of this in the washroom," you cocked your head to the door. "Go, boss."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't make it obvious, then," he smirked but left the storeroom shortly after when you were fixing your clothes.

After cleaning yourself up in the washroom, you were returning to the boys already closing up the place. Your heart sank, but as you crossed the space, Seungcheol sent you a quiet glance from the booth where he usually accounted for the day's profit.

"You took long enough," Wonwoo chastised but then gave you an inquisitive look. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," you sighed, placing your hands on your hips to show some certainty. "Sorry. Thank you for covering me though."

"I'm almost finished with this side," he said without studying your flushed face. "Just close up the tables with Mings, yeah?"

"Okay," you nodded, turning away from his gaze but swearing you could still feel it in the back of your head as you walked up to the tables to clean them up and put the chairs up.

Mingyu kept a speedy gait around you, seemingly focused on finishing the shift as soon as possible. He did not even hum to a tune as he regularly did, but you saw it in his face, he was in a good mood.

"You're alright there?" you asked, watching him move through the place like a man on a mission.

"Got a date," he muttered, and then shook his head when you pushed your eyebrows up in question. "It's not romantic—she's a friend."

"She?" you pushed, grinning. "A friend, huh?"

"And waiting for me," Mingyu nodded. "Come on, let's go early tonight, yeah?"

"O-okay," you giggled teasingly, lifting one chair up and putting it on the recently cleaned table, then you put the rest of the chairs up and moved to the next table to clean its surface.

"Let me," a low voice came from behind you when you bent down to grab one chair.

You sucked in a breath, and turned to see Seungcheol, whose face lit up in the tiniest of smiles that reached his eyes.

"I should stop doing that," he whispered at you, referring to surprising you often.

"Yeah, or maybe I should be more aware of my surroundings," you muttered, looking at his big dark eyes.

"Maybe," his smile grew, wrinkling the outer corners of his eyes. He grabbed one chair and put it up. "I got these, move to the next table."

"You got it, boss," you smiled at him cheekily.

A sharp, loud gasp came from behind the countertop, paired with a hard slam of Wonwoo's hand down on it.

You turned to see the man, standing aghast with his mouth hanging open.

"Hyung?" Mingyu asked with a worried tone.

The three of you looked at him, and it suddenly dawned on you: he had been watching your interaction with Seungcheol from the moment they exchanged tasks in the bar. And you had been too stupid to ignore his inquisitive eyes.

"You're her," he blurted out with a start then blinked, as if snapping himself to reality. "You're–,"

"Wonwoo–," Seungcheol warned immediately.

"No, it's okay," you interjected, from the look on his face, you knew that there was no way you could lie yourself out of this. He had found you out. "You're right."

His mouth fell open again, bringing a hand to cover his mouth.

"I'm so incredibly lost," Mingyu huffed, scratching the crown of his head, tilting it sideways. "What's happening?"

Neither Wonwoo or Seungcheol spoke, but you noticed the way they both exchanged a look. And that was something you could not deny, was that the three men had developed a partnership—a friendship so strong that they simply trusted one another.

"I'm his ex," you explained after some quick thinking, deciding that there was no better way to say it.

"Whose ex?" Mingyu exclaimed, looking at Seungcheol, then at Wonwoo.

"We didn't say anything because it was my decision to keep it private but," you shrugged then looked at Wonwoo, whose shocked expression had not left his face. "You found out before."

"What?" Mingyu asked, voice rising even higher and blinked. "You're boss's ex?! The ex?"

Seungcheol brought a hand to his own face with a smack. "Mingyu, please–,"

"Yes, that ex," you rolled your eyes awkwardly.

"Wow," Mingyu huffed, turning to his housemate. "How?"

"The questions, boss's mood swings, and now," Wonwoo pointed, shooting a knowing look at you both.

You pressed your lips in a hard line. "Yeah, I might've been a bit too obvious," you turned to Seungcheol, asking for some help in the situation.

"Guys, I know that this topic of conversation has been... quite the fuss in here, so let me just put you both on the same page," he exchanged one glance with you, and proceeded after you nodded your head. "We were in a relationship before, some years ago. And I'm no stranger to the speculation, but no, there is no resentment between us."

"Because you got back together," Mingyu read the situation as fast as his housemate. "That's why you've been happy lately, boss."

Seungcheol grew quiet, it seemed that he had not expected to be told that. But after some seconds passed, you were about to intervene when he nodded. "Yes. We got back together," he said firmly.

"This is the friend you were referring to?" Wonwoo exclaimed with a hollow laugh. "That's not a friend, that's–,"

"Wonwoo!" you exclaimed, feeling partly elated that Wonwoo shifted from his initial shock and was teasing you in a friendly way.

"What are you talking about?" Seungcheol asked.

"Nothing," Wonwoo pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, but the cheeky smile on his lips told you he knew the answer already.

"Mmph," Mingyu huffed once again, bobbing his head once and then turned to resume working. "Who would've thought?"

"Small world," Wonwoo conceded, palming the countertop gently now. "You were bad at hiding it. Both of you."

"What, no we weren't," Seungcheol countered but you knew that it was a lost cause.

"You were both in the back just now–," Mingyu realized and his mouth too, fell open with a very dramatic gasp: "On the clock, boss?! You two have no decorum!"

"Mingyu!" you squealed but he just chuckled, shaking his head in reproach but continued working nonetheless.

"And here I thought you were kinda haughty, newbs," Mingyu laughed harder at your aghast expression. "Tut, tut, tut, naughty-naughty, both of you."

"Mings, cut it off," Wonwoo advised, shooting a look at Seungcheol.

The tips of his ears were read, but that did not distract you from the hard and cold look he was giving to Mingyu. "Yah," he started, sizing him up.

"Hehe," Mingyu chuckled and then he turned to you. "Ah, so that is how you knew Jeonghan-hyung."

"He's my friend too," you nodded, staring at Wonwoo as you too, decided to keep cleaning up the tables.

"Oh, I see," Mingyu said knowingly. "Huh. Small world," he reaffirmed as well.

The ride back home was full of glances between you and Seungcheol, you could tell he was happy, keeping his hand parked on your thigh as the other gripped the steering wheel.

Your own hand was on his nape, fingers twisting in his blond hair affectionately. You remembered the times you did this routinely, so much so that it became something you did almost absentmindedly.

As you came back home, Seungcheol grabbed you by the hand, yanking you towards him and grabbing you by the chin to plant a chaste kiss on your lips.

"Come here," he whispered, keeping his hand on your chin as he kissed you heatedly. The other hand finding the button of your shorts, undressing you as you both made your way to the shower.

In the shower, you were completely enthralled by the love in his starry eyes, he kept kissing you, nearly not letting you wash for two seconds without having a kiss either on your cheeks, forehead or anywhere he could reach.

"I'll be right there," he muttered with a pleased look on his face when you stepped out of the shower.

After putting up your sleepwear, you decided to go look for something to eat, only to find nothing but a fridge nearly vacant to the exception of some cans of beer.

So. You've been found out. Jeonghan's text message read on your screen. You smiled in shame, but decided to reply to him the following morning when you heard Seungcheol's steps approaching from the hallway.

"Fridge is empty," you reported with a croaky tone from the tiredness consuming your body slowly.

"Do you want to go get something at the mini-mart?" Seungcheol asked as he walked to the open kitchen and up to you, encircling you with his arms, snuggling you close to his body.

You knew Seungcheol was not the greatest cook, and the memory of the times when he tried to cook for you had you smiling fondly at him for a second.

"Yeah, I don't really get groceries anymore," he shrugged slightly, thinking your smile was an accusatory one. "Rather order something or eat in a restaurant. Or in the bar."

"Mmmn," you drew in a breath, mustering up some courage as you spoke out your decision: "Well, if I'm going to live here with you, we gotta fix that, babe," you muttered softly, drawing his big, dark eyes to you. "We could go buy some groceries tomorrow morning."

Seungcheol pushed his eyebrows up, reading your face with his big eyes. "So you've made up your mind about this?" he inquired, his tone low and you could see how nerve inducing the topic of conversation was to him.

You nodded silently, biting your smile and grabbing with your hands his forearms that were parked on your tummy. "I think I'm going to give up the apartment search.," you whispered. "Is the offer of moving in with you still up?"

He blinked twice, as if he were jolting awake to reality. "Of course, love," he nodded, emitting a sigh through his parted red lips. "There's nothing I want more."

"Oh, yeah?" you replied. "Nothing else?"

"Well, there might be one other thing," he shrugged ever so slightly, small dimples showing on his cheeks when he showed you a joyful smile. "I don't want to be your ex anymore."

"Well, you just gotta fix that, don't you?" you grinned, looking up and down from his eyes to his smiling lips.

"Be my girlfriend," he muttered, using his fingers under your jaw to join his lips with yours. "Please."

"I'd be more than happy to," you whispered, finally giving yourself in, letting go of your fears.

✧ author's note: i want to apologize for making you wait for so looooong, i took my time and i am sorry

but thank you for everyone who waited for the update! and the ones who came to my askbox to ask about this fic, thank you for keeping it alive! 🩵

this fic is close to my heart, i literally poured my heart in chapter 3, writing about stuff that hit close to home i think that induced me into a writing slump because i couldn't find my way out and write? idk haha

✧ note 2: this is not proofread i'm sorry

✧ READ THE DRABBLE OR READ CHAPTER 5 ✧ JOIN MY TAGLIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTERS | BUY ME A COFFEE? (●'◡'●)

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houseofaegon · 5 days ago

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ENCHANTRESS ╱ BOB REYNOLDS SERIES

✷ ─── +18 MINORS DNI 𓏲 ◟ ♡ ˖ ࣪ emotional trauma, mentions of death/grief, witchcraft, blood magic, mentions of tony stark and natasha romanoff's deaths supernatural possession, canon-typical violence, discussion of war and loss, found family themese, bucky being a big brother, heavy emotional reunion, psychological instability (enchantress/void dynamic), first contact tension, slight walker slander lol.

✷ ─── AUTHOR'S NOTE. this chapter is the beginning of everything. this is her history, her haunting. arabella means everything to me!! she's my baby and i love her so much, creating her character and her backstory has been both amazing and heartbreaking, especially because of tony and natasha and her grief after losing them. thank you for reading and giving this unhinged little series a chance. love always, bri.

✷ ─── ENCHANTRESS SERIES. chapter one: beauty in tragedy. chapter two: the devil you know. chapter three: the witch. chapter four: moonlit waters. chapter five: divine hunger. chapter six: to burn & be burned. chapter seven: of teeth & tenderness. chapter eight: bound by blood. chapter nine: ashes between us. chapter ten: salt in the wound. chapter eleven: blood moon. chapter twelve: whispers in the dark. chapter thirteen: the witch and the void.

ARABELLA MONTENEGRO never knew her mother. Nor her father

She never knew the warmth of a mother's voice singing lullabies until she fell asleep, or what it meant to be held in soft arms. Never learned what it felt to be cherished. To be wanted. To be loved. To be a daughter.

Her mother died giving birth to her under a blood moon eclipse in the cold Andean highlands. The air was thin and charged with unspoken energy, the earth wet with rain, and her first cry was followed by a gust of wind so violent it shattered the windowpanes of the midwife's hut.

There was never a father to begin with. The village whispered she had been conceived through a blood ritual the witches performed in desperation—calling upon something old, something nameless, something far more powerful than any of them could control. They said her soul was not entirely her own.

She was raised by witches—her grandmother at the head, the matriarch with weathered hands and eyes that could turn anything into flame. The women in her bloodline had always walked between worlds, but Arabella was different. She didn't channel magic like her sisters. She was magic—uncontrollable, wild, ancient. And at six years old, something inside her opened its eyes.

The Enchantress.

Not a whisper. Not a ghost. A prescence. Always watching. Always waiting. Sometimes Arabella would wake up with her feet dirty and raw, her hair braided with herbs she didn’t remember picking, blood on her palms and a taste like copper on her tongue. The others said she was sleepwalking. But she knew. It was her—and it wasn’t. She saw things—glimpses of herself standing in the woods, barefoot and laughing, darkness blooming from her palms. But it wasn’t her laughter. Not really.

Her grandmother tried to train her, to tether her to the earth with chants, crystals, and sacred prayers. But even she, the oldest and most powerful of all the witches in her village, feared what Arabella was becoming.

They all did.

They never said it out loud. But Arabella saw it in their eyes.

Fear.

Of her hands. Her eyes. Her potential. Her power. Of what lived inside her.

The Enchantress wasn't a passenger. She was a fracture in her mind. A second heartbeat. Arabella felt her stirring in moments of pain, in flashes of rage, in silence too long left untouched. She'd whisper—not in words, but in urges. In hunger. In need.

At sixteen, it happened. A fight. A bad one. Someone touched her—grabbed her wrist, called her a monster. She doesn’t remember screaming. Doesn’t remember the words. Just the fire. The sensation of being split open, of something rising from her spine like smoke and rage and divinity.

It was raining. Pouring rain. Arabella remembers the smell of wet earth, the way the sky seemed to known what was going to happen. Before it all happened. Before it bled. The power erupted out of her like a scream. The Enchantress took over her entire body. She was transformed, became something else. A curse. Her body shifted, her voice fractured. Eyes glowing, mouth open wide—screaming spells older than language itself.

When it ended, the entire village was gone.

Ash.

Smoke.

Blood.

Silence.

Arabella woke in a crater of scorched stone, her hands trembling, her dress shattered, her body painted in blood. She remembered nothing—but in her dreams, she saw it all. Screams. Flames. Her sisters on their knees, begging. Untammed. Unable to control herself. Unable to snap out of it. Dangerous. Feral.

The Enchantress laughed through her.

Arabella had killed them. All of them.

And so she ran

Left the rotting, burning village behind. Left the only people who had ever called her family. Her heart broken inside her chest. She couldn't trust anyone—not even herself.

Because when she loved, when she cared—people died.

She didn't stop.

She ran.

Ran until her feet bleed. Until she couldn't breathe. Until the blood blurred.

And then somehow, she ended up in New York.

Concrete. Neon. Noise. A city too loud for her ghosts.

She slept in alleys. Kept salt and crystals in her pocket. The Enchantress whispered constantly, her presence heavier in the city than ever before. Arabella wore her grief like a second skin and hid her power behind trembling hands.

Until he found her.

Tony Stark.

It was raining—of course it was. New York in one of those late spring storms that felt biblical. The streets washed in rain and car lights and memories. She was half-starved, fingers glowing black under her hoodie. Curled up outside a bodega, eyes half-closed, a protection spell barely bubbling in her throat.

And still—she didn’t cry.

She was too empty for tears.

Then someone stepped through the rain and crouched in front of her. He didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t stare at the light bleeding from her fingertips or the sigils etched into the concrete around her feet.

He just knelt beside her slowly and said, "You look like hell, kid. Let's get you warm."

She blinked up at him, dazed. And that was it. That’s how it started.

He didn’t ask her what she was.

He just held out his hand.

He brought her to the Avengers Compound. Let her shower in hot water until her skin pruned. Let her sleep for two days straight in a room so layered with protection spells, even the ghosts in her blood went silent.

He built her a room lined with vibranium and blessed by both Wanda and Strange. The walls were filled with runed she carved herself, deep and crooked with shaking fingers. Salt lined the windowsills. Crystals in every corner. Every inch a sanctuary just for her.

He called her kid. Said it like it was a nickname, not a burden.

Pepper brought her tea in the mornings. Clean clothes. Soft smiles. She tucked her hair behind her ear like a mother would. Arabella didn’t know how to handle it. She didn’t know how to be held without breaking. But Pepper made it feel like maybe she could be something other than a curse.

Maybe she could be… a daughter.

And Tony? He was the first person to make her laugh. The first person who didn’t treat her like a prophecy, like a monster. He made her feel safe. He taught her how to channel, not contain. He never told her to be less. He never told her to be afraid.

He made her feel like maybe—just maybe—she could be Arabella again, and not the thing the ghosts whispered about. Not the girl born under the blood moon. Not the prophecy in flesh.

Just a girl. Living. Learning

But deep down, The Enchantress never slept. Never faded. She waited.

And Arabella always felt her… watching. Letting her pretend she was normal. Letting her pretend she could be loved.

She became an Avenger at twenty. Not because she believed in saving the world—but because Tony did. Because he looked her in the eyes and said, “You’ve got more heart than most people in this place. Let it beat for something.”

She fought beside them—Steve, Nat, Bucky, Wanda. Bled for them. Protected them. Called them family.

She saved lives. She laughed again. She thought—just for a moment—that maybe she could have a life.

But when Tony died, something inside her broke.

She didn’t scream right away. She just stood there—frozen in the chaos, in the smoke, in the aftershocks of war—and stared. Stared at the arc reactor dimming in his chest. Stared at the blood on his mouth. Stared at the way the sky looked too clear. Too quiet.

He had snapped his fingers. Saved the world.

And it had killed him.

Arabella dropped to her knees beside Peter, who was sobbing. Pepper was whispering, voice cracked and crumbling. Steve stood in silent grief. And Arabella?

Arabella shattered.

The scream ripped through her like a blade. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t even hers.

It was The Enchantress.

Magic exploded from her in violent, pulsing waves—black and poisonous, raw and ruthless, tearing through the rubble like a second earthquake. Spells older than any living tongue poured from her lips like a curse cast by grief itself.

She didn’t know who she was hitting.

Didn’t see Peter until it was too late.

He reached for her—“Bella, stop—please—”

She nearly broke him in half with a single word.

Wanda stepped in, her own power crashing into Arabella’s like a tidal wave of chaos and grief and fury. The ground split beneath them. The sky turned red.

And still, she couldn’t stop.

It was Bucky who pulled her back.

He found her in the aftermath—crumpled against the side of the battlefield, her hands trembling, her body still glowing faintly like a dying star. Blood on her palms. Ash in her mouth.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise a hand. He just sat beside her, quiet, solid.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know what it feels like when grief breaks you open.”

She let him pull her into his arms.

Let herself sob until her throat went raw.

She disappeared after Tony's funeral. No goodbyes. No notes. Just gone.

She couldn't bear it—Tony’s lab, untouched and echoing. Natasha’s absence like a ghost in every corner. Steve gone, like a whisper fading in the wind. Everyone trying to move on. Everyone pretending they knew how.

She couldn't pretend.

She couldn't stay in the places where laughter once lived. Couldn't sit at a table set for ghosts.

Thanos was gone. But somehow, she still felt like she had lost.

Like she had failed.

She couldn’t save them.

She wasn’t enough.

Because Arabella Montenegro was never built to bury her dead.

Not when their voices still lived beneath her skin.

Not when the dead still whispered through her veins.

Bucky Barnes hadn’t seen her in years.

Not since the funeral. Not since the battlefield where she nearly broke the earth open with her grief. Not since he found her curled into herself, shaking and bloody, sobbing over Tony Stark’s lifeless body. Not since he held her like a brother who didn’t know how to fix her—only he knew that he had to.

He hadn’t expected to hear from her again.

Not really.

She didn’t owe them anything—not after what she’d lost, not after what she’d given. Arabella had always been something untouchable. A ghost in a pretty dress. A girl with shadows in her lungs and thunder in her fingertips. She was never meant to stay. She was made for disappearing.

But he missed her.

God, he missed her.

Because Arabella Montenegro had done what no one else had.

She got through to him.

When the world still looked like war behind his eyelids and everyone treated him like a loaded weapon, she looked him dead in the eye and said, “I’ve known worse monsters than you. I keep one inside me.”

She never tiptoed around his past. Never judged him. Never tried to fix him.

She just… stayed.

Showed up with tea laced with cinnamon and protection charms she slipped into his leather jacket without telling him. Stitched sigils into his gloves and his suit. Knew when to sit in silence, and when to drag him out of bed at 3am to dance barefoot on the compound roof like two idiots with more power than they wanted.

She made him laugh.

She made him feel like a man, not a weapon.

He used to call her “brat” when she got on his nerves, and she’d roll her eyes and call him “abuelito” for fun. But when things got real, when the Enchantress clawed too close to the surface or her hands shook after missions, she’d whisper, “James,” and he’d come running.

He was her anchor. Her constant. And she? She was his warmth. His moonlight. His reminder that he could be soft without falling apart.

They didn’t need to say it aloud.

She was the little sister he never had.

He was the big brother who never asked for anything but gave everything.

And then New York cracked beneath The Void, when Bob Reynolds began unraveling the fabric of reality one thought at a time, Bucky didn’t know who else to call. There was no Steve. No Natasha. No Tony. So when he dialed her number, voice tight and half-broken, he wasn’t sure she’d even pick up. Left a message she might never listen to.

Just six words.

“If you’re still out there… please.”

Part of him hoped. Prayed.

Because if anyone could help them now…

It was Arabella.

He didn't think she'd come. Not after everything. Not after all the pain and suffering she'd been through.

But she did.

Three days later, the elevator doors opened at the Watchtower, and Arabella Montenegro walked in.

Barefoot, as always. Her black silk dress clung to her like smoke, high-necked and long-sleeved, sheer, embroidered with dark thread in sigil shapes. Obsidian rings adorned her fingers, and a silver charm glinted at her throat—something old, something protective, something hers.

Her hair was longer now. Wilder. Cascading in thick curls down her back like a midnight waterfall, still damp from the rain. It framed her face like a halo of shadows. Haunted in a way that told him the past years had carved her out like a cathedral. Her eyes, rimmed in black, gleamed with something other. The blood-red of her lips looked like the last kiss before a storm. She looked older. More dangerous.

More beautiful than ever.

Bucky stood frozen halfway across the room, breath lodged somewhere in his throat.

She saw him immediately.

Her mouth curved. Soft. Familiar. Just for him. “James,” she said softly.

“…You came,” he whispered, the words barely making it out of his throat.

Arabella tilted her head. “You called.”

And that was all it took.

Bucky moved before he could stop himself—crossing the floor in three long strides. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t wait. Just wrapped her up in his arms and pulled her in like he was afraid she’d disappear if he blinked.

Arabella let out a sharp breath against his chest, the air knocked out of her with the sheer force of his embrace. “James—” She laughed, breathless. “You’re crushing me.”

“I don’t care,” he muttered into her hair, squeezing tighter. “You’re real. You’re here.”

She clung to him just as hard, arms wrapped around his waist, face buried in his shoulder like she was ten seconds from falling apart. He rocked her back and forth without realizing it. His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, thumb brushing through damp curls.

“You smell like rosemary and grave dirt,” he said softly.

“You smell like gunpowder and old guilt,” she shot back, muffled.

His laugh cracked, deep in his chest. “There she is,” he murmured. “My little menace.”

Arabella pulled back, blinking up at him. Her eyes shimmered—just slightly. “You missed me.”

“Of course I did,” he said, brushing her hair back behind her ear like she was still that nineteen-year-old girl Tony brought home. “I’ve missed you every goddamn day.”

“I didn’t think you’d say that out loud,” she teased, her voice trembling with more than amusement.

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged, still holding her. “Getting soft in my old age.”

“You’ve always been soft for me,” she smirked.

He rolled his eyes. “You hex my coffee once and suddenly I’m emotionally compromised.”

“You are emotionally compromised,” she whispered.

His face sobered. He reached up and cupped her cheek. “You good, Bells?”

She hesitated.

Then she nodded, slowly.

“Getting there,” she said. “But I knew I couldn’t do it alone. Not this time.”

“Well, you’re not alone anymore,” Bucky said, his tone quiet, firm, the way big brothers spoke when they made promises they intended to keep. “Not ever again.”

And Arabella, for the first time in years, believed him.

But then the room shifted.

All eyes were on her now.

Arabella turned, facing them fully for the first time. Her presence hit like a ripple in still water—slow, sudden, undeniable. The kind of entrance that made rooms fall silent, made hearts stall in place.

Her magic followed behind her like a scent: wild roses, burnt sage, candle smoke. It draped over the room, pressed into the walls, settled deep into the floors.

And they felt her. Not just her energy—but the presence curled behind her bones.

The Enchantress.

Yelena didn’t even stand up.

She looked Arabella up and down from her spot on the couch, one leg hooked lazily over the armrest, a protein bar half-eaten in one hand. Her sharp gaze swept over the black silk, the bare feet, the storm that shimmered around Arabella like perfume.

Then she said, dryly, “You look like you’ve buried at least three exes and didn’t bother wiping the blood off your mouth.”

Arabella barely blinked. “Only three?”

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Two were accidents. The third had it coming. The fourth is still in the freezer.”

Yelena grinned, slow and wicked. “Do you want to be best friends or enemies who share eyeliner and hide bodies together?”

“Can we be both?” Arabella asked, tilting her head.

Yelena tossed the protein bar aside and stood. “God, yes.”

Bucky groaned audibly. “No. Nope. This is a mistake.”

Arabella and Yelena ignored him, already circling each other like twin wolves. Dangerous. Beautiful. Laughing under their breath like they’d been born for this.

“You ever hex a man so his dick stops working?” Yelena asked casually.

Arabella’s eyes glittered. “Only on Tuesdays.” She leaned in. “And only if he ghosts me.”

Yelena let out a delighted gasp. “Okay. I love you. Teach me your dark arts, my Sith Lord.”

Arabella smirked, one brow arched. “Only if you promise to use your powers for petty and chaotic purposes.”

Arabella and Yelena bonded instantly.

Within five minutes, they were seated on the floor, knees touching, comparing knives and horror stories. By ten, they were whispering chaos into the walls—how to enchant Walker’s shampoo, how many ways you could curse someone’s sex life, whether blood magic could double as birth control.

It was like Arabella was meeting a version of herself—sharper, louder, equally unbothered.

And then Walker came in.

Arabella didn’t even turn when he stepped into the room—she just felt the misplaced authority before he spoke.

“So this is the witch,” he muttered, all folded arms and puffed chest.

Arabella turned her head slowly, almost lazily, and looked him over with the kind of gaze that made men reconsider their entire careers.

“If it isn’t the Dollar Store Captain America,” she said, deadpan.

Yelena barked a laugh. Bucky sighed, trying his best to hide his smirk.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Arabella continued, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeve. “Honestly? I expected more muscles. And less… mall cop energy.”

Walker’s jaw tightened. “You know, you witches are all the same.”

Arabella leaned in. “No, I’m worse.”

He muttered something under his breath and stormed off. The door didn’t close fast enough to muffle Yelena shouting, “Try the clearance aisle next time!”

Then came Alexei.

He strode over like an avalanche in boots, face split into a grin, eyes crinkling with delight.

“You,” he declared in Russian, “are the little shadow witch. I have heard things.”

Arabella raised a brow. “Good things?”

“Terrifying things. My favorite kind.”

She smiled.

“I brought gift!” he announced, pulling something from his jacket. “Very sharp.”

He handed her a vintage combat blade—slightly rusted, beautifully heavy.

Her eyes lit up. “This is better than flowers.”

“You are better than daughters,” he said proudly. “I have too many of those. But you—? You are dangerous. I adopt you now.”

“Do I get a pin?”

“No,” he said. “You get vodka.”

Arabella grinned. “I knew I liked you.”

Ava came last. Quiet, hesitant, but not afraid.

Arabella turned the moment she stepped near, gaze softening.

“You’re beautiful,” she said simply. “Not your just face. Your aura.”

Ava blinked. Said nothing. Arabella reached into the folds of her coat and pulled out a crystal—clear, sharp-edged, humming faintly.

She pressed it into Ava’s palm.

“You ground the noise,” she whispered. “That’s rare. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”

Ava stared at her. Not used to praise. Definitely not like that.

“Thank you,” she said, voice small.

“You’re welcome,” Arabella replied, just as softly.

And then—him.

She hadn’t looked at him yet. Had felt him the moment she stepped into the room—golden, fractured, watching. But now she turned.

And there he was.

Bob Reynolds.

He stood like a storm held in skin. Curls tousled, hands tense at his sides, chest rising and falling too slowly. His eyes were full of something that wasn’t him.

Something dark.

Something waiting.

Arabella met his gaze—and time bent. Her pulse jumped. Her magic reacted.

And inside her chest, The Enchantress inhaled sharply.

“Him,” she whispered, breathless. “He’s—he’s not like the others.”

Arabella felt her limbs go cold and hot all at once. Her fingers trembled. The air between them shimmered like heat off pavement.

Inside Bob, The Void purred.

“She’s like us,” it whispered, reverent and hungry. “I can feel the darkness inside of her. Let me touch her.”

Bob didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Arabella’s mouth parted slightly.

The Enchantress hissed—“Feel that? That pull? He’s not just broken, mi niña. He’s bound. Like you. Like me.”

Arabella swallowed, but the breath barely made it down. The air was too thick. The space between them pulsed with something unspoken, ancient. Not recognition—no, it was deeper than that.

It was kinship.

It was want.

Bob still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t blinked. His fingers twitched once, a tremor that betrayed everything simmering beneath the surface.

Arabella’s voice was barely more than a breath when she finally spoke.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Bob’s lips parted.

Inside his chest, The Void leaned forward, eyes glittering in the dark.

“She knows,” it whispered. “She sees you. And she doesn’t run.”

Arabella didn’t blink.

Neither did he.

And in the space between them, something shifted.

Something began.

𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐅𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐍 © 2025. DO NOT STEAL, REPOST, OR COPY THIS STORY TO TUMBLR, WATTPAD, AO3, OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM. Moodboards and graphics made by @houseofaegon DO NOT repost or reuse without credit. chain divider by @cursed-carmine

♱ ˖ ࣪ . taglist: @the-a-word-2214 @favestxrboy @uraesthete @abbysbenchpr @sammystarswrite @pey2618 @qardasngan @lunaoieoie @orithyia-eriphyle @amatiswayland @madzzz6958 @all-by-myself98 @dark-silhouette @ghost-ghost-13 @wyvernthekriger @gayfiretruck @watermeezer @lvmxla @novausstuff @mommymilkers0526 @natureartisian @feralgoblinbabe @misaki-evans @uracowboylikemee @sxlsvv @stillinracooncity @deltamel (if you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know in the comments. love, bri.)

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monopersona · 2 months ago

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Certified Silverfox

When Sylus shows up for report cards in a black turtleneck and glasses, half the school loses its mind. Again. Aria wants to disappear. Her little brother laughs. Her mom finds it entertaining. Her dad? Just vibes, leaving chaos and thirst traps in his wake. A slice-of-life comedy with cool dad, PTA drama, and a marriage that still feels like flirting, years and two kids later.

Sylus x MC. Parenthood. Domestic fluff and semi-crack. Aria is a dramatic teenager and Kai is an admirer of his dad. 864 words.

A/N: Hi hi hi! 2 fics in one day because I am on a roll today. This idea came up last week and has been at the back of my mind so I couldn't help but write it. I hope you like this one!

You can read on ao3 here

Series master list here

Aria knew this was going to happen. She had begged her dad not to come pick up their report cards this semester. She was in eighth grade now, practically an adult. She could’ve handled it herself! She even practiced what she’d say to her and Kai's homeroom teachers (“So sorry, my parents had a last-minute emergency”), but no. Of course not. Because her dad had to roll up in his annoyingly sleek car, step out like he was about to go into a film set, and proceed to direct her personal nightmare.

The moment he walked toward the school in his black turtleneck, long coat, and rimless glasses, the vibe shifted. The whispers started immediately.

“Oh my god, is that Aria and Kai’s dad?”

“I hear he's, like, a big time CEO or something..."

“Is he single?!”

Aria groaned and sank low in her chair. She didn’t even want to look outside anymore. What was the point? She knew the PTA parents—many of whom are her friends’ moms—would suddenly discover a burning passion for “volunteering” whenever her dad was due to show up at school events. One even brought cupcakes “just because” and spent ten minutes asking about his skincare routine the last time the school held a family event. Which was rude, considering it was actually her mom’s. His wife!

Now he was again, striding through the school halls like he wasn’t single-handedly activating the thirst radar of every mom (and some dads) within five miles.

Kai, of course, thought it was the best day ever. But that’s because he’s only nine and stupid.

“Did you see Mr. Carter smile at Dad? He called him sir!” A starry-eyed Kai whispered as their dad shook hands with the principal like he owned the place. “He’s like a K-drama character. The mysterious CEO with a tragic past.”

“Shut up, Kai.” Aria hissed, dragging him down the back hallway to avoid the growing crowd of “casually loitering” moms and their very obvious phone cameras. “This is a disaster. I told him not to show up. I begged him!”

Kai just shrugged, completely unbothered. “He’s literally picking up our report cards. It’s not like he walked in shirtless or something.”

“That’s not helping,” Aria snapped, cheeks flaming. “I’m never showing my face again.”

Kai grinned. “He looks like he’s about to save the world and make it to our soccer game on time.”

Aria groaned louder. “Stop talking.”

Their dad, meanwhile, was busy being the human embodiment of cool dad energy, casually charming every school staff, saving her science teacher from tripping on spilled water, and picking up the report cards like he hadn’t just caused a minor school-wide heart attack.

By the time they got into the car, Aria had reached critical levels of secondhand embarrassment. She flung herself into the passenger seat and crossed her arms with a dramatic huff.

Sylus glanced at her. “Something wrong?”

“You know what you did.”

“I picked up your report card. And your science project. Which, by the way, smells like vinegar.”

“It’s a volcano. It’s supposed to.”

“Sure.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You wore perfume.”

“I always wear perfume.”

“You’re the worst.”

Kai was already in the backseat, unwrapping a lollipop he got from the front office. Probably because Sylus smiled at Mrs. Finch. “She said I was polite,” Kai said proudly. “And that I look just like Dad.”

Aria muttered, “It’s already starting.”

When they got home, their mom was at the kitchen counter, scrolling through her tablet. Sylus handed her the folders.

“All done.”

She peeked inside, flipping through the grades while he grabbed a bottle of water and the kids headed for the couch.

“Nice work, both of you! Kai, you crushed math. And Aria, your social studies teacher says you’ve got ‘excellent leadership qualities.’”

Aria dropped her bag and sighed. “Mom, please. Don’t ever let Dad go to school again.”

Lili looked up with a perfectly innocent smile. “Why not? I heard he’s now officially known as the Certified Silverfox.”

Sylus choked mid-sip. “I’m sorry. The what?”

Aria spun around, horrified. “Mom!”

“What?” Lili blinked, the picture of fake innocence. “You’re the one who came home ranting about it last semester.”

“Yeah, doesn’t mean you should say it out loud!”

Kai, squinting, asked, “What’s a silverfox?”

Sylus just stood there, grinning like this was the best day of his life. Lili, smug as ever, leaned over and kissed his cheek. “It means the parents think your dad is handsome and distinguished.”

“I didn’t even talk to them,” Sylus said, sipping his water again. “Just said hello.”

“Exactly,” Aria groaned. “That’s the problem.”

Lili turned back to her tablet, unfazed. “Well, I happen to think I’ve got the best-looking man in the PTA.”

Kai nodded solemnly. “I hope I turn into a silverfox too.”

Aria buried her head in a cushion. “I need a new family.”

But later that night, curled up on the couch while her parents bickered softly in the kitchen about who actually bought the almond milk, she found herself smiling. Even if her dad was embarrassing. And, according to the tragically misguided people of her school, stupidly attractive. Ew.

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luna-thecreator · 2 months ago

Text

The Shadow (A R.R Series)

Part 1 - The Silhouette

Paring જ⁀➴ Mafia Boss!Roman Reigns x Fem!Reader Plot જ⁀➴ A Night out for spring break was to only blow off steam from school. But all its done is add more to the flame. Word Count જ⁀➴ 3k Tags જ⁀➴ Dark Romance, Kissing, Age gap, light dub con, 18+, language

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

That’s the rule, right?

Too bad my best friend doesn’t believe in boundaries.

The second I start closing my eyes for sleep, the sound of my hotel room door slams against the wall nearly sends me into cardiac arrest.

“WAKE UP! Girl, you know we have to go partying!” Bianca’s voice pierces through my nap, yanking me back into the real world like an eviction notice.

I groan, rolling onto my side, trying to escape the room light slicing through the fancy-ass chandelier. My body is not built for nights, especially not after this morning’s questionable decisions. My eyes finally pry open, and there she is—already dressed in a hoochie momma set, her jet-black hair piled into a messy bun that somehow still looks effortlessly perfect.

“You couldn’t wait like, thirty more minutes?” My voice is half-asleep as I blindly reach for my phone on the nightstand. The screen glares back at me. 10:03 pm.

“Bii,” I whine, flopping dramatically onto my back. “It’s literally ten pm.”

“And we literally only have two days here,” she counters, unbothered, yanking the duvet clean off my body. “Best to go crazy now before spring break is over, babe.”

I sit up with a heavy sigh, my oversized tee clinging to me as I run a hand through my tangled hair. “Fine, fine. Let me at least get my shit together.”

Bii, already bouncing on the balls of her feet like a five-year-old on Christmas morning, lets out an excited squeal. “Hurry up or I’m coming back to kidnap you!” she threatens before sprinting out of the room.

I shake my head, exhaling through my nose. That’s right—spring break. Our first real trip together. No parents, no obligations, just pure, unfiltered chaos waiting to unfold in the neon jungle of Vegas.

An hour later, Bii and I slid into the waiting cab, my soul barely intact after rushing through my half-assed attempt at getting ready. The second my butt hits the seat, reality smacks me in the face.

This dress is criminally short.

Like, I-might-accidentally-flash-someone short.

Like, one-strong-breeze-away-from-a-public-indecency-charge short.

I shift uncomfortably, tugging at the hem of the black silky mini dress Bii basically forced me into. It clings to my body like it was painted on, and don’t even get me started on the neckline—my boobs are practically making a public appearance.

I shoot Bii a glare. “I hate you.”

She just grins, completely unbothered. “You love me.”

I grunt, crossing my arms over my chest in a sad attempt to preserve whatever’s left of my dignity. “Remind me why I agreed to this again?”

“Because it’s Vegas, babe. The whole point is to be hot and make questionable decisions.”

I roll my eyes, already questioning my life choices, when the cab slows to a stop. I turn my head, expecting to see some bougie party district or at least a cute home.

Instead, we’re in front of… a warehouse?

I blink. “Bii. What the actual fuck.”

She can see the pure disgust on my face because she immediately throws up her hands, grinning like she’s about to reveal some life-changing secret.

“Just trust me, aight?”

I squint at her. The last time she said that, I ended up in a stranger’s VIP booth doing tequila shots off a roulette table.

She yanks me out of the cab so fast I nearly trip, my heels clacking against the pavement as I scramble to keep up.

“Bii, slow down!” I hiss, but she’s on a mission, dragging me toward the entrance like a woman possessed.

The second we stop, my eyes shoot up—and up—to the massive bouncer standing in front of a set of heavy metal doors.

A sliver of unease creeps down my spine.

This… does not look like a club.

Like, why the hell are we at a damn warehouse?

The whole vibe is off. The neon lights flicker overhead, barely illuminating the sketchy-ass building. The air smells like a mix of cheap cologne, cigarettes, and something vaguely metallic. I shift on my feet, suddenly hyper-aware of my too-short dress, my exposed skin prickling from the slight chill.

“Bii.” I lower my voice. “I swear to God, if you brought me here to get kidnapped—”

She ignores me, reaching into her tiny purse and flashing a business card at the bouncer.

A business card?

What. The. Fuck.

Without a word, the guy takes one look at it, then steps aside, reaching for the heavy metal doors. The sound of grinding steel fills the air as he pulls them open, revealing… pitch-black darkness.

Yeah. Nope.

I immediately take a step back, but Bii’s grip on my wrist tightens. She throws me a mischievous grin, eyes gleaming under the dim lights.

“Just trust me,” she whispers before tugging me inside.

And like a dumbass, I let her.

My jaw hits the floor as the hallway suddenly comes alive with flashing LED lights, casting neon streaks along the sleek black walls. One second, we were stepping into total darkness—now, it feels like we’ve been transported into some underground, VIP-only paradise.

I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. The air is thick with bass, the distant thrum of music vibrating beneath my feet. Further in, a massive chandelier hangs from the ceiling, its crystals catching the light and throwing sparkles in every direction, shifting from deep purples to electric blues to fiery reds.

Okay. Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all.

I glance at Bii, who’s watching my reaction with a smug look.

“Told you to trust me.” She winks before looping her arm through mine.

Shot after shot, the world around me blurs into neon streaks and pounding bass. My too-short dress? Long forgotten. All I care about is the music, the heat of the crowd, and the way Bii and I scream when our song—"Surrender" by Kut Klose—starts blasting through the speakers.

“OH, SHIT!” Bii shrieks, grabbing my hands as we move to the rhythm, our bodies swaying in sync.

Body grinding. Ass shaking. More shots. Repeat.

I don’t know how many drinks deep we are, but I feel it—the warmth spreading through my veins, the reckless confidence taking over. The kind that makes you forget everything except the music and the way your body moves to it.

And that’s when I feel it.

Strong hands—big, warm, commanding—sliding onto my waist from behind.

I freeze for half a second, but the tequila tells me not to overthink it. The way his fingers tighten, his grip steady yet teasing, makes my breath hitch.

Oh.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

The bass thrums through my chest as I feel his grip tighten, pulling me flush against his solid frame. He’s huge—all muscle and heat, his presence alone making my body hum with awareness.

I swallow hard, my hands instinctively reaching for his wrists, but I don’t push him away. I should, but instead, my fingers brush over his warm skin, feeling the strength beneath.

He leans down, his breath hot against my ear. “You dance like trouble, alofa.”

The word—Alofa—rolls off his tongue like silk, low and teasing.

I don’t know what it means, but the way he says it makes my stomach flip.

His voice is deep, smooth, dangerous.

“I—” My voice catches as his hands guide me, swaying my hips against him in perfect rhythm. My mind screams at me to be cautious, but my body? My body melts.

He chuckles, the sound rich and amused, like he can sense my hesitation. “Nervous?”

Yes. Obviously.

I nod slightly, but I don’t pull away.

“I don’t Bite,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “Not unless you ask me to.”

A shiver runs down my spine. My knees almost buckle.

Who is this man?

I turn my head slightly, catching a glimpse of him under the flashing lights. Dark eyes. Long, jet-black hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. A chiseled jawline that looks like it could cut glass.

He looks like sin personified.

He chuckles, and it’s deep, raw, the kind of sound that slinks down my spine and coils low in my stomach.

“Drink.”

“Huh?” I blink up at him, tipping my head to the side. I was too busy sizing him up, too caught up in the way his hands fit perfectly against my waist, to actually hear what he said.

His dark eyes flicker with amusement. “Another Drink?”

And then—oh, fuck.

His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and I swear my brain short-circuits.

Because now, all I can think about is that tongue—hot, wet, teasing—dragging down my neck, swirling around my nipples, sliding lower, lower, lower…

Heat floods my face, and I snap my eyes away, pulse skyrocketing.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He smirks, like he can read my thoughts, like he knows exactly where my mind just went. His grip on my waist tightens just a fraction, pulling me closer, making me feel every inch of him.

“Careful, alofa,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dangerous. “You keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you want me to do something about it.”

My breath hitches. My thighs press together on instinct.

I should back away. I should say something—anything—to break the tension.

But when he raises a brow, waiting, challenging, I do the exact opposite.

“Only gonna ask one more time, alofa.” His voice is low, a quiet warning wrapped in silk. “Don’t like repeating myself.”

His breath ghosts over my skin as he runs his nose up the curve of my neck, slow, deliberate. Like he’s memorizing me.

I swallow hard, my fingers gripping the hem of my too-short dress. This man is dangerous. Not in the creepy, let me call security way, but in the I’ll ruin your life and you’ll thank me for it way.

“Um… I’m fine,” I murmur, voice softer than I’d like. “I had enough.”

For a second, I think he might push, insist—but he doesn’t.

Instead, he grins, flashing a glimpse of straight, white teeth, and something in his expression shifts—like he’s amused, like he enjoys the fact that I can say no.

That earns him a point in my book.

He tilts his head, studying me. Then—“Keep me company while I refill mine, then?”

The way he says it—not a question, not a demand, but something in between—sends a flutter through my stomach.

Like I actually have a choice.

Like I’d actually say no.

I wet my lips, heartbeat hammering against my ribs. This is new to me. The way he moves, the way he watches me, the way his touch is both possessive and patient.

And yet, my body answers for me.

I nod.

He smirks, sliding his fingers down my arm until they tangle with mine.

“Good girl.”

He’s already calling me good girl, and I don’t even know his damn name.

And the craziest part? If he asked me to leave with him tonight, I know I probably would.

It’s not like I’m some wide-eyed innocent—I mean, okay, maybe I am in some ways, but not in the way people assumed back in high school.

The rumors were wild. That I was hooking up with guys I never even spoke to, that I had a secret roster of men when in reality? I’m a virgin.

Yep. A whole-ass 22-year-old virgin.

Not because I’m waiting for some Michael B Jordan, rain-soaked love story. Not because I’m scared. Just because no one has ever made me want to spread my legs.

No one has ever lit me up—body, mind, and soul. No one has ever kissed me so good I forget my own damn name. And I refuse to settle for some bare-minimum, clueless dude who doesn’t even know where the G-spot is.

But him?

This tall, broad-shouldered, long-haired, full-bearded, dangerously fine-ass man with his hand wrapped securely around mine, leading me up a flight of stairs like he already owns me?

I don’t even know his name. But in the span of five minutes, he’s ticking off every single one of my boxes. And that? That’s terrifying.

My eyes drag up the broad expanse of his back, the muscles shifting beneath his black dress shirt, then down to his thick, solid ass. My teeth sink into my bottom lip as my mind betrays me—flashes of my nails digging into his back, his body caging mine, his weight pressing me into silk sheets as he pounds into me uncontrollably.

I swallow hard, cutting off the thought before it ruins me completely.

"Like what you see?" His voice is smug, deep, teasing.

Shit.

Heat rushes up my neck, burning my ears. “Sorry, I just—” Before I can finish, he turns, pulling a key from his pocket. With an effortless flick of his wrist, he unlocks the heavy, dark-wood door behind us and pushes it open.

The office is all power and wealth.

A massive, polished black desk sits in the center, facing a floor-to-ceiling window that offers a view of the glittering Vegas skyline. Shelves of leather-bound books line the walls, but I doubt he reads them. A decanter of dark liquor rests on a sleek glass table, alongside two crystal tumblers.

The lighting is low, warm—almost intimate. I barely have time to take it all in before he steps inside, turning to look at me with those dark, knowing eyes.

"Don't be sorry," he murmurs, the words ghosting across my skin as he somehow manages to get behind me without a sound.

A shiver snakes down my spine as his hands find my hips, one creeping along the small of my back before settling on the opposite side, caging me in without even trying. Then, with one slow, deliberate pull, he tugs me flush against him.

And fuck.

I feel every inch of him—every hard, unignorable inch.

"Still gonna refill your drink?" My voice is barely steady, a thin attempt at grounding myself in what was supposed to be a casual flirtation. This man was supposed to be a distraction, not a full-blown earthquake shaking my entire world.

But when he grinds his hips into my ass, slow and controlled, I know—deep in my bones—that I’m in over my head.

"I'm working on it, alofa," he breathes, dragging his nose down the side of my neck, inhaling me like he’s memorizing the scent. "But it’s not the alcohol I want."

My stomach flips.

"It—it's not?" My voice is weak, so unlike me.

"No."

"Then what is it?"

His fingers tighten—no, dig—into my hips like he's staking a claim, like he already knows exactly what he wants and isn't leaving without it. My breath stutters when he nudges his knee between my legs, parting them like it’s his God-given right.

"You," he murmurs. "This pussy."

One word.

That’s all it takes for my core to throb so hard I forget how to breathe.

My head tips back, helpless, needy, resting on his shoulder as his palm slides between my thighs, teasing, testing. I let out the softest whimper, and he grins against my skin like he already owns me.

"I—I don’t even know your name," I manage, a last-ditch effort at keeping some control in this situation. He chuckles, deep and dark, his lips grazing my jaw as he grips my chin, forcing me to look up at him.

"It’s okay, cause you’ll be screaming it later," he whispers, just before his mouth crashes down onto mine.

And holy fucking hell.

There’s nothing sweet about it. Nothing patient. Nothing careful. It’s hungry, punishing, raw.

The way his tongue tangles with mine, the way he sucks it into his mouth like he’s already devouring me whole, has my knees buckling. My nails dig into the back of his neck, holding on for dear life.

"I don’t do sweet and gentle, alofa," he growls against my lips, his forehead pressed to mine. "I need to feel you. Need to be balls deep in you."

I swallow hard. I’m so fucked.

Warm, calloused hands grip my hips, spinning me to face him like he’s got every right to.

The air between us is thick, charged, humming with something dark and electric as he backs me further into the room—one slow, deliberate step at a time. The edge of the desk presses into my lower back, but I barely register it. Not when his body is flush against mine.

"Can't read your mind, alofa," he murmurs, voice rough like gravel and honey. "Need to hear you say it."

Then his nose is on my neck, dragging down the column of my throat, breathing me in like he’s memorizing the scent of my skin.

And I should say something. Should breathe, think, move.

But all I feel is the thick, unrelenting length of his hardness pressing into my stomach—a silent promise, a dangerous temptation. It twitches, and my breath hitches, heat rushing straight between my thighs to my pussy.

"I… I never—"

I don’t even get the words out. The door flies open, slamming against the wall with a loud crack. A massive silhouette fills the doorway, blocking out the glow of the club downstairs.

He’s dressed in all black, his T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, inked arms crossed over his chest. Medium-length cornrows, the tips dyed deep red. The tribal tattoos that cover both arms ripple as he shifts, his stance solid and unyielding.

"Uce, we got a problem," the man says, voice deep and steady.

The one holding me growls low in his throat.

"Dammit, Jimmy, can’t you see I’m busy?" His grip on me doesn’t loosen. He doesn’t even stop the slow drag of his tongue along my collarbone, like this whole conversation is nothing but a minor inconvenience.

Jimmy doesn’t flinch. "It can’t wait, uce."

The man holding me exhales sharply, like he's one second away from snapping.

"Fuck." His forehead drops, resting between the curves of my tits as he takes a slow, controlled breath. And then, those dangerous dark eyes find mine again.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but business is business."

In one smooth motion, he helps me down, adjusting my dress with careful fingers. Then, without another word, he leads me downstairs, his palm resting on my lower back like a silent claim. At the bottom of the stairs, he stops—turns me to him.

Then he does it again. Kisses me. Raw. Possessive. Like he’s staking his claim. And just as fast as it started, he pulls back, lips still ghosting over mine.

"My name, alofa." His mouth brushes against mine again, this time a soft peck—but it still leaves me dizzy. "Roman Reigns."

Then he’s gone, disappearing through the steel doors like a shadow, leaving me standing there—breathless, burning, and whispering his name like a secret.

"Roman," I murmur, rolling the name on my tongue.

I like the way it tastes.

#fanfic #wwe #wwe fanfiction #roman reigns #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns smut

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oliveden · 8 months ago

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queerplatonic aroallo keith and aroace pidge. you see my vision right. you see it. some random aphobe asks them if they're in a relationship. pidge looks them dead in the eyes. "he's fucking another guy." this may or may not actually be true but she says it for their reaction. keith just thinks it's funny.

#brought to you by a questioning aroallo #*hits my fav characters with the aro beam*#the other guy is regris lmao im sticking to rarepairs to avoid the ship wars #aro keith #aroace pidge #waking (ten years of flames)#oliveden speaks

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cup1drul3z · 21 days ago

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★ — Keep Me Close

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ : ᴛᴜᴇꜱᴅᴀʏ

ᴘᴏᴘꜱᴛᴀʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ʙᴏᴅʏɢᴜᴀʀᴅ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | 6.6ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Age gap, Angst, Masturbation, Car crash mentioned, Drinking, drugs, mental health problems, depression, suicide mentioned

A/N : new chapter woohoo

SUMMARY : After a haunting nightmare of your car crash, you wake to another demanding day—only to be blindsided by a surprise gala appearance. As pressure builds, old trauma, physical pain, and industry expectations collide. You’re forced into a dress that shows the scar you try so hard to hide, and though you’re unraveling, Sevika stays steady—your quiet shield, your silent storm. When the night spirals into danger on the red carpet, she steps in, all muscle and instinct. Back home, things grow quieter... and heavier. She’s just down the hall, and somehow that’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

Everything was quiet at first.

Too quiet.

Then—sound returned all at once. Screeching metal. The pop of something exploding. The sharp hiss of leaking fuel and the distant whoosh of fire catching.

You came to with your world upside down.

Literally.

Your seatbelt dug into your shoulder, holding you suspended in the wrecked shell of the SUV, your hair hanging toward the cracked windshield smeared with blood. Your ears rang like you were underwater. The air was thick with smoke—burnt rubber, gasoline, something acrid that stung your lungs with every shallow breath.

You blinked, once—twice—and then the pain hit.

Your nose was gushing blood, the thick metallic taste already in your throat. Your face throbbed with every heartbeat. Broken? Probably. But it was nothing compared to what you felt next.

Your right leg.

Or… didn’t feel.

You looked down and nearly blacked out again.

The bone had punched clean through your thigh, white and jagged against your shredded leggings. It glistened with blood, the skin around it raw and torn. You couldn’t feel anything below it. Couldn’t move your foot. Could barely breathe.

You tried to scream, but your throat caught on the smoke.

Then you looked left.

The driver—Sara. Your driver for nearly two years. Sweet, sarcastic, a mother of three.

She was gone.

A piece of twisted metal had punched through the windshield and into her skull, pinning her to the seat. Her eyes were still open, blank and wide, blood leaking from the corner of her mouth.

You froze. The horror of it crept up your spine like cold fingers.

Then you screamed.

“Help!” you choked out, raw and panicked. “Somebody— I—I can’t—HELP!”

The flames caught outside, licking across the front of the car. The heat rose fast.

You thrashed once in the seatbelt, body screaming in agony as something in your side gave a sickening crunch.

Still, you screamed louder.

Because no one was coming.

And in that moment—upside down, bleeding, broken—you thought maybe this was it.

Maybe the world was going to end with you burning alive. Alone. Staring into the empty eyes of someone who never even had the chance to say goodbye.

Tuesday Morning

You woke up gasping.

Sheets tangled around your legs, sweat dampening the back of your tank top, breath coming in short, uneven pulls like you'd just run ten miles through fire.

The room was still dim—early morning light just beginning to spill through the tall windows of your bedroom, casting everything in a pale blue hush. You stared at the ceiling for a moment, heart thudding against your ribs, the phantom scent of gasoline still lingering in your nose like it never fully left.

Your hand flew to your face. No blood. No broken nose. Just the dream again.

You swallowed hard and pushed yourself up, wincing as a sharp pain lanced through your ankle first, then deeper—your thigh. The old wound. The one the doctors said you were “lucky” to survive. Lucky.

You stood slowly, legs trembling beneath you, gripping the edge of your vanity for balance. Your reflection stared back at you—gloss-free, curls flattened, eyes heavy and haunted.

You reached for the drawer by your bed and pulled out the pill bottle again. Hydraxin. Your fingers moved fast, familiar. Two pills. A sip from the water on your nightstand. Gone before you could feel guilty about it.

You didn’t go back to bed.

Instead, you limped over to the chaise by the window, grabbed the soft leather-bound journal from beneath a pile of magazines—your lyric journal—and flipped it open to a fresh page. You picked up the pen tucked in the binding, clicking it once before the words started pouring out like they'd been waiting all night.

“she wakes up from fire, but the heat never leaves skin stitched with sirens, mouth full of pleas how do you heal from what no one sees?”

You paused, chewing on your bottom lip, eyes scanning the verse.

Then you wrote more.

Because if you didn’t, the dream would stay lodged in your throat all day.

Once the page was filled and your hand was sore, you closed the journal, pressing your palm to the cover for a moment before finally standing up.

Today was another long day.

And no one needed to know how you’d started it.

The piano room was quiet—too quiet.

Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, slanting across the gleaming black lacquer of the grand piano, dust motes swirling in the stillness. The room was insulated from the rest of the house, wrapped in soft acoustics and the faint lingering scent of old sheet music and lavender-scented polish.

You sat down on the bench, the same one you'd sat on a hundred times before. Your lyric journal rested open beside you, pen tucked in the crease. You didn’t need to read the words—you already knew them by heart.

Fingers met keys.

A soft chord. Another. The melody came first—slow, aching, fragile like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. You played the verse you’d scribbled earlier, the notes stretching around the lyrics, shaping them into something raw and real.

"She wakes up from fire, but the heat never leaves..."

The words trembled in your throat, almost too heavy to sing, but you pushed through them anyway. Until you got to the next part.

And stopped.

Your fingers stilled on the keys. The silence rang louder than the music had.

You stared at the ivory beneath your hands, blinking rapidly as the next verse refused to come. It sat just out of reach, a shadow of a thought that wouldn’t take shape.

Your jaw clenched.

Your chest tightened.

And then—like someone had flipped a switch—your vision blurred.

Tears spilled silently down your cheeks, landing on the keys in soft, perfect drops. You didn’t wipe them away. You didn’t move.

In your head, the question repeated on a loop—sharp and quiet and unrelenting.

Why couldn’t I have died with them? Why was I the one who lived?

You squeezed your eyes shut. Pressed your fingers to the keys again. Let the notes ring out even as your breath hitched.

But the lyrics wouldn’t come.

Only the guilt stayed. Heavy as ever.

The knock startled you so hard your fingers slammed against the wrong keys, a dissonant chord ringing out through the quiet room. You flinched, quickly wiping at your cheeks with the sleeve of your cotton jacket, smudging whatever mascara hadn’t already bled into your skin.

You turned toward the door, blinking the tears away as best you could.

It creaked open, and Geoffrey—prim and polished as ever—stepped inside, his gloved hands folded in front of him.

“Apologies for the interruption, Miss,” he said gently, his gaze flicking once to your red-rimmed eyes but not commenting. He never did. “Your manager has arrived. He’s waiting in the foyer.”

You blinked. “Now?” Your voice came out hoarse. You cleared your throat and tried again. “It’s early. He’s not supposed to be here until ten.”

Geoffrey nodded once. “Yes, Miss. He insisted it was important.”

You stared at him for a moment, the warmth of the piano room now feeling suffocating.

“Did he say what it’s about?”

“No, Miss. Only that it was urgent.”

You hesitated, one hand still resting lightly on the keys. The journal lay open beside you, tears drying on the pages.

You closed it carefully, fingers brushing the soft leather.

“Tell him I’ll be down in a minute,” you said quietly.

Geoffrey inclined his head. “Of course, Miss.”

He stepped out, closing the door softly behind him.

You took a breath, held it. Exhaled slowly.

Then stood, every step heavy as you made your way to face whatever came next.

You padded down the grand staircase, barefoot and still dressed in your rumpled tank top and leggings, curls slightly flattened on one side from the pillow, eyes heavy from crying and barely sleeping. Your ankle throbbed with every step, but you barely registered it anymore—it was just part of the rhythm now.

In the foyer, your manager stood with his tablet clutched like it might explode, pacing circles into the marble. The second he saw you, he lit up with the kind of panic that always meant something was very, very wrong.

“Okay, finally,” he said, lowering his phone and half-jogging toward you. “You weren’t answering anything. Did you—are you—whatever, it doesn’t matter, we have a problem.”

You stopped mid-step, eyebrows furrowing. “It’s Tuesday. And it’s still dark out. Why do you look like someone set your office on fire?”

He turned his tablet to face you, showing an email confirmation, a calendar invite, and a photo of you mid-performance with the words:

“TONIGHT: Y/N L/N – Special Performance at the Goldnote Gala, Presented by The Silver Chair Foundation. Red Carpet at 7PM. Performance begins 8:30. Champagne reception. Black tie.”

You stared at it.

“I… didn’t agree to this.”

“Nope. But apparently your publicist did. Two weeks ago. As a ‘surprise guest appearance’ to help the fundraiser ‘feel buzzy and exclusive.’” He used air quotes like they offended him personally. “They’re expecting a song. A speech. Maybe some light mingling with people whose net worth could cancel our entire tour debt.”

You blinked. “It’s 6:22 in the morning, Dean.”

“Yes. And guess what? Now that tonight is locked, everything else on the schedule has to be moved up. Soundcheck, dress fitting, glam, vocal warmups, not to mention your actual studio session with the collab artist you forgot about—”

“Oh my god.” You pressed a hand to your forehead.

He kept going. “—So we are now in a code red time crunch, which means we have roughly twelve hours to do eighteen hours of work before you need to be dressed in something that costs more than your car, smiling at rich people while pretending to love philanthropy.”

You groaned, turning back toward the stairs. “Tell Geoffrey I need coffee.”

“Triple espresso?”

“Make it four and a tranquilizer.”

Dean called after you as you ascended, “You better warm up those vocal cords, sweetheart. Tonight, you’re inspiring the 1%!”

You didn’t even turn around—just muttered, “If I’m not back in ten, I’ve fled the country,” and disappeared down the hall.

The gym was nearly empty—just the soft whir of ceiling fans and the occasional clink of weights echoing through the industrial space.

Sevika liked it that way.

No grunting bros. No awkward small talk. Just cold air, steel, and the slow burn of muscle strain. She stood in front of the weight rack, tank top clinging to her torso with sweat, her left arm wrapped in black compression tape, right hand gripping a kettlebell that looked like it belonged on a construction site.

Veins ran like cords down her forearms. Her delts flexed as she adjusted her stance, legs braced wide, thick thighs balanced in perfect form. Her abs—faint but defined—tightened with every lift. She pulled the kettlebell up into a clean snatch, then dropped into a squat, slow and smooth, muscles rippling beneath her skin with practiced control.

Her jaw was clenched, hair damp and swept back. She didn’t wear headphones. Didn’t need music. Just the rhythm of reps and breath.

She paused between sets, rolling her neck and reaching for her water bottle when her phone buzzed on the bench beside her.

Dean.

She sighed and picked up, not bothering to mask her irritation.

“What.”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Dean’s voice chirped through. “Listen, change of plans. We’ve got a full-day situation—surprise gala, red carpet, you know, rich-people nonsense. Can you come in early?”

She wiped her face with a towel, staring at her reflection in the mirror—brow furrowed, still catching her breath.

“What’s early?”

“Like, now.”

She raised a brow. “I haven’t even showered.”

Dean’s tone was flat. “Neither has the day. Welcome to the circus. I’ll text the address.”

Click.

Sevika grunted, tossing the towel over her shoulder as she grabbed her duffel bag. She didn’t mind chaos. She just wished it didn’t come wrapped in glitter, heels, and a walking hazard zone of feelings.

Still, she moved fast.

Because no matter how complicated you were turning out to be…

You were hers to protect.

Tuesday Afternoon

The gala venue was already buzzing when Sevika arrived—stylists, assistants, and handlers scurrying through sleek halls lined with light panels and flower arrangements too expensive to touch. She scanned the chaos with a trained eye, pushing past the noise until she found the right door.

Y/N L/N – Dressing Room.

She knocked once, didn’t wait for an answer, and pushed it open.

Inside, you stood facing a full-length mirror, frozen in place. The gown on you was designer—of course it was—champagne silk that shimmered like water under light, cut dangerously low on one side and sheer in just the wrong places. You weren’t crying, not yet, but your jaw was tight and your arms were crossed low over your stomach like you could hide yourself by willpower alone.

Behind you, a flustered woman with a pin cushion bracelet and mouth full of pins was fidgeting with a hemline. “Sweetheart, you look stunning. The scar is barely noticeable with the lighting—they won’t even see it unless they’re looking for it—”

“I am looking at it,” you said through your teeth, voice strained but still polite. “And I’m telling you, I don’t want to wear this.”

“It’s a custom piece. It was tailored for this event. We don’t have time to—”

“I said no.”

The woman smiled nervously, glancing at Sevika like she might help.

Sevika didn’t move.

“You’ve got a phenomenal figure,” the fabric woman tried again. “And the cut is meant to—”

“I don’t care what it’s meant to do!” you snapped, voice cracking mid-sentence. “I didn’t ask for a dress that shows my goddamn scar! I didn’t ask for this, and I’m done pretending it doesn’t bother me!”

The room went silent.

Your chest was rising and falling fast now, eyes glassy, lips tight with fury and humiliation. The stylist opened her mouth—maybe to defend herself, maybe to keep pushing—but Sevika stepped forward before a single syllable came out.

“Out,” she said flatly, nodding toward the door.

The fabric woman blinked. “I—”

Sevika took another step forward. Her expression didn’t change, but the weight of her voice dropped lower.

“I said out. Now.”

The stylist backed away fast, scooping up her sewing kit and clipboard like a bomb was about to go off, muttering something about “needing to speak to Dean” as she slipped out the door.

Sevika shut it behind her with a soft click, then turned back to you—still standing in front of the mirror, still breathing hard, arms wrapped tightly around your middle like you were holding yourself together.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did she.

Not yet.

You stood there for a beat, jaw clenched, staring at your reflection like it had personally betrayed you.

Then, barely above a whisper, you muttered, “It’s so fucking ugly.”

Sevika shifted slightly, but didn’t say a word.

You didn’t look at her as you reached for the zipper and shoved the dress down, letting the silky fabric slide off your hips and pool around your feet. You stepped out of it without hesitation, now standing in nothing but your bra and underwear—skin still flushed from frustration, the scar across your stomach stark under the dressing room lights. Raised. Pale. Twisting slightly just above your hip like a quiet reminder you never asked for.

You turned away, heading straight for the closet and rifling through it like you were on a mission to destroy every scrap of couture in your path.

Behind you, Sevika choked on a breath.

“What are you doing?” she sputtered, turning away so fast she nearly smacked into the wall, arms flailing in front of her like she was under attack. “Why— why are you naked?!”

“I’m not naked,” you said coolly, still rummaging. “Calm down, Christ.”

“There’s, like—protocols!” Sevika hissed, eyes glued to the corner of the room, shoulders tense like the entire situation might explode if she looked directly at you. “I’m your bodyguard, not your backup bra wrangler!”

You let out a dry laugh, grabbing hanger after hanger and tossing aside half the rack. “I forgot you’re shy.”

“I’m not shy, I’m professional!” she snapped, still looking everywhere but at you. “And I’d prefer not to get fired for accidentally catching a glimpse of—Jesus.”

You smirked behind a curtain of fabric, holding up a sleek black number with a high neck and long sleeves.

“Relax,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “It’s just skin.”

Her ears were red. Absolutely burning.

“Yeah,” Sevika muttered, still refusing to turn around. “And that’s the problem.” she opened the door and stepped out

You were halfway into a black velvet gown when the door opened again without a knock.

“Y/N, I just got off the phone with—Oh my god,” Dean groaned, stopping dead in his tracks as the dress slipped halfway down your torso, barely hanging from one shoulder.

You huffed, clutching the bodice up with one hand. “Hi, Dean. Nice of you to knock.”

He shut the door behind him and crossed the room in two quick steps, eyes already scanning the heap of discarded gowns on the chaise. “What’s going on? What happened to the Goldnote dress?”

You didn’t answer. Just adjusted the zipper and tried to stuff your frustration back into your ribs.

Dean sighed like you were personally ruining his blood pressure. “This again?”

“I don’t like it,” you muttered, tugging on the too-loose neckline of the black dress. “It’s see-through, it shows my scar, and this one’s not much better.”

“Y/N…” he started, voice already dropping into that tone.

You glanced at him through the mirror.

He walked over, picking up the champagne gown from where it had fallen over the arm of a chair, brushing it off carefully like it was a wounded animal. “You looked stunning in this. Like… starlet-of-the-decade stunning. Everyone’s expecting it. The designer’s already posted a teaser. It’s on Vogue’s Instagram, for Christ’s sake.”

You swallowed. “Dean—”

“It’s not about the scar. No one’s looking at that. They’re looking at you. You’re the comeback story. The survivor. The one who walked through fire and came out shiny and perfect.”

His words landed like stones in your stomach.

“I just don’t want to be picked apart for something I didn’t choose,” you said softly.

Dean softened his voice, stepping closer. “Babe… that’s the gig. And tonight? You’re not just wearing a dress. You’re giving them something to talk about. And we need them talking. You’ve worked too damn hard to back down now because of something that only makes you stronger.”

You stared at the mirror. At yourself. At the scar.

Your shoulders sagged.

You sighed. “Fine.”

Dean smiled—relieved, triumphant, and a little too smug.

You reached out and took the champagne dress from him with a heavy hand, letting the black one fall to the floor.

Back into the sparkle. Back into the story.

Because this wasn’t about comfort.

It never was.

Sevika stood in the hallway just outside the dressing room, her back against the cool wall, arms crossed, trying—and failing—not to think about the way you had looked at her. The way your voice had dropped. The way your lips had almost brushed hers.

She dragged a hand down her face, jaw tense, breath shallow.

“Its just skin.” fuck that. Its taking everything in sevika not to go to the bathroom and get herself off

The words replayed again and again in her head, burrowing into the parts of her that usually stayed locked down tight.

She exhaled, staring at the ground, still trying to cool off when she heard footsteps.

Dean.

She straightened, watching from the corner of her eye as he strolled toward your dressing room, arms full with some last-minute garment and his phone wedged between his shoulder and ear. He didn’t knock. Just opened the door and slipped inside like he owned the air.

A beat passed. Then another.

And when Dean came back out, he was alone.

He didn’t look surprised. Or flustered.

He looked smug.

He adjusted his jacket like nothing happened, letting a satisfied little smirk curl across his face as he walked past her without a word—like he knew something she didn’t.

Sevika’s brows drew together.

What the hell was that?

She gave it a moment—just long enough for Dean to disappear around the corner—before stepping back into the dressing room.

You were standing in front of the mirror again, perfectly still, the champagne gown hugging your frame just as before. Except now, your shoulders were slouched. Your eyes dim. The fire from earlier? Snuffed out.

Her gaze dropped to the scar again, barely visible now through the sheer shimmer of the dress, but still there. Still yours.

She stared for a moment. Quiet.

Then said gently, “You’re back in the dress.”

You didn’t look at her. Not right away.

Just whispered, “Yeah. I guess I am.”

You turned away from the mirror without another word, the heels of your stilettos clicking softly across the dressing room floor as you made your way to your bag in the corner.

Your fingers rifled through it, looking for your lip gloss, maybe your phone—anything to distract from how heavy the dress felt again.

And then—

clatter.

The pill bottle slipped out of your bag and hit the floor with a soft plastic thunk, skittering across the tile like it was trying to expose you on purpose.

You lunged for it, but Sevika was closer.

She scooped it up before you could get there.

Everything in your body went still.

Shit.

You stood there, waiting—bracing—for the lecture. For the disappointed sigh. For the “do you even know how dangerous this is?” or the “this stuff ruins people” or the “you need help.”

But instead, Sevika just turned the bottle over in her hand, eyes flicking to the label. Hydraxin. Prescribed. Heavy dosage.

No emotion. No judgment.

She looked at you once, then simply held it out.

“Here.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “You’re not gonna—say anything?”

She shrugged. “Not my business.”

You took it slowly from her hand, your fingers brushing hers for just a second.

She didn’t react.

You smiled—bright, syrupy, practiced. The kind you used in interviews to make people think everything was fine.

“Thanks,” you said sweetly, popping the cap and shaking out two pills like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t routine. You swallowed them dry and slipped the bottle back into your bag.

“God,” you said after a beat, glancing up through your lashes at her. “You really are the strong, silent type, huh?”

You took a small step closer, just close enough for your perfume to catch the space between you. “You sure there’s nothing else you wanna… handle?”

But Sevika’s expression didn’t budge. Stone and steel.

She stepped back, hands sliding into her jacket pockets.

“You’ve got a gala in forty minutes,” she said, voice flat. “Maybe save the charm for people who give a shit.”

And just like that—wall, reestablished.

She turned her gaze toward the door, as if looking at you too long might burn something she wasn’t willing to name.

But still… she didn’t leave.

The vanity lights were too bright—warm and soft, sure, but relentless. They reflected off every surface, clung to your skin like stage makeup always did, and made you feel more like a doll than a person.

One stylist was brushing out the ends of your curls, humming something tuneless. Another dabbed foundation into your jawline with a sponge, murmuring about undertones. Someone else adjusted the straps of the dress for the hundredth time.

You sat perfectly still. Smiled when they asked. Nodded when prompted. But your eyes?

Your eyes kept drifting toward the corner of the room.

Sevika stood with her back against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, one boot casually braced behind the other like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her dark jacket had SECURITY printed in block white letters across the back and the sleeve, like a label—like a barrier.

She hadn’t said much since she got there. Hadn’t even looked at you. Not really.

Just stood there, eyes scanning the room, always on alert. Detached. Unbothered.

Your stomach twisted a little.

This was the same woman who’d backed off the stylist earlier without blinking. The same one who’d watched you fall apart in a dressing room and didn’t say a word but still stayed. Who gave you your pills back without judgment, who saw all your mess and didn’t flinch.

And now?

Nothing.

Her face was stone. Her presence heavy but unreadable. You couldn’t tell if she was angry with you or if this was just her default setting.

What’s your deal? you wondered, watching her through the mirror. Are you protective or indifferent? Present or miles away?

She didn’t glance your way once.

And maybe that’s what bothered you the most.

Tuesday Night

The night was chaos wrapped in velvet and flashbulbs.

The gala steps were swarming—fans screaming from behind the barricades, voices rising like a tidal wave every time your name was called. The paparazzi—paparazzi, you remembered with a mental wince—lined the carpet like vultures with thousand-dollar cameras, each one throwing flash after flash in your face like it was open season on your corneas.

You stood in the center of it all like you were born for this.

Hair perfect, dress clinging in all the right places, that practiced sweet-yet-sultry smile frozen effortlessly in place. You turned your head, letting your curls cascade down one shoulder, then did the slow spin your publicist had drilled into you—back turned to the crowd, head tilted over your shoulder, eyes locked on the nearest lens like you meant to burn your image into it.

The lights caught the ink on your shoulder blade—a delicate black-and-grey lily blooming soft and sharp beneath the champagne silk. A memorial. For the woman in the driver’s seat. Sara.

No one ever asked about the tattoo. You never explained it.

But they’d see it now.

And under all the blinding light, something else caught, too.

The scar.

It peeked out beneath the gauzy panel at your hip, glinting under the camera flashes. Faint. Pale. Raised just enough to catch in the wrong lighting—just enough to prove the fabric stylist had lied.

It was visible. All of it.

But you didn’t flinch.

You smiled at the camera. Signed a fan’s photo without even looking down. Said “thank you” and “I love you guys” and “You look so cute tonight!” like a reflex, like breathing. Even as the flashes cracked like lightning. Even as strangers screamed your name like they owned it.

You kept your cool.

The fan photo line had become its own kind of performance—one you knew by heart.

Teen girls with glitter in their hair, clutching custom-made signs and friendship bracelets. Preteens trembling with excitement as they handed you shaky drawings and phone cases for you to sign. Boys with painted nails and bright eyes who gushed about how your lyrics helped them come out. Girls dressed in knockoffs of your concert outfits, crying as they thanked you for "Break My Lipgloss" or “Hydra Heart” getting them through their first heartbreak, their parents’ divorce, the worst year of their life.

Someone apologized for the accident. You just smiled.

Someone asked how you made it. You gave your usual answer—“Hard work. A little luck. And knowing who you are when no one else does.”

You knelt beside a little girl in a sequined jacket for a photo, signing the back of her sparkly backpack. When she hugged you, it was soft and fast and full of the kind of love that didn’t expect anything in return.

Then he stepped forward.

You knew before he even spoke that something was off.

An older man—late sixties maybe, wearing a worn-out tour shirt that looked fake. Not your usual fan. Not even someone who looked like they wanted to be here. His eyes tracked your every move with too much interest. Too much hunger.

Still, you smiled, polite. Trained. You signed his shirt quickly, trying to hand it back before he could say anything. But he stepped in close.

“Smile for the camera, sweetheart,” he said, arm slipping around your waist before you could dodge it.

Your stomach twisted.

The photographer paused, fumbling with his lens. “One sec, sorry, just gotta reload—”

You stood stiffly, barely breathing, trying not to let his hand touch skin. But then he leaned in, breath hot against your ear.

“You know why you survived that crash, don’t you?” he whispered, too close. “You’re not normal. You’re divine. You’ve been here before. You’re one of them. Like the old ones. Greek. Reborn in glitter.”

You froze.

His hand slid lower. Fingers pressing against the curve of your ass like he owned it.

“I could show you what it feels like to be worshipped.”

You moved—fast—but he gripped tighter.

“Let go,” you hissed, voice sharp, panic blooming in your chest.

And then—impact.

Sevika came out of nowhere, a blur of black fabric and fury. Her shoulder slammed into him like a freight train, sending the man flying backwards. He hit the floor with a loud thud, camera lights flickering like dying fireflies.

The crowd gasped.

You stood there, shaking, gasping for air you didn’t realize you’d stopped breathing.

Sevika didn’t say anything. Just stood between you and the man’s crumpled body, one hand raised like she might go in again if he moved.

You turned on your heel, heart pounding, dress catching at your knees as you pushed through the nearest curtain—out of view, out of reach, into the cool dark behind the stage.

Your hands were trembling.

Your scar was burning.

The curtain fell behind you like a closing door, muffling the noise of the crowd.

You stumbled a few steps into the shadows behind the stage before your knees buckled, and you dropped into a crouch, hands gripping the hem of your dress like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

You couldn’t breathe.

Your chest rose and fell too fast, each inhale scraping against your throat like glass. The sound of cameras still echoed in your ears, his voice still ghosting in your head—you’re divine… I could worship you… His hand—God, you could feel it.

You curled in tighter, pressing your forehead to your knees, trying to disappear into the sequins and silk. Your entire body trembled.

Breathe. Just breathe. You couldn’t.

Then—soft footsteps. A shift in the air.

You flinched as someone crouched next to you.

A large hand settled gently between your shoulder blades. Warm. Solid. Not grabbing. Just there.

“Hey,” Sevika said, her voice low, steady. “You're okay. I’m right here.”

You didn’t lift your head, but your breath hitched. She didn’t rush you. Didn’t force your face up. Just stayed crouched beside you like she had all the time in the world.

“Match me,” she murmured, voice barely audible over the thudding in your ears. “Inhale.”

She breathed in slow and deep. You tried. Failed.

“That’s alright. Again. In…”

She counted softly.

You followed—ragged at first, but slowly steadier. Her hand never left your back, the weight of it keeping you tethered to something that wasn’t fear.

Eventually, the tunnel vision faded. Your lungs started to obey. The panic eased its grip.

“I’ve got you,” Sevika said, just once, when your breath finally came without shaking.

A moment later, you heard hurried footsteps.

Dean.

He stepped around the curtain and froze when he saw you huddled beside Sevika.

“Jesus,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he knelt a few feet away. “Y/N, I—I should’ve never let you go out there tonight. This was too much. You weren’t ready, and I knew it, and I still—” he rubbed his face, overwhelmed with guilt. “I thought we could handle it. That if we controlled the press and the dress and the lighting and the narrative, it’d be okay. I’m so—God, I’m so sorry.”

You looked up at him slowly, eyes red, voice hoarse.

“I just want to go home.”

Dean nodded instantly. “Okay. We’re leaving. I’ll have the car brought around now.”

Sevika helped you to your feet, her hand steady under your arm, not saying much—but she didn’t need to.

She was already doing more than most.

The mansion was quiet when they pulled up—too quiet, like even the house knew better than to make noise tonight. The iron gates slid shut behind them, and the staff scattered respectfully out of view as the car rolled to a stop in the long curved driveway.

Sevika stepped out first, her boots hitting the polished stone with a heavy thunk. She made her way around the side of the house toward the garage where her bike was stashed—tucked between luxury cars and a vintage convertible that probably hadn’t been driven in a decade.

She found her helmet, clipped it under one arm, and stared at her bike like it had betrayed her.

It looked smaller here. Out of place.

So did she.

She sighed, dragging a hand through her hair, thinking—not for the first time—that she should start saving for a car. Something low-key. Nothing fancy. Just enough to keep from looking like a damn courier when she parked next to cars that probably cost more than her entire apartment complex.

She was reaching for her keys when she heard soft footsteps.

“Sevika?”

She turned.

You were standing behind her, still in that champagne dress, now wrinkled and wilted from the night. The dried tear stains on your cheeks glittered faintly under the garage lights.

You grabbed her wrist gently—no drama, no theatrics—just held it like you didn’t want to say what you were about to alone.

“Do you…” You hesitated. “Do you want a drink?”

Sevika stared at you.

Then at your hand.

Then slowly nodded. “…Sure.”

The kitchen was stupidly big. Marble counters. Glass shelves with perfectly lit liquor bottles like a museum exhibit. You moved on autopilot, bare feet quiet on the tile as you reached up and pulled out a bottle that made Sevika’s eyebrows lift the second she saw the label.

Beluga Gold Line Vodka. A price tag north of $400. She'd seen it once in a bar. In a glass case. Untouchable.

You didn’t blink as you poured two shots.

Sevika sat across from you at the massive island, blinking rapidly, like the sheer luxury of this kitchen might call security on her.

You slid the glass toward her, and you both sat in silence for a long beat.

Then Sevika finally broke it.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, voice low but not cold.

Not professional, either.

Just real.

You swirled the vodka slowly in your glass, watching the light catch against the crystal.

“I feel better,” you said after a moment, voice soft but certain. “Still shaky. But… better.”

Sevika nodded once. “Good.”

Another pause.

“Thanks to you,” you added, glancing up at her from under your lashes.

She looked at you—really looked—and didn’t say anything. Just gave a slow exhale through her nose, like she wasn’t sure how to take the compliment.

You smiled faintly, your fingers tapping lightly on the counter as the silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable now. It felt full—like something was waiting.

You leaned forward a little, your forearms resting on the cold marble. Then a little more. She didn’t move. Your eyes flicked to her mouth, the space between you shrinking with every inch.

Her lips parted just slightly. Her shoulders tensed.

You were close. So close.

And then— crack-BOOM.

Thunder exploded outside, rattling the glass panes of the kitchen windows.

You flinched, blinking back to yourself, then gave a breathy laugh as you stood and wandered to the back doors, pushing one open to step onto the patio.

Rain poured from the sky like it had been waiting for the exact moment to break loose. The city beyond the estate lit up in hazy glows and golden halos, skyscrapers blurred through the downpour. The scent of petrichor filled the air—wet stone, grass, ozone.

You stood in it for a second, bare arms catching droplets, your dress soaking slightly as the wind shifted. The chill on your skin made you shiver, but the view was worth it. Rain made everything feel cinematic. Like a sad ending you weren’t sure was actually sad.

You stepped back inside, shutting the door with a soft click and turning to Sevika, who was still planted at the counter, watching you silently.

“You can’t ride home in that,” you said. “The roads are going to be slick as hell.”

“I’ve done worse,” Sevika muttered, but there was no real conviction in it.

“No.” Your voice was firmer this time. “You’re staying. At least for tonight.”

Her brows raised, lips parting like she might argue, but you didn’t give her the chance. You just raised a finger and gave her the look. The one that usually got stylists and choreographers to fall in line.

And, weirdly enough… Sevika listened.

She gave a low grunt of surrender. “Fine.”

Minutes later, Geoffrey was showing her to the guest room—muted, respectful, as if he already knew not to ask questions—and you slipped out of the dress with a sigh, wandering toward the master bathroom with a towel slung over your shoulder.

You lit the candles one by one. The room dimmed to amber.

The bath was massive—white marble, sunken deep enough to submerge your whole body. You filled it with steaming water, drops of oil swirling across the surface in delicate little patterns.

You stepped in slowly, easing into the heat until only your nose, lips, and the top of your head were visible above the surface.

Your eyes fluttered closed.

And then Sevika was back in your head.

Her hand on your back. Steady. Warm.

Her voice, low and even, counting out your breaths like it wasn’t the first time she’d done this for someone. The rough edge of her tone. The tension in her jaw. The quiet way she said, I’ve got you.

It should’ve been just comforting.

But it wasn’t.

Not entirely.

You exhaled slowly, your thighs tightening under the water.

There was something about how she’d taken control without asking. How she hadn’t flinched. How her voice had slipped under your skin like it belonged there.

You sank lower into the bath, eyes half-lidded, water licking at your collarbones.

God.

Even her comfort had turned you on.

Your fingers slipped lower beneath the water, brushing over the soft heat between your thighs. You inhaled sharply through your nose, teeth grazing your bottom lip as you pressed your palm flat and moved in slow, deliberate circles around your clit

You were already aching.

Already imagining her.

The way her eyes had lingered without saying anything. The way her voice had wrapped around you like armor while your world fell apart.

Your hips lifted slightly, seeking more contact, chasing that edge as your fingers grew bolder, stroking tighter, deeper, the water sloshing quietly around your waist. The pressure built with every breath, heat curling low in your belly.

You whispered something you didn’t quite catch—maybe her name, maybe just a plea—and tipped your head back against the rim of the tub, jaw slack as your body trembled.

And when release hit, it rolled through you in waves—sweet, slow, quiet. A sigh slipped from your lips as you sank deeper into the water, eyes fluttering shut.

You stayed there like that for a while, the water still warm, the candles flickering low, your heartbeat slowly steadying.

She was still in the guest room down the hall.

And you didn’t know what scared you more:

That she might hear you…

Or that you wanted her to.

A/N : watching the new tlou episode

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